I want a working man’s mentality-
to wake every morning
humble in the dark
when the city is still cold and sleeping,
before the hum & tick of machinery.
across the street,
every blade of grass in
the cemetery sprawling
still bows under the weight
of midnight dew
the strip malls sit in hushed anticipation
for the daily clamor of tourists.
When the asphalt in the parking lot lies in
surrender to the sun soon beating.
Then, briskly, in the dawn
I’ll pull on my trousers
and sip my tar black coffee
putting my head down,
to immerse myself fully
in the creation of something
to which i’ll possess no delusions
of its grandeur.
Something so very simple,
because it happens every day.
No questions as to its place or meaning
or if it matters
or if it has any worth
or if I have any worth
or how I might possibly be able to survive
off the fruits these
toiling hours might bear.
I won’t wait any longer for
mysterious forces to arrive—
no magnanimous effort saved for when
the sunlight lingers just right
or when the bees buzz electric ‘round my skull,
or when the wine is just sweet enough,
or when the sirens croon silken songs.
I won’t bend to its whim,
biding my time in some eternal waiting line for my bounty.
I’d rather trade this ‘bedridden bohemian’
kneeling on the mattress, praying for profundity,
for roughhewn daily laborer
striking when the iron is still hot.
In these new digs,
I’ll be unentranced by saccharine luxury
and, instead, I’ll work
until i am numb and weary,
and never more alive.
There is no romance embedded in this way of life,
nothing beyond the swirling supernova of the everyday.
So, as the city sleeps
through fern fronds on the windowsill,
filtering light patterns in spidery shadows on the wall,
I’ll reach out with maddened lysergic eyes
and seize my gift.
just like that.