Id to Ego

Dear Michael,

It is important for the sake of what you love,
for the sake of doing right by that which keeps you moving forward,
to enter all
the
way
in
and give yourself over. I have seen you
lounge comfortably around the edges.

You really shouldn't be so cocky.
You're a poem, too, you know.

Sincerely,
Michael

Old No. 9

At two miles per hour it arrives for the three hundredth time, and this before noon. It's the old guard (Hooray!) orbiting plaster of paris capped with history to the last detail.

Nostalgia is borne on colloid plumes -

part faded wish, part heated oil - and always best

used in open air.

You can see it in their jaded eyes, their old dreams now to scale, but they keep looking for old No. 9 to take them over the hill.

I love it when it hits them,

see that its just another plastic revolution,

a false chance at the ideal,

at least one wheel

always spinning out of whack.

Finding the Frequency

In a rare moment this weekend I have found the frequency, the frequency of the invisible to and fro of the All. I found it and I matched it for a second. At that moment I was part of it in its dance.

As a series of cars passed me from behind parked on the boulevard, I contradicted
the fact that I was sitting still. No, I was going backwards along a thread made concrete
in the moment by the dragging of my jagged fingernail across my gumline.

Its speed matched exactly (and that is the secret, I am convinced) the speed
by which I was overtaken on the street.

The taste, an underground transmission I could not interpret
but strong enough to be received clearly by anyone in the state.

I celebrated.