one hundred and two

nothing today but disjointed mutterings
leftover from guttural sleep
i decided to move on long after
there was nothing else left to do
my handicap serves two purposes
and i’ve noticed that only women
“like” my writing
not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse
i wonder what happens
when the sheen rubs off
so, with tussled hair and dry skin
i dragged myself outta the house

sometimes i think i was born in the wrong decade
there are men who are destined
to be lazy and free
but that’s a difficult proposition these days
cause bankers control the world,
evil bastards, the whole lot of em
i don’t believe the meek
will inherit the earth
my money’s on the philosophers
with dashing minds and fatherly guns

just imagine if we could switch bodies for a day
with modern science we are long lived
ripe with distractions
and boredom is the killer of motivation
indifferent I stare out this tiny window
every morning listening
to the click of overgrown nails
and though the view never seems to change
i still try to conjure words with meaning
something to inspire, or admire
maybe at 51, halfway there
i’ll finally be good





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