not a playground...
I've heard loss laugh at my pleading;
I've withstood scavengers and hauteur.
these days, I manage my anger
better than I manage
my fantasy basketball team.
how can I feel so accomplished,
yet so lost?
how can virtuous intent be good enough?
because it has to be.
the invention of recorded music
irrevocably altered the experience
and structure of memory...
it irrevocably altered me,
along with loud laughter.
overlooking the East River,
reading Walt Whitman,
watching a tugboat under a grey sky,
praying the sleet makes my shoulders poetic,
but it is the other way around.
my shoulders make nature
a force.
only big deals
are big deals,
especially these days.
this was a fun little romp through life,
for good or ill...