I do everything on the wrong time of the year.
Half my sentiment is faked with a nod of the head.
If I have been inside a woman's brassiere
it is rare, and should be appraised quickly.
My beard is more the aftermath of hard digging
than the growth of a man.
My ex-wife is in love with the idea of sex without me in the mirror.
When I stumble upon a road I've never crossed, I turn.
I have written my epitaph and it is not nearly ready for engravement.
I have lost those small skirmishes in my head
even though I am their sole arbitrator.
I enter the house of my father not knowing
to which corner I am obliged.
If I am engaged in a game of chance
I join the side that is winning.
I lose everything in time, worse still, time itself is not lost.
I am changing into a God without a people: maybe that's my lure.