357/365

desperate for a spark
digging through the ashes
of weatherworn journals.
naive scribbled confessions
of a manchild navigating
a life at the climax of the century.
he was so often overworked and tired
indignant at the man and sloppy in his affairs.
love recklessly traded and transactional-
always looking for a return on careless investment.

youth upon reflection reveals a lonely leak
dripping into an echoing well- when in the moment
it felt so much more like adventure or freedom.

twenty four years from now, what might he unearth?
what might the market value be for
a life time of scratching at mediocrity.
there was a note, in the journal: to read vachel lindsay,
no doubt inspired by some walt whitman reverie-
found some orientalist bullshit and these two crumbs
“every soul is a circus”
“praise with me this masquerade?”
enough to keep us going another decade still.