Older man now still chasing the speed of youth,
that magic release it felt like when finally
words would reel off the end of mental tongue
hang lovingly over the thought of pausing
crash headily into a flock of fuck-its
on a once clean and crisp page.
Chase that dragon and his friend,
slavishly bursting with a desire to create
fabricate, detail out something grand.
Have people questioning their perceptions
wondering where time has slid off too
drop by drop, carpe diem, another glass fragment
shifted out the bottom of the hourglass.
There are no epiphanies though,
no monumental Staffordshire bulldogs of arousal
that fucking bark and yap to be released in a crescendo of brilliance.
Just a desire for words it seems.
Something to quell the silence, push it away
give the erratic husks some movement back inside
where all those fiend spun neurons lie gasping.
Deeply depleted, running on random jolts
and chemical cocktails of enthusiasm,
diving for the closest rush of emotional splendor
so that I can etch away its finery
longing and pisspants whining for the chance at joy
but always refusing to bask in happiness.
Because all the words at my beck and call,
And it turns out….
….no, no, no, NO, not another one of these baleful fucking tunes.
Let them slip slumberous and scantily clad,
banshees at a jazz show on Bourbon St.
wailing in satisfaction that they are free and alive
settle down to some post-mortem beignets
a fresh cup of chicory blasted caffeine sludge
one last “hand grenade” to balance the boat
skin those yapping pups into submission
waiting for the dark to creep back in.
Blessings past death and the holocaustic ruin
peppered across an ignoble pursuit of the end of everything
weak-kneed, monochromatic, repetitious cycle rinsed and repeated,
a prayer to consistency and predictability
stability held dear during the wildest storms
even if just to dig one more shovelful.
You carousing, pithy skin sacks of arrogance and shame,
I see you there, you aren’t forgotten.
Clockwork paved roads that seem to spill wheels and gears,
springs and mechanisms all across my feet as I unwind another,
stumbling, less regularly, less urgent the staggering,
less is there that violet hue of madness thickening the air
glossing out the glow that once we all embraced in ourselves,
saw in everyone, sought to share with each stranger.
words and a face shattering grin,
perfect tone, chuckle, and off-kilter phrase
each syllable an expression of fireworks
ruptured too early and spraying fearfully shiny things
spontaneous wonderment at existence.
The belief that if I just keep writing,
The words will lead me inward and home—
—and I’ll finally have something special to share again.