Thursday, January 26, 2012


London is not calling

It’s these moments

When the bar is near dead

The clock runs down to closing time

And the jukebox sings of regret

I expect him to walk in

Like he always did

Rescuing me from self parody

Lifting me from ignominy

But he never does

Two years after my mistake.

The fates seldom hand you laughter

Let alone singing in the street

I was shortsighted and stupid

Making obelisks out of obstacles

And tithing to a demise

I wouldn’t allow the prerequisite rise.

Forgive me, London.

Forgive me and find me.

I was and am a fool

Petitioning too late

To find a place in your court.

Thursday, January 12, 2012


scraps of other people's lives

Digging through boxes can produce the most interesting results. Below is the content of a photocopy of an undated note found in a dusty file. The Bureau ought to be more careful about what comes in and out of the records room.

Dear Ulysses,

I try so hard not to hate everyone, but with few exceptions humanity at large is such a monumental disappointment. People understand so little and see even less. The world is a dark gem of sparkling complexity. Why are so many blinded by its slightest reflection?


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