Always finding it’s way

Out of your hands.

And there is no sink, no casket

No incentive

No catch or

Book of days to take

comfort in.

It’ll always slip through the cracks

Down below, further it flows.

Harder you try

To where

On another pole

Someone with secrets steals it away.

Give up.

Give in.

Let it go over and out

Your palms, wrinkled face

Take in.

You’ll wear a spectacular grin.

As your radio dies down

Around you

The ocean



Morning shift


What can be said about fish-bowls

And especially

Their inhabitants.

Already there have been told

So many stories

So many solutions have been


I fought with this

During an early morning shift.

As women with huge asses

Gently swam

across the street.