Wrote the title and went to bed.
Wanted the poem to brew like good coffee or steep like the best and most stuck up tea.
You know I will continue screaming in this over-valued wilderness because I’ve got nothing better to do and my friend in PA just took his first full time job in over a decade.
Being an artist doesn’t necessarily mean you’re automatically on the dole or enjoy paying for your food with EBT.
I think living in your mind is a compromise with your third eye and sacrificial lambs don’t deserve whatever they have coming to them because the blood is so often not theirs and you have to wake up pretty early to pull the wool over my bottom feeder eyes.
Let’s make up for lost time and do it right here in the road like The Beatles did before they broke apart like wisps of a dandy lion, but they had a great run and anyhow I hear Paul is dead.
Wrote the title and then dreamed of brain surgery and Russians coming to the door asking for someone or something I could not quite comprehend. Maybe it happened and maybe it didn’t either way I still got up which gave me an excuse to tinkle and turn down the heat before I burned up in this suburban jungle.
I’m on a writing jag and there’s no one any longer to share all of these words and escapist propaganda with. The one friend I had who got it found his escape hatch and pulled his grandpa’s finger while his cup of coffee was still in the microwave and that box of Cocoa Frosted Flakes it still sat atop that frig on Maynard Avenue.
Let’s get something straight right here the choices he made are his and his alone and no one has to follow him into the breech unless we’re complete fools and prefer to have our lives cut short like a child who has terminal cancer or the sneak preview of a film no one really wants to see anyhow.
Being an artist has its advantages, I guess, like you can always profess to being busy doing your work when actually you’re doing nothing more than thinking up baby names for a progeny you’ll never follow through with because you need your beauty sleep and no woman in her right mind would allow your gnarly worm anywhere near her palatial palace of lasting impressions.
Stuck the coffee in the microwave for a warmup and thought about eating a Seasonal Sprinkle Thumbprint, but then decided I’m not really all that hungry and the coffee would do me just fine as I got ready for the evening news and another slice of horror.
I think it’s time to give this poem a slap on its bottom as it enters the world ready to either do battle or lie down like a lamb. Just keep in mind even lambs can be ferocious when they’re threatened with extinction.