It's the things you can't
laugh at that kill you.

Somedays I whisper
so God can't hear me.
Somedays I try to yell
in his ear.

Sometimes I think of roles
as explanations:
Iâm this way because of that.
Ask yourself this:
what role am I playing
and what does it explain?

A poet is someone
who writes his own dreams.

I dreamed you were back
and you were
letting me have my way.
Thatâs how I knew
it was a dream.

Itâs much simpler
than you think:
how we deal with loss
determines our lifespan.

Most people spend their days
in a myth called Tomorrow
which is somewhat west
of Camelot.

And the evening grows
quietly
all by itself
requiring no assistance
from anyone.

I feel a trembling
in my space:
someone is dancing on my grave.

But of course
none of this
is really necessary.
What's necessary
is to remember
to smile in your sleep.

She's little in the chair
folded over
chin near her chest
resting her eyes
I imagine
but know differently
smaller than last time
I saw her
smaller
her world collapsing
like her fragile spine
her senses smoothed
down by decades
of living
like the cartilage
in her knees
the thickness of her skin
all worn away by the
years of loving us
of singing songs
all worn away by the
touch of life itself
polished too thin
inside and out
too tired so far from birth
but like she was at birth
folded upon herself
curled with her head
on her heart
listening from the inside
to the winding down
the flower opened and closed
the tender body
seeking respite
as long as it doesn't
take much effort
folding