a communique from the one voted
most likely to be found dead alone in a seedy motel room
still dreaming dreams that aren’t gonna come true
being the big man on campus then
writing poems no one will ever read now
or hear in a crowded cafe room or bookstore
while drinking copious amounts of coffee
in new york or san francisco or anywhere for that matter
songs no one will ever hear at the cafe wha? or the fillmore east
dabbling with the paints, paintings moma isn’t clamoring for
even so a tablet at the ready
for a quick sketch or poem that comes to me in the middle of the night
while I’m laying awake sleepless again
by the bedside, on a table next to the recliner
a glass of scotch always helps me think
the power is out tonight
just need some rain and an electrical storm
some bright lightning and booming thunder
to complete the effect
reading by candlelight like abe lincoln did
in a log cabin deep in the woods
a book of events over one hundred years ago
on a battlefield in france
artists and composers among them who undoubtedly thought
they would get back to their easels and pianos one day
franz marc, macke, butterworth, no not mrs. butterworth
george butterworth, young english classical music composer
-put down his pen for a gun
died in battle at 31-
—meanwhile the power is still out
shuffle to the bed holding a candle low on batteries
lay on the bed and stare at that ouija board of a ceiling
have dreams of frustrations
wake up tired, unrefreshed
it goes on and on doesn’t it?
