Monday May 23rd same time as the above poem was written, now i'm 44

out of sight, out of heart, out of luck.
sorry. It's what I play.
Survivals the name of it.
You are its' mere ending.
I can't wait, when everyday is the past present and future- each night I die,,,,,,,,,,,,,
there's no tomorrow- only a new birth- la new person, whose yesterdays only blurr, in feelings,,,,
Yet calculated memories exist, as if 'video taped'.
I can not play your white man's game-
(i'm native american and not prejudice, he was white and was an indian wannabe)
of distance making ones love fonder.
Newness sets in, new face, new situations to experience.
New. Each day is new.
Only after the realness of bonding, is effective, does distance become temporary separations,,,,
but not in newness, the memories fade quickly,,,,
Survival skills.
Promise.....another white man's game.
Soeak not, for you've shown me your whiteness, not your red.
Red, speaks not, it just does.
dlj aka ww (whiteWof)