(For Darin Bulai)
I need to get it out.
Each word another breath.
Each poem another chess move away from death.
Or am I like one of the tragic figures I so covet heading toward my own demise?
If I crash and if I burn before I write one great sentence will that make it more likely I’ll end up anonymous or even worse another popular slogan like Let It Be or Let It Bleed?
So many great expectations and grand illusions around every bow in the blacktop.
I’m more out of sorts these days than I am out of the rain.
I am a shut-in really waiting for my next big break or actually my first big break.
I remember when I was fourteen years old working at the local McDonald's wondering if this was all there was and thirty two years later I’m still wondering the same fucking thing.
I don’t think I’m better than anyone else.
Or more special or more deserving than anyone else.
I just know I have greatness inside of me and if I could just cut away all of the malaise and nausea there would be no stopping or slowing me down.
I need to set the record straight before all of the oxygen in the room is used up.
Each word another footstep.
Each poem another breath of life as I whittle away the exhaustion with sheer willpower and an inexhaustible belief that this cannot be all that there is.