For most, a cruise speed,
with an occasional disruption,
tap on the brake
then reset the cruise control with a
finger flick, all it deserves
and on and on
then there are the points of inflection,
when the trend direction resets,
you know it too, it's not a
"when did this happen to me"
sadly, most oft, not of our choosing
then there are the oft, silent, self-reflection moments,
when you think cruising, it's ok,
but rumbling around, mirror bound,
you see in the fear view, I mean,
rear view, the direction is
the one you just came from,
and you purported poet,
chooser of each word you write
so carefully,
thinks only,
*****
and on and on
not quite right,
but what ya gonna do?
give up?
Whatever,
the new maybe,
Whatever,
the new who gives a ****
here I am
falling over the double-edged
borderline,
another alone morn in a hotel bed in
not-my-city,
slipping over both sides,
unattractive new direction tracks piping up,
boy,
"bond and band with me,
me, me, take me"
every day every word mine
I question,
you see the cruising on the surface waters,
underneath the propeller, churning,
what is it all worth,
when crap and rap and rant
rule the day, and you rue the day,
you thought you were a poet
amidst the undiscerning,
you the solitary sock,
washed (out) but useless
it could be an inflection day
or just another internal investigation way,
report issued and recommendations ignored,
and it's back to the side views mirrors applauding
a ten round bout ending in a no decision
just when you are found out,
by yourself and his friends,
Me, myself, I and buddy depression,
that its time to shed the proposition
that you can write to pleasure the world,
be a cut above, something special
more than
and on and on
and this pesky little message
comes and changes everything
someone tells you in a sentence
a saving grace that you added quality
to their lives and you gather the crew in
the corner of the ring,
for a huddle, and say let's go for it all
on this our last round,
cause if we don't,
we've lost anyway
You read, disbelieve, but here you are
writing again and the chest is gladden,
the words, like they used too,
arriving fedex,
and you put aside the naggers,
asking who cares,
for the eyes see this,
Re one of your very own
poem~children:
"I think of this poem so often, some days I find myself
reciting it at work"
and the sprinklers in the
yellow stucco ceiling of room 1531,
sudden spilling rain tears,
and tho showers not in the forecast,
here you are again,
scrivening, writing, scribing,
giving hope another say,
giving hope its due, it's day
maybe you are an uptown boy now,
from downtown,
but today it's ok,
being in midtown,
direction,
but more important,
the choice,
in the making,
still unknown
cause in the mid,
that means that today,
you will
*go on and on
I am a hairs breadth away from quitting and...this pesky appears as if someone knew what's in my head
