and as I begin to scratch
peepholes through the bubble
in punctuated diamond breaths,
i am glad
for the want
to write again.
perhaps its because
i have recently began to drink again
apparently certain
friends are best not
forgotten
or else and perhaps
its a combination of this
and many several of other things perhaps
such as the life i just left
silly little poet boy playing
the grown up man, a business,
a she that if had been given some light
and that would have grown from it would
have nurtured us into a we,
and all the while
my moments here were silenced
told to shut up, still still, and wait, but
that life did not quite fit as I had wonderhoped it might,
that uniform and cadence
and all of the great gossamer of ego
has been shed
and perhaps that had just a little to do
with the cosmic F train running my ass over
flat in the path
like a gnat taking a bus
head on.
and yes so now
it is on to the next of any somehow
smiling with many lessons
crushed like bugs
between the spaces of my teeth, and
as i look amusingly from where i
assume to hope to be the middle of my life
i have yet to still become
any form of electric Jesus, or
winner of the global lottery, but
in this little apartment in venice beach, with
a black cat on my lap, and no
woman in my bed, the silhouette
of the dragon has begun to shimmer
in the periphery of my witness.
i wonder, truly
should there ever be more
for which to wish?