Sweet Freedom
Tonight, writing outdoors, for the first time in eons,
Drinking in this April evening's seventy-seven degrees
Blended with glasses of Louis Jadot Beaujolais-Villages,
Witnessing my Bic pen hover above a notebook page,
As if disconnected from my fingers' divining-rod tines,
Before homing in on blue-ruled lines,
I revel in my complete unaccountability, my sweet freedom,
The elusive realization that no matter what I compose,
The world will be right, with me,
That I'll go to bed knowing I owe nothing to anyone
And that the only thing anyone owes me
Is the decency of letting me retire to my privacy,
Not with my attaché's strap slung over my shoulder
And ladies, of anonymity's choosing, on each arm
But with fool's gold flowing in sleep's Truckee streams,
Begging me to prospect for dreams —
Nuggets I'll find stuffed in my pocket,
Come sunrise, when I'll gather up my years' gear,
Translate what I scribbled on tonight's notebook pages,
To help me make sense of my independence,
Advance the epic poetic history of my life yet to unfold,
And set off again, with another soul-sieve full of hope
That tomorrow will arrive before today,
Yesterday after tomorrow, and tonight every night.
04/22/09 - (1)
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