Small events punctuated by the passages of time.
These things take time as we all have come to know
But nothing takes more time than this.
We were stuck in the shipwreck of our own idealism.

Trying hard to make sense of senselessness.
She held her hand clasped to her right side
And claimed the recycled air for her own.
It was like the last rites of a certain happiness.

The bathroom graffiti representing some mathematical poem
like a sketch that Basquiat could create in a wink
The stains of left-over inertia remained odorless
like the last cattle call in the evening.

They were all just small events punctuated by the passages of time.
Yet nothing seemed more imminent or important.
Like the periphery of thoughts that must be clarified
like the message that must be sent

-Los Angeles 5/18/10