You have, by modest estimate,
112 felt tips pens in this room alone.
God knows how many you have squirrled away downstairs.
And yet?
That one is too stubby. This one is too thick.
That one is too skinny. None can do the trick.

You are certain telling me, quite certain there is one-
To drag and draws your words down fine,
To finish up the job.

But the Micron tip's not straight.
The Razor's ink's too fast.
You tell me this is hopeless
You beg me to give up.

A movie maybe, some coffee? Yes.
Anything but this,
Insufferable, impossible,
Here spinning upside-down--

With everything you need but still
Just cannot seem to do,
The devil in the choosing
If you let him speak to you

So? I think-
What matter has it of the ink,
The slanting of your lines?
The ether's in the words themselves
Not in the blacks or blues
The magic is the act of it
The fear is just the truth

Truth is then ten minutes here
Your head bent to the screen,
You're Listing all the wrongs you've got,
Instead of writing down the rights
Stop fighting this and pick your tool--
Imperfect, perfectly.

Roxaboxen

When we were very young we dug shards of glass from the ground around the tennis courts, filled up a jar with our crystal currency and buried it by the roots of the pine tree.

When I came back, I tore up the ground with the sharp end of a stick in search of it and found nothing.

I am beginning to see how much of everything there is in what seems to be nothing.

--

(Border Line)

I used to wonder
About living and dying--
I think the difference lies
Between tears and crying.

I used to wonder about here and there--
I think the distance 
Is nowhere.

--Langston Hughes

“The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.” 

― Milan Kundera, Ignorance

The Wolery

There is so much it seems, you don't remember. What else, what still, is there for you to discover you've done?