Saturday is for focusing
Which is why I’m scattered
The words slipping past
Receptors, though I know them
The distinctiveness of the moment
Eludes my coffee addled veins
But it’s both familiar, and fun
And I feel most free when
I can diagnose the world,
Instead of the old bramble bush
With more branches,
Than for which I have the time
But you meet these other people
Who are simple, Their rest
It comes easy and you wonder
How can they not want more
Or hunger, at least that
Because a poet lives for beauty
Even at the risk of everything
He’s rather tragic,
Though sometimes beautiful
And his ubiquity,
It becomes confused with vanity
It’s a lie though, a farce
Some are just in touch deeply,
Lovers who believe
In tomorrow, or anything
That’s been told them in a dream
So they write about it, I do
Because words are the concrete
To an abstract reality,
The cornerstones that separate
Truth from the void
