Poetry of the Premature

The underbelly of rock and roll is crusted with diamonds, sin and coke residue that rolls off yesterday’s bad decisions like death on a sunny day.   Your whole life, a gross afterthought you wipe off on your jeans before paying the bill and getting out.   The future of a hedonistic life is uncertain and yet most people fill the gaps of their directionless life with only glimpses of it.

I don’t know where I’m going.

But if I’d asked myself this question two weeks ago, the answer would have been, “I don’t know, I’m not sure…I’m just..working…”

Trailing thoughts, and yet now there is a definite pause, a way to step back away from it all moving quickly in one direction for no particular reason at all.

Breaking ties with the working world is just being on the fringes of it.  Because our world defines itself as a working bunch.

Welcome to New York City.

Not feeling obligated?  Fine, says the world, then you’ll have no identity.  If you can’t accomplish things on your own and can’t enable others to accomplish them on your behalf…what good are you? Your just one solid notch away from the closest food line.

and yet the voice inside you persists


despite all the garbage, you suspect American work ethic was a lie created to distract people, while the others go storming up the mountain, loudly gossiping like hyenas in moonlight



give me the possibility to ponder possibilities,

time to face the poetry of probability, the prose of prematurely promising nothing to anybody,

leave me for at peace, rowdy world

tell the herd, I’ll see them soon


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