My paint brush dried
before I could finish
collecting a wage
of a penny and a kiss.

I'll get to it later. . .
not to worry,
reassuring myself.

Placed the canvas
on a hanger
let it hang there
in the museum of
Dreams for a Payday.

I plan for the future
but in all honesty
my life has unfolded
like some unforeseen
magic trick.

I wish I had it.
Instead my words grind
in a windmill built on a dike
in Amsterdam.
They grind and grind
far, far, far from here
near the sea of flowing words
swimming freestyle
to flowing hearts
flowing minds.

Not jealous, mind you,
more like knowing
I'm a grinder grinding
all the while admiring
the soulful flowing words
scribed by the best of you.

Who am I
to deserve such sights,
to witness this splendor?

Thank you for trusting me
with this color, this light.

Thank you for reminding me
what lives behind the dark.

Whoever, wherever,
whatever you are.

We slammed into a bag
one at a time.

Suppose I hit hardest
made varsity Sophomore year.

Pumped iron all summer.
Bulked up to 148 pounds.

First day of practice
coach shaved my head.

It was a time hair didn't
flow out your helmet.

Bubblegum was a penny and
my dick would stay hard.

Inked-up
poets come.
Finish inside me.
Swim in me.
Taste me. From
7 to eleven
slurp me
in the convenience store
where some
wrestle to buy
this or that
I remain
gift wrapped
waiting

for your
good stuff.