jack

i'm no kerouac. i'm not an open road. my life's work isn't painted in
a gaudy yellow line, slapping the asphalt like a time devouring
river. i don't own a nikon or black loafers. i don't hop boxcars, or
sleep under stars so pristine they make God himself smile at his own
work.

i have no cool lurking in the corners, giving mystery or pain to
strange women. there's no red rush of neon or cheap wine pissing in
the wind, crawling home to rape the sunrise.

i don't have a mouth angels could fall into, my tongue and lips rarely
betray the tangled beast of my mind. my words do not tumble in a
torrent, like a cacophony of noise and empty thought.

i'm simply a man of stone, with hazel eyes and a seeking soul.

ghost