We write the brutal truths no one
wants to hear. We call a ***** a *****
and not a ******* shovel. This world
is both simple and complex. Some of
us will **** lovers who love others.
Some of us will find good in evil
and evil in good. We disagree.
Scream then whisper compromise.

Not a ******* second before.
I waste my life day to day but
breathing is precious and I miss
my family and love wine and
**** and breakfast and lunch.
I hope I die in Jayne's arms.

I wander for hours inside of moments.
I trip my way down alley ways lost in
weeks of days of hours of minutes in a
blink of an eye. Happy Birthday, Love.
I remember you my dead ones. You built
me. Each one of you owns a piece of me.
I'm a quilt sewn from small pieces
of myself that each of you has touched.

I'm a worn out old man.
I want to go back to Alcott
where the world was in a jar
and we were masters of the
woods. We knew the creeks and
lake and swung on vines Tarzan
like and ran home to supper and
homework and TV and slumber
and dad off to work at 5am hacking
in the bushes and off he went in
the flesh colored rocket ship that
was a a '57 Chevorlet Bel Air.