Orchids wilt in the Amazon

and anacondas swallow crocodiles

There’s a spot on my lung

and I can’t live-up to fame.

The peak of my success, was yesterday

and the publishers/editors

don’t believe in me

My heart is fluttering

Nobody lives forever.

I peer over the windowsill

at the wounded lion, that doesn’t have a chance

The news

never knows

a headline—

a stray cat, hit by a car

dragging himself to his next meal

waiting, patiently

to kill

shot with a bee-bee-gun

bitten

on the ear

kicked

My inspiration.

He stares at me, while I stare at this computer

writing about him.

If we don’t have problems,

we won’t

know what to solve.

The torment that never go away, is an eternal

delight

the enemies in my life, give me someone to fight

the wife that constantly nags

is, the drip…drip

of slow insanity.

The next time someone accuses me of being crazy

I will say, “Why not?”

I try and I try and I try

What else can I do?

There are not many men, competing at 92

or writing great novels

at 100

Why not?

Because their best years are behind them, or so they say

Nobody knows, until I’m dead

and I’m going to out-live them all

I’m going to write a better novel than Cervantes

I don’t want a pain-free life

My cat’s body is broken

while his eyes flame with fire.