There’s a lot going on out there
you can’t video or photograph,
capture in a picture.
I can’t help it now.
Worse than Bukowski
writing every detail
of the ricochets
off the pocked walls
of his skull.
Non-sense. We
have lost our feelings
in the dark, in the light—
grown too comfortable to care
to understand: where and how
to keep it streaming by
like magic snowmelt.
There’s a lot going on out there
and it ain’t by accident.
drycrikjournal 