5am isn’t such a bad place to be
wherever you are
it’s quiet here
mostly
except for the dog
and the birds

out with the morning send-off
we’re always up early now
too much sleep
or maybe
just enough
especially after another
endless night of drinking

5 am is my time
no worries yet
just thought and
background noise
enclosed in
an eternal half bliss
as the coffee brews
it’s five minute meditation
it’s a good to time
to read poetry
but not always
to write it

my friend sent me his new book
his poems are good
real, honest
short and to the point
no pretension, just emotion
powerful
i wish i could write like that

i usually have
about an hour
every morning
to conjure up some
foul form of imagery
maieutic poetry

on with the show
it’s mutant psychiatry
writing two poems at once
and trying to decide
which one will make the final cut
as the sounds of traffic
drive in one ear
and out the other

geometric felines
resting upon rough skin
are stirring me
towards the zero hour

unnamed and obscure headlines
spill across the screen
yet, i don’t do well with deadlines
and who came up with that term anyway?
constraints of time
were never my thing

i work slow
writing is like
making love to a woman
preceded by a primal rhythm
i don’t rush
i let it flow
i let it build up
i ration the passion
appreciation of every detail

falling from one moment
into the next
it’s flirtation
adaptation
informal ecstasy
in anticipation
of creation
a god like climax
of the perfect line