Last Laugh -- Feb. 16, 2004

The strange thing about life
is just how good it can get
sometimes.
Sitting alone, on the fourth floor
of the apartment
listening to the sounds of the city
as it rushes past
sirens, screeching breaks, bums
jostling the after-work crowd.
Twisting
the first cap off a fresh six pack.

Embodying the vision I'd always had
for myself. Seeing it. Living it. Being it.
And knowing that I can accomplish
The cities. That the breeze of the metropolis
is possible, is realized, is killed and recesitated
over and over.

Everything fits together in the palm of
some imaginary hand. There are girls
to meet, music to create, a poem that
needs the final line.

Here the hardwood floors please me,
falling
Below the oil based artwork clinging to the walls
Below the wilted flowers, singing their song
Below the old battle scarred chest, supporting
the phone splattered with yellow and
blue paint.

Its 6:31 and there's no place like here.
Maybe all things are possible.
Like the sight of first love
The pleasure of romance
The novelty of spinning stars
in the night.

The funny thing is, just four hours ago
I contemplated suicide.

Ha ha ha ha ha.