I don’t know how I addressed my first poem.
Then again, I knew who the poem was for.
I always knew who I wrote this too, even thought I never met her.
(meaning you)
And if I met her, I never believed that I could keep her
(meaning you)

I’m not sure if I thought that anything I said would mean anything to anyone; and therefore, I suppose that I just wrote to write to you, or to whomever it is I write to.

The next thing I knew, it was summertime. The warmth began to change the way we spent our time outdoors. The days were longer and the nights were hotter. And I?
I was a young man, lovelessly hopeful and silently admiring those who had someone to go home to.
Spring had gone by so fast, as if yesterday was just here.
The winter was a blur to me, as if autumn had just begun by changing the leaves on the trees in Central Park.
New York City had finally calmed down from its previous hiatus and all the “who’s-who’s” and “what’s-what” and the popular debutantes and socialites race to beaches in their Hampton summer homes or fight their spots on the Fire Island ferries.

I am not so sure how this is or how things happen.
Age stepped in and the days of being “out east” are light years away and more like a story that happened to me in another life.
I am not sure how time flies and blows passed us, like speeding cars on the expressway, unaware and uncaring about the rest of the world because to them, all lanes are the passing lane.
I see time like this too.
Remember when life was free enough not to care who came or went?

I saw you in a dream of mine.
This was real and not long ago.
Yet, this was only a dream so then again, I suppose none of this was real, —unless it was.
Or maybe this is that thing we call memory that bubbles to the surface. Or wait, maybe this goes deeper to a trigger or a receptor in the brain. Maybe something was touched or an end-switch was enabled to recreate a memory in a dream.
Or . . .
Maybe this is what I call my subconscious and so, perhaps something else is overlapping in my life to which, yes. I think I need to pay attention for a while.

Dare I say this and go forward, or if I say anything like this at all, then let me say this with all I have.
Let me be clear and admit to the fear that you will turn away and laugh or reject me.
Or let me say this anyway.
Let me get this off my chest, despite the worry that you will turn away completely and never see me the same again.
And if this were true, then let me preface my entry by saying that I am someone with desires, no different from the fantasies that people rarely speak about.
Yes, I have done things that outrage the spectrum of intimate fantasy.
I have been part of the wild or more erotic things, which in my best assumption, this only makes me human.

I have tried to keep up. I have.
I’ve run and I’ve run and I’ve run to the point where I’ve run into myself at the door.
And what does this do for me?
I have burned the candle at both ends.
I ducked and stayed low to dodge the enemies and I hid.
I have surrendered and retreated.
And to what avail?

I ran as fast as I could and somehow, there are times when my legs are stuck, like they are in my one of my scary dreams.
Understand?

And the world just turns around.
Nothing stops. Not for a second.
Time is always moving, which makes me sound like a broken record because I always talk about the immovable presence of time.

The clock never stops ticking.
Or think if anything, I think about it like this:
A second is always a second and a minute is always a minute.
There will be no change or negotiating this fact.

Time does not stop.
And maybe this is not always a bad thing.

It makes sense to me how someone can lose their mind and yet, you hear things about cruel and unusual punishment and how this is not allowed. Perhaps not, but still, cruel and unusual punishment exists.
Yes it does, and rest assured, cruel and unusual punishment is alive and well.

Time for reflection . . . .
Sitting in a small cage, and secured by concrete walls with a wooden bench, a steel commode, and black-barred door that opened and rolled shut, there was an ungodly smell to the place. The smell was filthy like the sewer; bodies reeking, and the smell of other bathroom functions filled the air with a solid and steady mixture of cleaning solutions that failed to mask or disinfect and solve the odors.

The corridor is eerie, let alone the sound of overhead humming that comes from the fluorescent lighting, which warns that even light is remanufactured and stolen from its freedom.

It is April, the day after Easter Sunday.
The sky was beautiful as ever this morning but the winds were cool and the winter refuses to leave without leaving a few chills behind.
I noticed the sunrise is taking the stage earlier now.
I love that.
I noticed the return of the red-breasted robins as well, which I am far from opposed to because the robins spark the beginning of springtime, which is fine for me.

I think it was a long time ago.
Yes, it must have been.

I think this was back when the age of innocence was still innocent.
But somehow, I know that purity exists. I know there are good people out there.
I know because I have seen them arrive at times when I was alone or facing the consequences of life-long decisions.
I was that one too.

I know that I was better and smarter.
Perhaps maybe this is why I swore that I was stupid because deep down, I knew better. Of course, I did.
See, no one talks about the results of trauma or the symptoms of depression.
I knew that I was being lazy.
I knew it all too well.