wishing i was a beatnik.

i am a deranged thing.
fantasies and embellishments,
hallucinogen-frenzied wanderer.

up all night counting threads on the blanket
naming each one after a lover long-gone.

i, too, live for madness.

i studied the silouhette
of a man who took himself too seriously
and i weighed his humility
with how wide he smiled back.

it was rare and beautiful.

cheap whiskey shots
and hitched rides from sullen strangers
on new england back roads in the hot of summer,

i think that i am also a hungered bum
in search of something stellar and miraculous
underneath the dirt of this
whim-weary world.

i find myself lost in the lust
of the unplanned,
clinging to the
rawness of the insecure nude,
the angered, stifled fists,
and the straying eyes
of the adulterous.

i fear i will never be tame.

i want to know the blood inside
of every man,
read the words of every philosopher,
in the books or on the streets,
to guide back home every lost child
with accompanying directions
for losing his way again,

and perhaps most importantly,
i want to never lose the drive
to be wild

and unashamed.

because when i find myself apologizing
for ravenous, committed sins

i fear that i most certaintly
will have lived too long.