is scrapped; a Lost Boy, messily hand writ,,
can’t resurrect from memory the title or the
subject, or the precise provocation that
made me need a pen worthy provenance in order to exit~express~expel~exhale
my disordered grievances and

an output likely of seeping deepening angst,
of a middle ages man, in a midlife proto-
typical crisis, which now vague recalled with
the sadness of just really longest period of
dark December nights, alone and hopeless

let the origin be mundane, simplistic and plain,
probably trite words of hand sleight, of an
excessive heavy light weight, going ** ** hi,
woe is me, a time of loss and reincarnation of xjoys when stumbling in a new life that coincided and collided and coordinated with a new century’s commencement,
would be my best guess, that,

this version of my whodunnit is acceptable
even if not accurate, ego permits lies of many
colors, but it grants me treasure by believing
that the joy journey subsequent recovered,
that keeps the little engine that could acooking, in a still-quiet mid of night humming productive is:

primal
ever intensifying,
lighting the unburdening of age-ing,
burning of dregs of going away midnight oils,

and oh my,
even why now
a quarter century later
the fingertips continue to tango cross a white
tableau, dotted with alphabets of words unknown,
only uncovering that all the old ones were quite a usefully alive, when succored in new
combative combinations


(happy~sad that it is diminished into the
nether, a far far better fate, than one I would
have likely selected; a lost child, of your own,
will always
always be,
be you eternally)