the law forbids him
to walk the streets with the
label of that bottle exposed
but he does anyway

and there's no one to care
enough to report him

he's just another drunkard
getting his fix

also homeless
he wears baggy jeans with lots of
unruly strings around the hems
and the belt
a few holes at the knees
a hole in the shirt
dirt, sweat, something that looks
like blood splotches, something
that's probably just mustard

just another drunkard getting
his fix

but they don't know him for an artist

in the breast pocket of his shirt he holds
two long yellow pencils
and he uses them to make music
for the crows in the park and for the pigeons,
though the pigeons are less impressed by his
performance

he empties the bottle and finds a park
bench and pulls out the long yellow
pencils and starts
drumming into the wood
of the back rest
and the crows gather round to listen
and sometimes the dogs join as well
and sometimes the snails after the rain
but never the people

People like you die young, she said
You don't drink, don't
do drugs, eat healthy, rarely
go out, rarely meet new girls

But you keep on writing, boy, you
keep on writing
and that's enough to outweigh
all the above

You'll see

her back to the world
she stands outside into the
cold
and the snow
made her a white helmet
and shoulder guards
and is now knitting a cape

the deer don't dare come
near her and the
boars too
stay away
and the men agree

this woman's a warrior

better not bother her

there's a blade stuck in
her heart
and you better not reach
to pluck it out if you're
not the one who put it
there

if I knew I was
going to die
tomorrow
would I spend today
writing more
or
saying goodbye to my loved ones?

hardest choice of my life

maybe I'll write my goodbye
in the form of another poem
to make the best of both worlds

the voices said
there's nothing like
waking up deep into the night
and not hearing any voices

and I believed them

adopt a demon tonight
and if you're a writer
she'll help you become a
great one even
It is worth exposing yourself
to her
You won't call her a demon,
of course. That term is offensive
You'll refer to her as The Muse,
your muse
and she will visit you when the
time is right
and the time will be right
when you start doing your thing
You'll see.

when I was a kid I'd always ask
myself how would
life be if I were a
telephone pole
or a spirit trapped inside
a telephone pole
sitting there day and night,
winter and summer
and autumn and spring
just sitting
and watching
and perhaps hearing the
conversations of people
over the telephone, because their
words pass through me
and I communicate with the other
telephone poles and have our
network where we share
stuff we hear and see
while remaining totally indifferent
to emergency calls and people's
drama and tragedy and all of life

that's how life would be if
I were a telephone pole
pretty **** nice
with no school or work to do
and no people to deal with

So when I was a kid I wished
I were a telephone pole
but then I remembered...

If I'm a telephone pole I
can't pet dogs anymore

it's not worth it