They'd give me the old T.S. Elliot I'd think

Of men and Yankees and a life content...

All these 30 something’s rattling their cages

Bemoaning the empty tank of a full stomach.

If I liked Maya Angelou I’d have said you get better

As you write, but she proof negative.

Their tired of searching, so they mine the blasted mountains of creativities heyday.

Its got a solid foundation and a good craft but you can’t write about tragedies

you’ve never seen before.

“good poem, no ones ever written about the toll of homelessness before.”

This writing groups a joke. I don’t sign my name in hopes they attribute that

reaction to facts

And not that I’ve publically denounced his Drunk Whitman prose.

Theres still sorrow in love and its exposed ache is a healed over infection

What lies beneath the surface is a cold dead muse, a mid-life crisis, and a new

frontier that these old poets can no longer search.

Men from Rome died to early to know this future and show us the way.

No real intellectual writes well, but we need a few to write badly in a new

direction.

We don’t starve, or starve for love, we have learned to be gentle with a savings

account

And the whole world crashes down in an unwrittable quaint suburban hell.

Blasphemy.

I count these men amongst the great imposters, baptized in the gutter streams of

Grenich Village.

Dylan’s a dead man and they go running for Catholicism.

They talk amongst friends in hushed tones and Dockers, with suv-shoes that make them

seem just as

adventurous.

The G man is coming and he’s bring your father, and together you can go bald and eat

the scrod at 6:00 p.m.

Their fear is getting old and suffering less, but theres nothing to fear except the

crushing laziness that

slaps a mans teeth out when he comes to the end of a cleared path.
Theres a pain in potential, if loss is a cliff and the bottom unseen then let the truth be known that complacency is a wicked camouflage that creeps through the reeds like a tiger, and complacency is the worst a man can face in himself.
If tragedy is still defined by the Greeks then let children bear the filthiest cost to ones cerebral misgivings.

No coffin like a banquet in bad sweaters surrounded by a family, singing together in old waspy spirituals, with coco and a fire and the dark framework of hallmark.
I have known the horrors of holidays and they have given me a yuletide fuel for a thousand terrible entries but silence does not a character create. Let the lambs of the shepard gather in congregation on this Christmas eve pitch’s and summon the conversation. The darkest a man can offer is himself, and I for one have never lost my social ability. The stories are there in the crevice of conversation that hides in the ways the a man holds his mug, or how she looks out the window when he’s talking.

I can count, like children count the country stars an emotional response with no words or actions save for the dart of the black bird eye, and in the depths of suburbia, when for so many dead men who’ve hung up their pens, the night falls like an axe, I will rise like a phoenix and paint color and brilliance when darkness fell like wool on their vision. The path of the pen is winding, long and weary and often runs astray looking for youth in the jungles of the bicentennial, where all men weary of their legacy search for the fountain of youth and get killed by the mosquitoes and their viral itch.