and then...

and then it
begins again,
lines adding up
that aren't deep
enough, but they
have this real-time
stuff going on which
makes them somewhat
unique, a written form
of the poetry slam on
stage - was poetry
ever meant to be
slammed back
and forth
hither
and
so
on

that day;
and then
it slips
slightly
lower,
still one
level
above
nothing
below.

the soles of my shoes
are worn thin from
walking. not too
much as some
would like to
think, but
not e-
nough
walking
and/or
wandering

wand-
e-
ring

wander-
in-
g

so many ways to say words it
astounds me that it's even
possible for a certain few
to be able to sling words
to the page in just such
a way so they translate
the mood, the moment,
the spoken and the un-
spoken, the unbroken
and the broken.

and then the poetry stopped ...

for a time and a season.