september blue
short of breath
slowly dying
and
wondering if they really care?

some of us live on luck
but most of us
on routine

sleep,
consume,
repent,
exhale,
and repeat

driving down the same dirty roads
as crystalline steeples
pierce the somber veil
of nascent tomorrows
elephant eyes
weep for the wanderer

life is strange, beautiful
and wrapped in witchcraft
yet some days
all i see
is motor oil
smeared against a reluctant sky

i’ve learned to channel both
luck and routine
every morning when i sit
at this uncomplicated machine
like clockwork
i am visited
by my black and white kitten
she is the routine
it’s good to have a constant

luck comes in other forms
like the flash of an immortal phrase
inconvenient and
imprinted on a primate brain,
looking down in defeat
and finding a forgotten quarter
heads up, and shining like the sun,
or a unexpected text message
from a beautiful girl

black cats,
thin cheap wines,
and totem poles of the earth
erratic and untrained
we’re all just
generic action figures
framed and fermented
in some fucked up playhouse

writing helps, but
i’ve come to accept
that not all poems
are good
sometimes
it’s just one more
to file away
because
let’s face it
we can’t be
superstars
all the time