Things rarely coincide,

With our colorful graphs,

Hopeful expectations,

measured projections

And detailed guides.

There is truly evil,

And bright spots to counter it,

And most know the typical script,

To this classic conflict,

Up to its denouement.

But change the variables,

To the triumph of chaos

Over order,

And few fear anything more.

Yet in this life,

The single worst bet one can make,

Is that everything will become predictable,

And clinical.

That with time’s inevitable,

Inescapable lapse,

That the house will never one day


We won’t relive the past,

Though things can relapse,

Because with the march of time,

We can revisit where we’ve been,

But we cannot become again.

We exit states of high concentration,

To return to areas of low,

Momentum erodes,

Into stillness,

With building pressure,

Comes a sometimes violent


Order decays

Into disarray,

Unless you’re there to pick up the pieces.

The Life of a Write-Off


The ceiling,

Had an impromptu,


And fluffy, pink,

Fiberglass tufts,

Showed through,

Holes in the drywall.

The driveway had huge crevices,

From the refreezing,


That come and go,

With each Winter.

A flexing frame,

Made vascular,

By tunneling termites,

And shifts,

Caused by cracks,

In the foundation.

The whole thing,

Collapsed eventually,

Without warning,

When no one was looking.


Can drag on,

For years at a time,

Then destruction,


In an instant.



Grated steps,

Peeling paint,

And a cardboard ruler,

Showing the height requirement.

Pewter pistons,

Hidden hinges,

Standing cushions,

Abraded by time,

And centrifugal force.

Flashing lights,

Around the ridges,

And a long line,

Of patrons,

Brandishing bracelets,

Holding soft drinks,

Plush prizes,

And crumpled tickets.

The ride spins,

Blinking like a UFO,

Ready to launch,

And fly faster than light,

But it never does.

You stumble off,

A little dizzy,

To look for a new thrill,

“One more time?”

She says.

Your hair is mussed,

From the last six times,

She said that.

“Why not,”

You say,

As you turn back,

And stand,

At the end of the line,


Means to an End



What stands today simply cannot stay-

And there is no way to delay, to hold at bay,

It will all sway, grey and flay,

Forests filled with life, are also forests of decay.

The oak that falls crushes what is underneath,

In a massive faltering apogee,

It opens up the canopy,

And gloriously atrophies.

We run the same race at different rates,

And have different faces, yet the same fate.

“The end is a conclusion,”

That seems to be a delusion,

The end is an illusion,

Or an allusion,

There is some confusion.