Mid April, 2002

Nearly a father and nearly grown up

Almost a person but hardly myself

Introspection will cost me, a dangerous toll booth

On the interstate of my life

I look to my side at the rearview mirrors

And forget to watch the road


My words, have they escaped me?

My music, muted by soulless tunes, written by others, stolen by me, as they steal my time

My art grow little now, supplanted by distraction, lack of passion, career and life

It has been years since I last wrote a poem

And old friends forget me, can't remember the last letter I sent

And my inbox only good for newsletters and spam


Where is my drive, my energy?

Wasted on the insane

Where is my ambition?

Buried by bills and duties and responsibilities, the messengers, the missionaries of real life

Well, I am a believer, I have been converted

to the religion of reality, of sensibility

to the faith in mediocrity and anti-individuality


A timepiece spinning, like a CD, fast and futile

My body falls apart around me

A few grays here, extra weight there

Artificially finding eyesight

Knifing pain in a bad back, crippling me

An old man, some days, an invalid


Reading old letters of times lost, forgotten

Mirrors to a past I ignore

Seeing the boy I used to be

and my childish mistakes

Traces of times poorly remembered and friends not worth remembering, or worth forgetting

A sweeping nostalgia for my youth, rises in my gut, like so much heartburn

How did that fool grow into me?



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