I only write well when I'm a mess

Knowing this I spit on a fine line

My neighbor thinks I write very bad poetry all the time

I don't argue because it very well may be true

Meanwhile

Burned by my upstairs nuisance

He promised a case of red bull

But only delivered a stereo with no knobs

I would be angry but he is saner than I most days

So I sell the stereo to a deaf bird for nutrition

But my ramen packets break dry and maggot filled

So I eat cancer and drink the sun instead

my pens are all gone

They ran away when I started pacing

most things do

Preparation is key on nights like these

Fall weather comes and I breathed easy

But now my climbing tree's are dying
and my shoes fail in spades

I met a creature who said my words were strange

I laugh because what is normal?
I never did fully know

So that time tested debate unfolds with mouths clenched from use

I offered peace in the way of grape juice but gave myself vitamin c poisoning

So I ***** into the rabbit hole
no home left for that metaphor

I never really saw what all the fuss was about

good night

I have found the beauty
you propounded
your wisdom in choosing me

Heart melded perhaps
with wisdom
self with empathy

it took ages and
was not an easy path
to send me on

you , my muses ,
must have seen something
in my being

in my me, far off , you
saw future , predicted
where I might become

a mere human
striving for a muse or inspiration
among so many.

I am heartened
by the thought of you
inspiring

so many more

what did he miss most?
the whip of wind on his face
the unbridled buck of life between his legs
the scent of the saddle
the lathered beast?

the fast pass of the satchel
to the next eager rider, the covenant
he carried in the saddle bags; the one he made
with the Almighty to keep him safe
from the red devils?  

a new century dawned, two score
years since the hot rides were quick
made obsolete by the iron horse, the poles
and lines that brought Morse's magic,
ticking time electric

what did he miss most?
perhaps the deep, unperturbed sleep
after the ride--slumber filled with liquid dreams,  
gifts bestowed by a condign contentment
from his brutish labor

Catching the wind
through my fingertips
trying to snag a taste
of open aired freedom
since it rings and rings
passing through my ears
like a singing bliss.