fear of failure is my mistress, who lives only to control me. she lives solely in my thoughts, in the corners of my dreams, and wears a mole under her watchful, painted eye. i love her, but she’s no good for me, and anyway, she makes love to every lonely man she meets.
pushing eighty, planting daisies, life has rung you like a towel. once before, your heart would beat for men and the fear of dying alone. now that you are doing so, it’s not as bad as you’d supposed.
you marvel that you are alive, you think sometimes that you have died, for you are pale and peaceful as a corpse. you pat the mulch and cut the weeds and give back to life what it unduly takes.
a lil ol man in shorts; hell yeah. he rocks back and forth, sittin in his rockin chair. the moon’s unmoving, the man is grooving to the tune of stars and shooting aliens with his arms (which are guns); pow, kablammo, ow, kablammo, pow pow.