One of the
Saddest sounds is
The scraping of
Utensils at the
Bottom of the
Pot or bowl
Because you know
Right then that
Whatever delectable feast
That you enjoyed
Is now nothing
More than memory
Remember you might
Recall you may
But no matter
How you try
You know that
No two pots
Of anything are
Ever really alike
So enjoy what
You can and
When you can
Until that is
There’s no more
Sex is sex
Sex as verbs
Not as nouns
Casual sex or
Hookup sex seems
To be centered
Around a destination
Sometimes you get
There together and
Sometimes one of
You is delayed
But love making
Love making is
An adventure a
Journey where delays
And cancelations cause
Side trips and
Day trips and
All other kinds
Of playful exploration
To me there’s
Nothing worse than
Simply getting somewhere
When the getting
Somewhere is usually
The best part
Dreams are where
The lazy live
If you don’t
Chase something then
Don’t expect to
Ever catch it
What is possible
Is almost always
Certainly never probable
That is what
Dreams are for
They carry us
Beyond the real
Beyond the now
Into a place
Called simply maybe
It is there
In that place
Let me live
There in maybeland
Where the possible
Becomes the probable
At first I
Thought that we
We were just
Two knickknacks collected
On a whim
Just things from
Somewhere else placed
Here to remember
A bygone time
Obviously different yet
Strikingly similar we
Hold a place
One of memory
Until today when
Hands repositioned us
You over there
And me here
Closer than before
Complimenting each other
As we hold
The world between
Us as bookends
