INSTINCT

what is there

to write about other than life
and death and why

we’re here?

what is there

to live for other than chasing
our tales and trying

to endure?

and we wonder
after towers fall, how
can we ever return
to poetry? how will we

be compelled to invent
in the face of certain death?

easy: what else is left?

STEALTHY

you're using google
to ogle your past, making

search strings out of old
friends' names and the cities you

have projected
them into.

meanwhile they're doing the
same to you.