I want that thing that Lord Bryon
panted after, coiled around my ribs
and pumping, blood rushing to that
warm glow of oblivion.
I'll plot like Macbeth with my trophy wife,
ruby crown, twisted knees at my feet,
wading through power, til it's over my head.
Before me lies the shoreless seas that
Columbus saw, into that jagged wind,
no sunlight reached, punching those
hard sea caps westward.
I've practiced that cashy swagger of
Gatsby. Looking down through long French
windows from the leafy hills above.
Society page, big house - here's my
check.
This is how to live! - blazing across
Van Gogh's Starry Night, swimming in the
swirls and brushstrokes of that hot orange moon
and those boiling stars.
But a light afternoon wind caresses my nuzzled
bottle of beer whistling a soft dove call across the
City Park overhung with white oak trees and
coins of sunlight and
I take a swig and lie back in the sun, tracing a smile,
so grateful I called in sick today.
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