Too Much Time Is Not Enough
Becoming old is not unlike
having a rat in the house
Ancient auguries come to fruition.
Artful life is abandoned by the roadside,
an Appian Way lined with crucifixes,
real blood-and-guts oratory for the damned
seeming an earful of wax and honey.
The tower block of my hyperbole is being torn down,
tenants evicted, its basement flooded, a cold furnace
like a bed of coals at Christmas.
Becoming old is much the same as
sitting naked in a vegetable garden.
Your bones turn coat. Merchants prescribe coy medicines.
You're as welcome as a heron in hell.
The heart ticks like a death watch beetle.
Blood is water mixed with wine.
Wild animals come closer, no longer afraid.
Dreams are like a ledger being displayed
to a beggar Harpies wilfully blinded.
I'm always looking for a sock under the bed.
I eat slowly. I misunderstand the moment.
Rainy Sunday Afternoons
The museum of stumbling
blind through the earth.
The museum of ennui,
of forgotten stories,
of intangible slights.
The museum of want and water,
icy slush in your shoe,
the odiferous violet repeating itself.
The disenchanted museum.
The museum of barely discernible moments.
A museum where no one
has ever been before or since.
Where the very search for meaning
makes a mockery of reason.