scattershot unsteady

Magic tee’s, and backward baseball caps

Widmer, and the Marlboro man

laughed about at the river’s ends.

my brother and I…we finally left behind those

Green screen tree’s and storm drain streets

back to the town that supposedly raised me.

                                   * * *

twenty two to twenty three

“this is gonna be my year”

and

“my goals won’t wait forever”

I ‘d try and motivate myself

from the covers of my bed

behind the apathy of my fantasy prose

and into the thralls of touring.

but vanity and the control of image

are an ever enticing and time consuming obsession

when the art is learned.

gyms, and fitness magazines

motorcycles, and tattoo’s

these sorts of things, I always thought to be no more than a ruse

for a man supposed to be of words.

but when inside a world not my own

I got told

there was money to be made…all I heard was

“there’s money to be made.”

 being poor, and being of sallow shade

I’ve let obsession take passion’s place.

(no route, no save face)

 But on some occasional irregular Sunday mornings

I’m woken to the sound of rain…

and for an instant I think of that time under the Northwest clouds

days when I knew myself; lonely, and honorable

and driven as the storm.  I would be the author who wrote stories

of heroes people could believe in again,

piano pieces to move a crowd

but then I listen, mutter                               ‘no, I guess not. even the rain falls different here

  scattershot unsteady.’

And here I thought I was ready…

I finish my coffee, and close the laptop then

put the baseball cap on for ol’ time’s sake

head to my gym to throw around some weights.

After all, there’s money to be made.