the works of America’s greatest living poemetrist, alive or otherwise.
have you ever wondered
what it would be like
to be the world’s greatest
living human being
who ever lived?
i do not believe
in myself,
which makes
being myself
living my self….
when i sit
in the hoped-for quiet
of my practice,
only two things
disturb that quiet….
i need to talk about
the people who have
treated me so badly,
and i need to name names.
no one deserves….
i have my story,
and it is my story,
and it is me.
i fear my story,
and i hate my story….
i think my dreams
are tired of me
telling them
to shut up.
dreams are not meant….
i wish it were easier,
this dream of mine
to be alive.
instead, i struggle
to merely wake.
being me
is not the worst thing
that could have
happened to me,
but it’s bad enough.
sitting in my room
waiting for the snow to come,
but it may be
a week away.
that’s ok….
i’d like to think better of myself,
but i find that’s hard to do
given that its me.
my long habit,
my comfort zone….
the window, open
by my head
as i wait for sleep,
cool air and warm coverings,
but sleep just doesn’t….
the new year tells me
i’m that much closer
to the end of everything.
as if i needed
that obvious reminder.
tik-tok
is not the sound
of days
falling behind
into the past….
the crazies
and their schemey dreams
of shots fired
into the snarling face
of lawful tyranny….
so many things
i could do today.
so many options!
i could, of course, die.
not my first choice….
