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poem 1

 

to us moments that are precious

are all just beads on a string adorning a house of cards

the windows will start to go dark

endless fine works

begin to sputter out

old people

senial things

memories

senilities offerings

 

poem 2

 

i write like a hobo on the walls of the city and structures im trapped in

the next train out of here is going to a secret concentration camp hidden someplace in the midwest

scratching at the ashes the fire of rebellion long burned out of

people, things, lives and ideas

they all change

we all have our Dean Moriarties

when do you think of yours?

and who or what or when or where or why is he?