Simile

My love is like a stream
That flows unendingly
Or like the deepest dream
That is reality
Or like the open road
Forever rolling on
Unburdened by a load
Into the glowing dawn
Always ever changing
But never letting go
Of what it's rearranging
The path, the dream, the flow.
I love, and love will alter
Within itself - not falter.

Baggins

Day's end
Night comes
Lights lend
Their hums
To our
Noise here.
This hour
Is dear
To all
Street scenes
Nightfall
Now means
Day's gone
'Til dawn

One Man Show

In all my travels, one thing has been true:
The city glitters better with a friend.
It isn't bad to walk it end to end
Alone, and see it from one point of view,
But there is something that requires two
To have the best of it, as if to spend
Twice the attention was required to send
The proper signals outward, out into
The waiting world, which only signals back
When there are eyes enough peering around
To see that small plaque set down in the ground,
Or note the oddball spices on the rack
And properly enjoy. A solo city
Is oddly empty, though still always pretty.

Shares

Everything I do that I prefer
Or contemplate and think could be desired
I want to share with you; I wish you were
Always around when I become inspired
To feel with me the joy that builds inside
Experience elation as it grows
And let that shine out which we cannot hide
Or even if my highs become your lows
I'd like to know, and talk of it with you
To hear the reasons that you disagree
And find what you'd prefer we see and do
Whatever and however that may be.
Someday I'm sure. For now I'll have to wait
And share instead by gchat when up late.

Relate

Too many things that are exciting can

By clustering together, become less.

I start to lack the memory to pan

Across the past, and then words to express

The panorama thus revealed in time.

A single incident experienced at once

Can be presented in a set of rhyme,

And thus explained to any common dunce

But complex layers that occur in bunches

Can be so difficult to explicate

That I almost prefer when time uncrunches

And gives events time to luxuriate.

If everything occurred with time to tell

I think I'd tell my history quite well.

Gone

A day can pass without me realizing
There's a hard thought, when examined deep.
At first I don't believe it sounds surprising
For all of us have days we do not keep
Bound in the volumes of our memory,
But it is strange to never have writ down
The first draft of the day ere it could be
Bound up. Not every day can have a crown,
But something tells me each should be a peasant
Working its land, existing, breathing, living
Whether that life is terrible or pleasant
The fact of it should be there, unforgiving
And true. Although not everything's remembered
I am not sure one day should be dismembered.

Tinkatank

I'm never certain what I ought to do

When she's away, except that I should work.

But I can only work when work comes through

My mind, and that right now is a real jerk

That will not focus on what it should see

But dilly-dallies on more minor things.

I cannot force my productivity,

Nor the forgetfulness it always brings,

But must instead remember she is gone,

And know she will not saunter in the door,

But like the night when banished by the dawn,

It will be long until I see her more.

I would I could distract myself, but no

I always notice when she has to go.

March

March is a month that crawls for me
Through celebrations and spring break
But despite that eternity
I always feel when I awake
In early spring (March 20+)
As if the month had disappeared
On gone on a spring break from us
And left its schedule oddly cleared.
I feel as if my April sprang
Out of a February chill
And February has a tang
Of April's showers come what will.
So March, despite progressing slow
Is always rapid on the go.

Itself

A thing can't plan itself, I know
And yet I always wish it would
Because the planning is so slow
Though once it's planned, it should be good.
But plans aren't fire and forget
And must be followed carefully
So I must plan, and once it's set
I have to check it constantly
And who needs that? I would prefer
A world in which my plans self-made
And -executed, so they were
An automatic function all arrayed
To happen when I thought about
Whatever planning was in doubt.

I90 Corridor

My cities are my life, writ large in steel,
Twisted around an elevator core,
Shining with glass, embodied, solid, real,
Recording everything that came before,
But also slipshod, lived, and temporary,
Erased like footsteps as the rain drips down,
Sometimes important, sometimes ancillary,
Composed of parts that bleed, inhale, and frown
And yet make something bigger than they are
Merely alone: that, though forgotten, join
All into one-steel, footstep, heart, and tar-
And make something that can't be bought with coin,
Or made by artificial or synthetic arts
Like cities lives are more than all their parts.