Missing the Intimacy of a poem

… I’ve been dreaming
with colored pens, my guitar,
and plotting revolutions. I peer
through the window, a man
is writing with a black pen on a
white lined sheet of paper, he
is writing slowly and carefully.
He pauses, plays the
Spanish guitar and I can
faintly hear an arpeggio in
a minor E.

Bastard's Paradox

Oceans of oil
pour from the Gulf of Mexico.

The womb ripped
open.

We bleed
black death.

Dolphins, turtles,
fish and kin
drown in the
venomous ooze.

Bells toll for the
evening watch.
Blood red sun
on the bow
surrenders to night.

Evening star obscured.

The bastard’s paradox --

oil fuels
progress
and
the closer
we come to the
enigmatic omega point,

where progress can
save our world,

the closer we come
to the apocalypse.