chances are

i've been cleaning the house up slowly, preparing for... armageddon?

my doctor says i should view this new development more positively, and despite the obvious paradigm shift i do consider the diagnosis for a moment... but then the beat poets whisper in my ear through the aid of modern technology telling me we are all merely mammals, all eat, shit, crave, love, lose. i'd like to think i carry their flame or at least a spark of it but until i stick it under a spoonful of goofball juice or sleep rough i am just a pretender.

i take my battle to the page where recycled words turn full circle to bite me in the tender parts and i am trampled by my best intentions. but grouping my thoughts does not make them any more palatable so i have to find the freedom in ripping on the page where nothing really matters. we've all cleaned up broken glass before, where temptation sits glinting, asking the question, daring you to answer.

i want to speak secrets locked up in vaults, dry truths that blow dust under closed doors and down the cul de sacs. i want to run with the lions in cites dangerous, chew up my shoes in parts unknown. i want to clear out the dander of shelves full of notebooks to find the right word for every occasion. i want to be the one who makes dogs behave badly. i want to break free of the place where grieving is a noun and not a verb. i am not grief, i grieve and then i am done.

and although i am often beyond the pale the grip of addiction splits me with a force as hard as good and evil, as powerful as yes and no. so i'm hanging with the hedonists but too timid to commit to the spirituality of it, though behind my eyes and in my synapses there's a crackle with the possibilities of another lifestyle, another talent, another virtue. chances are...