sunrise
coming off the high of
passion
and the night

still somewhat juiced
and
on the loose
haphazardly working a
truce
with that other side of me

it seems the odd years are always the hardest

stopped dead at thrity-nine
i was
sitting on the toilet
thinking of
how the world will end
and writing
how it will bend
to my will

disillusioned and bored

because we are just
ordinary men
almost honest and
stumbling towards something more
as we beat the jungle drums
one, two, three
calling to the sun
i lost the one
and it ain’t much fun
marching
back to square one

for you see
the storyteller
lives in brief moments
continuous
obscured
and always far off
recounting former glory
to impress young women

so now it’s sundown
at the proselytizing palace
with subtle surveillance
and no surrender
we are caught in this
collective hallucination
with media streaming
directly to the brain
as the tv spews forth it’s
technotronic bile

the man sits in roguish fashion
centered and quietly imploring the masses
to destroy all their idols

no soul and no solution

so here i sit
hunched and unfit
with two purring cats
crammed in my lap
seeking to remind me
of the trap
set in motion everyday
as the minutes and faces overlap

flash forward

no typewriter
and no computer
just electric handwriting
holding your breath till
words or ecstasy
come rushing in
it’s all nonsense at this hour

and what comes next?

they always say
maybe another time
it’s a protracted fascination
but this odd rhyme
is just a symptom
of a foreign and passive crime

tainted
with a new perspective
will you forget and forgive
it’s time to clean up this mess