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
a stray cat, hit by a car
dragging himself to his next meal
shot with a bee-bee-gun
on the ear
He stares at me, while I stare at this computer
writing about him.
If we don’t have problems,
know what to solve.
The torment that never go away, is an eternal
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
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.