I'd much rather be running around,
eating and drinking, writing freely,
gathering inspiration in my cheeks
like a dumb hipster hamster,
hellbent on hidden hubris
as far as poetics are preferred.
she called me, as if she knew,
saying get up, go get lost,
be stupid and silly, be wise on a Friday
but call it any day you want,
and so I sailed to where the earth is worth
more than surface standing love.
It can only get better or worse
and that realization allows
one to skip with a sly step,
up and down hills and islands,
like this one where I find myself
manically whispering to caves called stubborn streets.
I was careless with my love,
but now I refuse to be careful with my days,
because life is made for dying,
but days are made for living,
and that is exactly why Paisley
prefers this poem to the others
which talk only of lost love
and not the next love that might change the summit.