Once there was a man
who had nothing in particular to say.

He forced his stacked lines,
and on occasion, some rhymes
-nothing in several shades of gray.
He spoke of an illusive muse,
and a starving white sea,
things that never were,
and things that used to be.

The word wielding ghost
remembers bouncing checks
and eating roses off the stem
in taverns and bars
that would tolerate him.

and jigsaw puzzle pieces in the sky
and a brandy sniping toddler
who threw his bottle in the fire.

Now the narcissistic saint of wasted time
contemplates the day that he will die.