some days

are rain on the

doorstep.

i think i am writing now

(again) because

it didn't quite register

before. but

everything is

quite diffuse. this seems

to be an hourglass

cut in half.

watch the sand pour

out into the wind

& be dissolved by

all its tiny

vacuums. i don't think i

can handle this.

the interference is

immense. you are

unaffected (in-

different) & i am

split into

infinity. my body plays

sadness on the piano

& my eyes

cut chords

on the guitar. i know nothing

& yet i know everything

that will happen.

i am not the watershed

but simply the exception

in the rewrite of

the plot. who am i.

what am i good for. was

i put in this vastness

(between the clouds &

the subatomic

particles)

for any other reason than

to vicariously

experience what others

are plagued by. i don't know

if this is

manageable.

someone guide me.

please: please:

i need some signal.

you are the unlit

motel sign

in the pouring

rain on

a lonely

thursday

for a likewise

man.

[picture courtesy of jennifer lawson]