I catch the girls

stealing looks,

in their hiked-up jean shorts.

They won’t last


and they won’t stare at me

unless I have the perfect body.


doesn’t care about itself

It only wants to make more

of itself—

that anonymous thunder

and flash of genius

on the interstate

where the cars pile-up

in single file lines, like coffins of steel

in the rain.

My body doesn’t obey me, at 35

what will it do, at 72


It’s hot

the girls get younger.


if I can put my life in order

I can understand it, but

a life equation, is not what I want

it need only be

a symphony—

magical music, among the droning hum

of dump-trucks and traffic.

The feeling

of being

above it,

like a small plane, above a big city

doing acrobatics

wearing a starched polo shirt, with the perfect golf swing

and sunglasses,


that I am writing thoughts

that will give birth

to the next American Novel.

Men at work, exist


with nothing to focus on

but the end of the day

in pursuit

of what they don’t want

their dreams

above the clouds

dirt, is where they belong

where they go, when they die


only for a moment, are they young


to touch the sky.

The fat man

I have known

since I was five

waters his yellow daffodils

on his green lawn.

Is this, the good life?

Nobody admits, they quit

but the day they decide, is the day they remember…

“What was the best day of your life?” 

“Freshman year in high school—when I placed fourth in the State golf tournament,” my friend said.

“That was 20 years ago.”

“It was a good day.”

“You mean to say, all this time, you haven’t had a day like that?”


So, I challenge you

to live each day, like it will be your best day

or don’t.

When I am close to breathing my last

I will hold my breath

to break the record

I set

when I was young.


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