Lines Written on My 74th Birthday
So this is it, this is the end game, boxes of dust-covered books stacked in the living room, arms giving out, organs in the red zone, teeth on the brink, but legs still good and sex still poking its head out of the root cellar into a tornado-torn sky, mind churning like a dynamo in a ghost town.
What a giddy brew of terror and joy, what a sharp jolt of adrenalin as the field narrows and options morph into commands, what a plaintive song floats out of Gabriel’s trumpet over the bone yard of years.
I’m on the hill, the light is fading, the wind rocks the van and I smoke. I don’t give up anything, things are taken away.
A nod to the thunder gods of creation for firing me like lightning thru the dark sky of awareness.