The poetry of my life is, in effect,
the rejection I have learned to endure.
(It’s a beautiful thing, coping with tears,
sucking them in, then breathing and living again)
Every hour, at least, I think to myself:
What is next for me to create.
And there’s always a mess, some state,
more or less, of constant re-arranging
and deciding what to keep and what to throw away.
I’ve had luck, close calls, that’s for sure,
things that have swung this way, not that.
I’m still pulsing, still breathing,
got a scar or two for the show,
and I ache but the drink helps with that.
I grizzle and belch, got a miserable frown
sometimes I stare into space and just rest
and empty my thoughts except for this one:
I have no idea what any of this means.
But why must it have meaning, a human construct,
like time, or money, or words.
It is what it is, that’s all it can be
whatever it is, to begin.
Fuck me, I’m flailing, I often intone,
as I snap back to the clunking machine.
There’s work to be done, the wheels need a grease
and the money certainly doesn’t grow on trees.
At night, when my eyes start to shut
and the breeze filters through the dark,
the earth keeps turning and
the fires of home and heart still burn.
I sleep, hope to dream, safe with the thought
that the day always seems to come back around.
I am eternal…for the time being.