in my apartment in college. I didn't know what they were.
I miss that young dumb kid who didn't overthink everything.
Not knowing what you're doing was fun and fruitful.
I found my way back to New York and began again,
dialing into non-existent alleys and bathrooms,
where older poets shunned me for being young
and young poets gave me drugs and asked why I hated them.
it felt so good to be in the garden of fugitives,
just a soul soaring on a horse in the rain which was
a rumbling train taking me to new love and new loss,
all of it wonderful and horrible and what I felt was my meaning.
that spirit is still in me and that is why I write these dumb words
while at work when supposed to be working and writing other dumb shit,
because I am compelled to do this; I can't turn it off.
writer's block is for posers and fakes and fucks who don't have sharp spurs or the calling.