these same grey shorts and black shirts
sit alone, undisturbed in empty vessels
with 4 to 6 books a week by great
writers, novelists and poets such as:
Carruth, Cummings, Chinaski,
Ginsberg, Burroughs, Kerouac,
Hemingway, Thompson, Chopra,
Vonnegut, Eliot, Dostoyevsky,
Rinaldi, Nugent, Wadsworth,
Burns, Watts, Fitzgerald
Li Po, Chi, Ch'ien, etc, etc, etc.
sought for a muse and inspiration
from these omnipotent word wranglers
that fuse juicy sentence structures
so delicately, melting your soul into
ice cream soup....but other than favoring
the use of a word, I fail to find a spark
of ingenuity, only left with the greatest
power tool and the deadliest weapon to
compile my own creativity.
if I was a rugged mountaineer,
I would not need to trek to the Himalayas
or the Alps to find a mountain.
there's a plethora of peaks in my
own backyard.
if I was a cave dweller,
there's no need to go gallivanting through
the Hang So'n Do'ong to find a cave.
there's plenty of spelunking in my own
quarters from the highest ceiling down
to the lowest part of the basement.
if I was a surfer,
I don't need to travel to the
ebb of the tides.
my cranium already rides
the 100ft waves
in oceans of intoxicants.
sitting across tables from half the faltering drunks in the tri-country area, smothering
the room with incoherence feeds my
apparition. How dare their pugnacious
behavior that peeks from behind their
over-served soft shells take another
bite of the apple from the bottle of
whiskey when they can't even handle
what's already been dealt.
standing there, in front of a mirror, staring
at my misproportioned physiognomy,
looking ancient but feeling younger and
more energetic than my own kids.
contemplating my existence,
at the age of 33,
I've already felt like I've been through
so much when
I haven't even gotten started.
welcoming my untimely death to arrive,
with only one fear....
that I've only left an
innumerable amount
of monotonous
words behind me.