Surfing the faint, tireless breeze
Music from a distant park
The last half-hearted song
Of the sparrow
Fireflies like paper lanterns
In a far-away twilight
Long before conditioned air
In the hot, moist summer
Even clocks stopped running,
Too slow to mark
The interminable hours,
The memories, the sweat
Whole eternities passed
In the too long days
Of the too short summers
So entirely gone
There is no stylus so precise
As to record the passage of a soul
From one moment to the next
Dear Sir
Something must be done
About these ghosts
Who keep popping through the lens
When I try to take
Tourist pictures.
My eyes fill
And I can’t find
The release button
My dear statistic,
I’m so glad we could meet
Like this.
What’s your cohort?
I’m Boomer myself
My demogaphic’s online,
If you’re interested.
Millennial? Too cool.
No Giorgio for you,
Or Abercrombie, then?
Red wine, not white.
Vegan I see.
Such a delightful
Subclade.
I’ve got your number.
The journey never really ends, does it?
– Mikeliti, where are you going?
– I don’t know.
– You don’t know?
– I never knew, did I? But off I went, all the same.
Some artists want to own it,
To license the use of it
On their terms, revocable on a whim,
As if the sweet blood that pours out
To rejoin the soil from which it sprang
Could ever be unmingled,
Could be redistilled if the dirt
Were deemed unfit for cohabitation
With such lofty stuff.
As if the close, heavy air
That squeezed out the dewdrop
Was itself unworthy
Of such holy moisture.
All of art is collaboration.
What good is a pot
With nothing to fill it?
What good is a mirror
With no reflection?
exiles child 