So good to be me — Woke up… not dead… good start. Starbucks kid drops my drink… not dead… who cares. Car idiot cuts me off… gives me a flying bird… not dead…. throw him a kiss. Eat out… lousy meal… not dead… at least the wine was good. Dog smiles… pukes on carpet… not dead… could be worse- the other end. Workout… crack, pop, creak… not dead, just old. The mean, the petty, the miserable… not me, not today, and you won’t ruin…

Some old guys never do understand the difference — Spent most of my life more afraid of love than I was of dying. I understood dying… didn’t have a damn clue about love. Love was like religion, preached by the many, understood by the few, a language I struggled to learn… I knew the words but the meaning eluded me. I grew up…

The lost art of truly being alive — Life is too short to drink cheap beer, and I will spit on your shoes if you mention cheap wine. Your life is a fleeting snowflake, smashing against a warm windshield, there you are, blowing through the sky on the ride of your life, then just another damp spot scraped off…

Run! Run away! Nothing you ever do will be enough — Your unhappiness is your life, your only life, your dress shirt of despair you wear with pride. Your misery is the only thing that makes you happy and sharing this misery with the ones you love makes you the happiness person alive. And how dare anyone around you sigh life is good, this moment pure happiness, this slice of their life perfect. No! No you scream, I will…

My youth ran away like a Saturday night car jacker — First my youth ran away faster than a Saturday night car jacker. Then my middle age, middle years, round middle and middling thoughts soon followed, skipping down the road like nuns on a holiday. Finally, Old showed up at my door, embrace me she said, I am all you have left. Old…

Seeking the lessons of the writers we admire — If you want to write better poetry, then you need to first understand how to read the better poets. You moan, “Oh no, I tried to read some of her stuff, but I just didn’t connect with her writing.” …

Poets of the late night exist to let us feel again — “A poet’s work … to name the unnamable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world and stop it from going to sleep.” — Salman Rushdie Late last night I sat at my desk, staring at blank pages refusing to be filled, wondering why I am…

There will be a last dance for us my love I whisper — Your mind calls you. Dance, dance, dance your life away. You take a hand, the soft touch of forever beautiful. Your mind will have it no other way. Never alone in your dance of dreams, always two, always love, always forever, swaying hand in hand. …

Dying doesn’t scare me, it’s the thought no one knew I was here — Dying doesn’t scare me, it’s the thought no one ever knew I was here. Wrong, so wrong when you are young. You bed all the women believing that is what makes you a man, drink booze as if you were the only drunk alive, chase the money, the money and more money, and no one ever knew you were there……