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I have been trying to write the last thing I will ever write for a long time now. And I don't mean that in any morbid, premonitory sense. Rather it's all about wading Heraclitus-like (toga torn and dirty) into the river of time and trying to scoop out a transient cup of something that might be quaffable. I mean, in addition to the broccoli and the chick peas, isn't meaning what we ultimately thrive on? But by the time it gets to my lips, it's just another barely sayable morass, that dribbles lifelessly down my chin. Or maybe not. Time isn't the only test of time. There are vast structures of memories overlaid onto the surfaces of black holes, which seemingly give a lie to the idea of transience. But if it is true that ""plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose"" then it must also be true that ""plus ça ne change pas, plus c'est quelque chose de différent."" What I mean by that is that when a memory is recalled from storage, there is a moment when it becomes temporarily malleable again. What a precious moment this is. We are liberated from what is fixed in the past, and everything can be somewhat rewritten or at least annotated. Just so, I would wish that whoever might read some of these poems would feel free to -well- fix them, rewrite them, or forget them completely in some liberatingly unretrievable, vast elsewhere. Huzzah!

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