Sunday, September 5, 2010
Fading intellect and vision clarity. Edges rounding off like river rocks. Teeth wearing chips. So much seems tired. Looking at a fresh day with milky eyes. Remembering when fires burned in frontal lobes. Road trips and sleeping under stars. Steeling America. Stabbed by conscious awareness of waves and waves of history in rocks. Now I ache more. And wonder how I will get through the next days labor. What ailments are catching up with me. What will overcome me. These hands look like some old dudes hands. This face looks like someone else. I don’t remember how all that time passed, or what happened to all the notions of what I would do. When you diss a muse, they say, they are not so inclined to visit. That stands to reason. So I sit in a breeze and hope to be inspired again. Send me an older man's muse, I promise not to piss this one away. Well, maybe I will piss it away. Oh, and about wallowing in depression.... there will be time enough for that when the reaper catches me.