my early life was staged like an actor in a play delivering rehearsed dialogue sticking to the script taking no risks encores are what I wanted a couple clapping hands was all I got so the blurt and banter, joke and poke guy you see today is in a big hurry to make up for lost applause

alone with my thoughts and the wind decides to speak through the mouths of trees I hold one page down while the wind tries to flip them can’t write if she plays it’s the last of spring or it could be the last spring one day, the wind stops

there was a time when the body was simply a sweatshirt and pair of jeans we woke up, slipped it on and never thought about it, so well-bonded with our restless, impulsive spirit the body did everything we wanted until it slowly changed into what it is today - same wardrobe now worn with holes and patches on holes, frayed edges, splits at the seams, stitches over stitches that’s the way it is, the same body we had when young, we wear like a stiff old uniform today