A Very Late Summer Afternoon


I think the color of my hair is changing,

Skin seems to be drying up, some of it is falling out.

While this is not making me unattractive,

I do feel different.  

Less taut, perhaps.

Not in need of a facelift; yet,

But, nevertheless, showing features of weathering.

So, now, the question is …

Does it matter and will she still find me attractive?

Without Motive

All the searching was not pointless,

But was without destination.

All the learning created thoughts and memory,

But did not bring me peace;

Rather, the hunger increased.


All the lovers brought experience,

To each other, but, like a lit candle, could not sustain itself.

All the suffering, did not produce meaning,

But rather fortitude, reinforcing the ego.


Only surrender gave me something,

As I looked desperately for meaning.

For the one within me,

And it too failed, through too much desire.


Now, my desire neutered,

I find myself placed, awaiting …


It has won.


So I contemplate nothingness, and wallow in my lack of purposefulness,

To determine if this is not another destination,

A dark night of the soul,

On my journey.


Or if I am home, and this is it. Being.

Lost in Transit


Today I left the station without belongings,

Seemingly on my way to work,

Or some other destination which I should have known.

This time, however, I just followed the crowd.


There were no subway maps,

No indicators as to how I might get there,

So I jumped on and followed a group which seemed like-minded,

Or rather like-dressed.


I disembarked with them at some major intersection of routes,

Not knowing which way to turn,

But felt I was on my way.

The Wrong Clothes

Lightweight packing seemed the order of the day.

All essential items packed for the trip,

Or so I thought.


However, on arrival at the station, all clothing was in a single bundle,

Fellow travelers hurriedly sorted their belongings from mine.

I left them alone, only asking if they could find my camouflage top and bottom,

As my first meeting required my presence as a General.

(My job, as it turned out.)


The pile they left had all the clothes which were mine,

Except the camouflage pants and shirt,

Which had been moved to a lower shelf,

Assumptions being made they were not mine.

Even so, I could not wear them,

As it turned out they were a civilian brand,

Either way branding me as a fake on the outside.


Or the inside.