running from obscurity
too late to hate
and too early to fear the sun
too early to conceive failure
and too late to write
too tired to make breakfast
and too distracted, abstracted
to consider another work day

split from the herd and
and destined for a sort of lazy greatness
all i want is poetry, cats, metal,
a(crazy)good woman, and wine
but the word, like the woman
eludes me

wandering on wagered bones
these moments of nothing
continue to stretch
like tired old muscles
waiting for the workout to end
there’s just too many bills
and too many obligations
where are all those transcendent
hallucinations, and passive inspirations?

just when i’m starting to think
that better days, better poems,
and better women are on the horizon
reality sounds it’s diabolical laughter,
and snaps me back into this empty chair
seated with the same ole shit
and staring at a black screen

perhaps it’s penance
and i recite this perpetual prayer
a peculiar behavior
of envisioning the future
yet the clock is ticking
as the hand reaches for another cigarette,
or another sip of black coffee
in hopes of lifting the fog
from this cathartic brain

morning has it’s own treacheries
and the rain remembers it’s refugees
washing away sin
like some sort of faulty cleric

faithless and fabricated from
the famine of a fallen star
i’m unbalanced by all this feminine energy
too much some days
and too little others
most seeking something,
some seeking nothing
and those are the hardest ones
the ones you have to work for
and
there are so many
inanimate conversations
tall tales
bled like wild flowers
across a neon screen
and
the silence at night kills me
and
i’m not  as young as i used to be
and
sanity like suicide
is such a fleeting idea

someone once asked me why i have so many cats
“my cats keep me sane, which is probably why
i have four, it takes a lot” i responded

as a young boy
all i ever wanted to be
was a pirate, wizard, or time traveler
innocence is lost to the living
and somewhere in the distance
peter pan is rolling the dice and laughing