is it where i left it?

i got pissed off

a year or so ago

when i saw a friend,

and a good friend at that,

had posted something on his wall

that he was going to

"pick the pen back up"

phrases like that make me wretch

like the last throws

of a wicked hangover

and it's all over but the dry heaves...

i don't know how long it's been

since i last scribbled some verse,

declared it excellent

beyond improvement of any kind,

and went on with my life...

if i could write true poetry

which is just as unknowable 

as true magic.

my fingers would never rest

from the tap dance they do on the keyboard

nor would there be a reserve of ink 

in any of these pens

scattered about the desk...

but all i have is drunken inspiration

and i'm at that point

when too many things 

suck the marrow from its bones

before it can be translated

to something an imbecile could pass as "art"...

i am neither placated nor hungry. 

i am simply caught up 

in the goings on of everyday...