Every Day

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.

When,

across the street, 

every blade of grass in

the cemetery sprawling 

still bows under the weight 

of midnight dew

and

downtown

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.

No more.

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,

no, 

nothing beyond the swirling supernova of the everyday.

So, as the city sleeps

and 

dawn creeps 

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.

Every day,

just like that.