I stumbled upon theses words as a draft-
unafraid, not committed to life...
from a different time- years ago:
the grand thoughts and feverish ideas
of time alone in the water
and on the beach have given way
to the reality of the city
and art and being a father…
i solved problems sitting on a surfboard
bobbing up on the swells that didn't break
and paddling hard for the ones that did.
i caught up on my time with myself
and the water and the sun
and the creatures, so skillfully beneath me…
there is so much life out there that i could cry
at what is left behind. so much life out there
that i know there are those who will never know
the feeling of the drip of it's residue.
i have loved this life so hard it almost killed me.
there are cautionary tales to success stories and most poems.
you just have to read them…
i tilt forward and press my face into the mass
of wilting pink roses before me on the table.
the scent is weak, but there. i sit on the couch
next to my sleeping daughter
and watch a man lay a shin upon the temple
of another with a beautiful rear leg roundhouse kick--
poetry of the highest order…
i am counting blessings undeserved and grateful--
probing along the way…
i miss the nights of Wooster and West Broadway,
Spring and Prince…
the nights of cobblestones and anonymous weed
lit in storefronts by Cooper Union girls,
scared of nothing and aching for everything
the era of SoHo leads one
to change the names of the innocent.
the wood floors carry prints
that are best left forgotten…
the stairs up led to art and wine
and slivers of a culture.
the stairs down led to another show
and another bed preceded
by another glass of shit wine.
but it was beautiful.
it was beautiful in a way
that is now
(if not forgotten)
and i guess
i'm all the better for it.