my daughter sleeps
on the couch these days…
she's there now while i type this.
i'm procrastinating on duties
needed to move the day forward.
i'm taking this quiet time for myself…
there is a grass fed sirloin to marinate,
dishes in the sink and drawings waiting for life.

but right now i'm typing.
typing and thinking
the thoughts of a man,
perhaps, too satisfied.

there is still fire in the hours
i move through,
but the fire burns
without the tinder of rage.
the urgency,
one of savoring-
of reflecting…

i used to roam Europe
with one bag and no money.
for better or worse,
those days are long over--
families don't hitchhike
and a wife and child
demand the courtesies
of more refined travel.

47 seems a comfortable distance
from 26 and it's violent insecurities.

the danger, of course,
is losing that edge
that made shit happen…

in bad times the artist has to tuck their chin,
roll the shoulders forward,
and bite down on the mouthpiece.

in good times the artist
must continue to find
a battle in every day,
while living richly
and creating loudly…

or quietly.

like now...