A blogger;
a busted soul,
a simple tune, a window to the spring air,
a blogger sits with his head in his hands and a tries to remember...remember when days were long and the sky was blue,
a blogger; gets his
ideas from a vision or a dream or the sound of the buses' brakes popping
and squealing,
a blogger lies in bed awake, falls asleep at his desk,
a blogger; a type of poet, essayist, lyricist, a sad song, a hearty laugh,
A blogger, a mangy dog in an alley, a king with pomp and power, a tidal wave, an earthquake,
a punch to the face, a bloody car accident,
a blogger sits with his head in his hands and tries to remember...
remember when the water was clean and the streets were safe,
a blogger waits for days for the prison cell to open,
a blogger; smooth jazz, a cold beer, a sleeping baby,
a blogger wakes, types, writes and molds words into meaning,
a blogger...
a hack?
no...
a grinder,
a "Larry Robinson" grinder,
a defenceman,
a back-up guitarist,
a midnight busker,
singing a song for busted souls.
2 comments:
Many days before I open the door to my big brick institution I say a little mantra: "I gotta grind this out".
Rhythm of the heart, HP! Sings like a beat poem. Nice post. I like where it takes you. From painful but intersting places to the nobility of being a "grinder," a back-up guitar player. Maybe they're not stars, but they're good enough, smart enough to finding meaning on that existential rink of life.
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