way, way back, head messed, life stabbing you in the chest,
but you come back from the nearly dead, even
gob~kissed by sudden entrance of fame and
small fortune's effing effortless fortitudinal
attitudinal shifting sands

now you're the dude, and you create the
frost~sting on the cake, and everyone wants
to be your lover
and taste your paste

you're thin and tall, walking the streets
of Midtown like a lanky cowboy, thumbs
hooked tucked behind the extra wide leather belt,
proving your
upper east side cred,
two if by day,
east village
one if by night,
and
you even write poetry, when
riding high, and on low down
when you're
down low,
and sometimes
back then, it even
made her cry

nowadays it often doesn't play,
maybe get a "nice" or an emoji 👍,
but often ignored like she's heard it
all once too many times before,
really, how many ways can you
praise the women who saved you
from yourself, doctored your ***,
who cut conceit from your brain,
with a surgical silver steak knife,  
and
who shed real live tears
when you wrote just for
her,
only love poetry…