He would have been an artist
but that being was now lost
hidden beneath the folds of fleshy strata
hanging like a neurosis, soft as adipose
lost under his belly.

He may have been a father
but that too was lost under
the pendulous judgement of
his blunted dreaming state.

He could have been a sculptor
an artist as they would have said,
instead he now whittles archaic
spoons with which to sup from
his sad bucolic dreams.

In between aspirations, as a hobby,
he runs his fat fingers through women's
hair, a round eyed
would be Taoist, wending prayers
through lost valleys.

And for a living he pins tails
on donkeys calls himself an eastern
practitioner. A Zen mystic .
An acupuncturist.