the same sky

in the rumble cold in conditioned air on summer days as a lost mincing
soul breath staggering half-clenched breath scrap by scrap is how
a creative kid dies not

fucked sweet or
hells ride
bludgeoned expression or
wicked knowing smile or
drunk on visions or
sacrificed for ideals or even
back to the wall but

so engaged to a well of endless days he can
drift on paid somnambulism and aggravate an empire
of brutally indulgent fantasies in the ticks between a
document load

was never a big dreamer after all just
a malfunctioning bad luck spigot trying
to splash past the low enthusiasm
convincing the former dedicated
middle finger thrust to stick around and make good on teenage threats

these were strange weapons back in those struggling years
of unthinking immaculate genius when almost
nothing was understood

this is a theft of years