Life always consists of

things which consist of

songs which ring wildly of

you and me, and true; of


lives which would and could have been of

wives and husbands of

husbands and wives, who would of


got us both – mebbe! – wise in time, and of

rhyme you know; and of


all these people and places and spaces of

seen and done, imagine just one could of

been the one that made it all right, of

goddamn course, and coarse …



* Thing is, right now, just this afternoon,

just this minute,

I try to disentangle myself, and I begin

to wonder how in fact it may never happen.


Perhaps the good stuff I am able to do,

outside others’ reach, isn’t

quite good enough, actually, to justify the breach.


There is that: I am just one person

amongst billions, on a planet

amongst billions more.


What right should I reserve for myself to do

what is grand and fab for my art and writing,

if my writing and art ain’t really all that good?


Is it right that I might

disrupt the settled life of wife

and offspring – just so I, as they might say

selfishly I do, can have the time of my life?


Does anyone have that right?


Anyone … ever?

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