I thought for years I could cram inspiration up my nostrils and words would flow out my fingertips.

I believed that I could drink the world and that after I was done the world would still like me.
I went out looking for the drugs that hadn’t left the alphabet yet, the one’s not blessed with names.

And what did it give me?
It gave me the ability to feel nothing but sometimes I can’t control it.
It shook my perceptions around until I saw all ways.
It let me talk to all types of people.
It showed me the folly of fierce individualism.

What makes me full now when I’m running on empty?
A beer here and there and a couple tokes.
Splitting a few rounds of wood each night.
Listening to the shows on NPR I grew up listening to with my father.

I fill my days with a monotony of isolated activities, then get angry and defend my shell.
Nose to the grindstone doesn’t leave much room for nose in the cleavage or behind the line.
Tomorrow is my birthday and I will walk down to the beach, perhaps with a daughter.
I will sit down and I will write and I will listen to the tide and think about however many tomorrows.

My hands smell of cedar and dark beer.
Outside the stars share their immense distant luster with my tiny mind.
My girls sleep peacefully in our room.
Tomorrow I will work more on their beds.
So that I may have mine back.
I feel very unpretentious.
But my hands feel very large.

six months late I find this floating around on my hard drive