one night howling

out in the deep woods

sucking on the booze

clearing my head of the city

the shitty stuff we do to each other

in the sadness of living & wanting

compulsion came to write something

all I could find was a stick

digging into the soft sand

lit in the thin light of the moon

sonnets stanzas slick couplets

dragged in the sand & gloom

feeling good about the dust raised

words carved into the earth

finally falling onto the same dirt

to wake one eyed wondering

what had survived the night

& the glory sight of the stick

still standing right & upright

footsteps everywhere clouding

seems for every one thing I wrote

I’d stamped all over that for the next

to drag in another note to self

& if that ain’t a metaphor

whether for the impermanence of life

the majesty of the poet drunk

mebbe don’t drink & drive stick

transience of the written word

maybe nothing is

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