I dragged these boots through the mud for months
Through the beating sun
Through biting flies
Through circles of swamp and lonely cold beans in the can
Through dusty nameless plains of cactus and snakes
I fell to my knees
I stared at cool stars until the fever broke and rest came
I am, I go on, I am empty, I go crazy and try to touch the sky
I chew on solitude
It tastes like old leather
And aches of a sky so blue it snatches my breath away
I sling words with feeling without skimming on the surface like a cockroach across a puddle.
I get drunk and cry with my pen instead of writing about my tears. Anyone can do that.
I drag myself through a slimy alley of darkness and live to keep it a secret.
I don’t have time to spout pretty words and platitudes and cocktail party phrases.
My life, my existence is this: every word counts.
Every stinking drop of sweat on this table is a poem. Every lamentation for lost vices pushes a limit. Every painful sunrise is a testament to being laid bare every night.
Every click of the compressor motor on the refrigerator counts down to the end, closer than the beginning, and I am alive to feel every second of it, taste every bitter dreg of it, lose myself in all the places where I don’t matter.
Where is the middle ground between my loving altogether in the whole sense
and walking an ascetic life?
It’s no accident gurus and crones are long in the tooth
It takes decades to learn anything in this life
Anything that is worth a damn, anyway
Those of us who claim to be forever youthful and therefore excused from
learning lessons and little grievings of maturity, mortality
whistle through the day with a jaunty tip of the cap and a nod in toasting
We, the orphaned children of Pan, we winking curmudgeons,
for us, there is no middle ground for anything
and I’m fucking grateful for that