it’s never final
the great light of morning
crawled over the horizon
setting the treetops ablaze
as secrets lie in wait
the radio is down-tempo and distant
with too much drama
for daytime television
they came out
questioning
sad eyes and dull words
hung on their lips
the bored, the lonely
the uninspired, accompanied by
a carousel of women

with arthritis and moving pictures
hands hung heavy as
words circled endlessly
uninspired by beer
and short of breath
i forgot the line i came up with last night
the advice of great writers
is to carry a notebook
with you
everywhere you go
but i carry a gun
and the notebook lies dusty
on the dashboard of my car
because these themes
are all are simple and unchanged

winter was short this year
late, yet terrifying
i could sleep at any moment
but traffic and reheated coffee
keep me going
too tough to find a way out
a kick in the balls
it was futility that lingered
somehow writing is easier
than ripping off old band aids
barely held to the skin
there are just too many subtle
human cues in verbal communication
so much is left unfinished
and sometimes i light
their half smoked cigarettes
after they leave

some cry for the poor little children
bombed over seas
by tyrants in flashy ties
i shed a dry tear
for the useless old men
with no direction
somewhat selfish, almost soulless
and not quite ready to go
i want to start a gang
secret and seductive
my friend suggested anarchist poets
ohh if only there were more, but

there was no new year
hell, the clock wasn’t even set
and i was getting old
and getting bored
it’s the same excuse
just one endless poem
with two screens
and an ashtray
for three years
I’ve tried to edit this story
to no avail
at 12:01
everything’s the same
to be good
at just one thing
would be
the greatest victory of all