Poetry

is the blood of the gods

a transfusion

a delightful delusion

that lifts me higher, than the other kites, torn and ripped by the wind.

Poetry

is me, cranking my bicycle at high speeds, going down hills, without fear.

Poetry

is an energy

that the desperate principal cannot shake

despite dealing

negative hands

to me

all day.

I counter, with positive energy

like a one-two punch

and knock him against the ropes

I bluff.

I win.

I rely on my rhymes

like Muhammed Ali.

“Float like a Butterfly, Sting like a Bee.”

He comes for me, and I get him again.

At the end of the day, I am higher than the morning

like a drug addict, high on his own supply.

There are no needles, only my words

speaking to me,

constantly.

The principal is lower than dog shit

I can see it on his face

as he mopes across the parking lot to his car.

Professionals stare at me

with love or hate

because I am so high.

I play golf

and the high school boy

knows my name,

“Mr. Johnson, the course is yours.”

Pink clouds and a smokey sky

are my alchemy.

My ball is struck with new-found energy

My mind tells it where to go

“Go in your hole.”

It obeys.

A red retriever runs up to me, and wants to play.

It knows

I have something.

“Go home,” I say. It obeys.

It’s late

the darkness falls on me, like a curtain, on my performance.

My friend has been trying to reach me.

He surprises me,

on the golf course.

“I’m so lucky we are friends,” I say.

I drive home, listening to My Heart Will Go On, by Celine Dion.

Today, is the same.

Could it be, the days have stayed the same

while I have changed?