and the silver spoon,

little boy blue and

the man in the moon.

When you coming home,

son? — ‘I don’t know when.

We’ll get together, then.

You know we’ll have

a good time, then.’”

My new love of mine

she is very fine. Takes my hand

to declare me “Mine.”

Works a job, collects her dues.

Owns a house, collects rent too.

Then she spends it

on gifts, on me, and

I but think,

“Is this heaven sent?”

How many loans

have my past lives lent

for me to earn

such dividends

from penny tithings,

lousy cents. Is this,

I’m guessing,

what He meant,

one-hundred times

this present age,

the age to come,

eternal life

from time-to-time,

spirit to, spirit goes,

how we do forget

our woes, our life,

for better and

for sometimes worse,

in death do we

forget our purse,

forget our worth,

our sickness, health,

our peace of mind,

our reasons stealth

why we were sent

upon this earth,

our souls to mend,

to get on closer

to the bend,

as I did travel to the north,

to take on one more

mid-life birth.

The cold north wind

is very cold. I left for

some northward goal

to get away, to be a man,

though I never, really,

had a plan

but to sit in pose

on colder ground,

cross my legs,

bereave aum’s sound,

the thrum of which

is always near, yet

drums of which

I cannot hear.

I live two lives and

two million dreams.

I act on some

to avoid good things:

the smell of blood,

the mourning heart,

perfuming from

her lips that part

from tearing eyes

now broken valves,

from which I drink

love's sweet salve.

I wake in drunken

curtain light,

the dimness of

the Monday blight,

my plane to leave,

our farewell sight,

to feel our grief

and take my flight.

I sing a song of

Sir Chapin,

the boy whose

father left his kin,

as soon as life

was to begin.

The son would call,

and call, and call,

to hear love’s voice,

to throw love's ball,

but what say they

who felt that they

had but no choice

to work the day,

to make their name,

to earn their card

through heaven’s

gate, as if life were

an earning game.

“I want comforts,

I want gold. I want

not to feel harsh cold,

want not for you

to feel old.

Want now for you

to act bold,”

but end our lives,

our bank accounts,

reconcile,

(reconcile!),

and part from

having walked

a mile, what have you

of money’s pile,

refuse to you

like body bile,

for when in life,

life comes to pass,

all we want is

who we miss.

Achievement is

but earthly piss,

how it’s rot

when we’re remiss

for failing our

meek timidness,

for in our

end of life review

when I see scenes

of time with you,

when I’m asked

if I did do what

I did say I

was gonna do,

I fail to think

it has to do

with when I had

forgotten you,

so in this

somewhat

metered verse,

in rhyming and

slight timing words,

I take my ink,

tattoo my hands,

my desperate plan

to break this curse.

Now upon this paper white,

I write your name to make

things right, I write three

words that I might fight,

that I might win

to banish night,

to banish sin,

Thine fog of war,

forgetfulness,

our first promise

when that good man

did come to us, to me,

to ask, to see

if I’d take part

to never part,

to which I said, “I do, I do,

I surely do,” so now I say

anew, anew,

I say your name,

my muse, my muse,

I whisper softly,

You. You. You.

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