At dusk (tangerine orange)

As blues turn a tangerine orange,
dusk surrounds each of us with the promise
of another day, soon to peak through
the leaves of this old tree, reaching,
straining, but never able to feel blue.

How small is the tree, as the sun radiates,
warmth engulfing everything with the hope
that the vastness of existence pours through
everything with a purpose that we, reaching,
straining, are never able to understand?

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Taking stock

Part of this process has involved going back through decades of stuff I’ve written, combing through hundreds of documents and deciding what is at least decent and what is unquestionably embarrassing juvenalia. There seems to be a fair amount of both. For every turn of phrase I’m glad found voice, there seem to be several which makes me cringe. Or not just cringe but flinch – physically recoil at the self-importance, the pretension. (Am I really selling you on this so far?) What’s most interesting in those high school poems (I don’t consider teenage angst interesting) is that they all rhyme. They use a variety of rhyme schemes, but they all rhyme. How much time I must have spent going through “back, cack, dack, fack, oh flack! Boom. Nailed it.” It was also around this time I started saying “that’s the bomb.com” because the internet was new, URLs were novel, and I enjoy running something deep into the ground, burying

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