Stars, all of them it seems,
laid out in a perfect grid
across the night sky. It’s not
supposed to be thus. Supposed instead
to fling itself in a chaos of disorderly
mythological meaning, the stories
not resolving, just — there. Instead
it seems that a mechanic has organized it
with pre-greasy hands, the way he preferred
it to be– easy to apprehend, to comprehend.
I know they are just beyond my memory
and I strain and rub hard at my failing eyes
to try and see. Just now, one flickered.
I almost cried for the flaw.
I do not care if it was real. I care
for the mistake, imaginary though it may be.
We learn from our mistakes, or so I’ve been told.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Quincy Jones died; Bob Dylan
lives; Phil Lesh died, Bruce Springsteen
lives; my father is gone, my mother
almost gone, and me, almost
almost almost gone…or so I almost
almost believe. I am almost
certain of it and almost don’t fear
the uncertainty — what will it be like
on the other side, if there is one?
Will I get to speak to the famous
and will I be part of the welcoming crew
for the ones yet to come? Or will I stop
caring as much about them; will I fail to
even notice them as I stare into…what?
I don’t know and that makes the difference
between peace and struggle. Famous
and infamous, ordinary
and extraordinary alike will stare
into the bark of old trees hoping for
insight. Or perhaps not. Perhaps
the old trees won’t be visible,
perhaps I won’t see anything
and neither will the famous. Quincy
and I won’t know each other. We will be
young and luminous and anonymous
in the void.

`~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward.
T