a certain morning stiffness
in your joints

you find your face
in the bathroom mirror
and wish you hadn't

the puzzled wisdom
    of middle age
wavers from your eyes
deepening wrinkles
   of many laughs
   many frowns

   how many more?

   nevermore ?!

the room becomes aflutter
with poesque ravens
the presence of absences
fills the void
your life is on the brink
of deconstructing itself
to the periphery of the universe
a discourse of silence
forever becoming ... becoming ...
what...?

   nevermind!

so

you close your eyes
   hard
for a minute or two

when you look again
you meet the stare
of a not-so-bad-looking
man in his best years
  
   graying sideburns
   receding hairline
   20 pounds too many
      BUT
   a firm decision
   to work them off
  
   still a bit sleepy
   yet determined
   to shave
      get dressed
      have breakfast
  
   and teach
   that wonderful seminar
   on 19th century poetry
   to eager graduate students

It's 2 in the morning and I'm still awake,
drinking alone, again.
It's not like I have the most interesting job to wake up to
I just deliver words to people's homes
and get chased by dogs every now and then  
wondering if they got bad news or not
and how they feel about it

At night, I deliver the words to myself
With the pen in my hand, staining the paper
crafting each word with stories of days that passed me by
Sitting in the dark writing while others are standing
out there in the cold harsh reality, living and breathing
expecting release
but never did much to achieve that freedom
aside from complaining about it every single day
I never did much either
Maybe I got so used at being a prisoner
That the idea of freedom seems more like a myth
than something we all deserve

After I finished my final bottle, the last of its kind
I walked out and went home, hoping I did my best to drown
my demons and my feelings
It's not until I reached my door that I realized they ******* know how to swim
and they do it so well I might as well let them

I decided I don't want to go home
It's hardly a home anyway
It's just a bunch of furniture crammed in a room
So I would feel less empty


With my pen and my paper I walked
my footsteps behind me echoing until they too,
became silent
I threw my keys into the ocean
and should anyone find it, I hope they won't be disappointed
of what they'd find behind the door it opens

I stood at the edge, trying to write a letter
addressed to no one in particular
I wanted to sum it all up in a few words
but I couldn't
I keep worrying about the people
who won't be receiving their letters
And who would deliver mine?


I ended up writing six pages worth of
words I don't even remember writing
All the letters I have inside my bag flew like pigeons on a good day
and I silently wished for the wind to bring them
all to the right addresses


as for my letter addressed to no one in particular
Some of them landed on a puddle
some of them landed on dog ****
As for me, I landed on the concrete
between 6th and 7th street