days keep happening
like rain to anthills
and i reach and reach
for the reason in the rhythm
of this life
and the inconsolable beat
of the breath and the death
of environment, and emotion
and everyday is dying
every wailing baby crying
and
maybe it's naive
or compulsive
but i keep living my silly life
and writing my silly songs
and i listen to the people in my new city
and begin to think that maybe i'm starving for the human condition
and they say that life is what you make it,
not you are what your life makes you
and sometimes mondays are just
hangdog silent
expectant waiting
it's hook ringing in my head
like an unanswered phone