I am a bit of a mess. I am a recovering addict and alcoholic; my penchant for all manor of vice has never been a very well kept secret. I have never had the audacity to call myself a writer. I simply write. My ambition to sell verse is not what many would call ardent. Though the idea of strangers reading my stuff appeals to me like four fingers of Glenlivet 25. There's plenty I could say about myself other than just a drive to write bad free verse poetry, but we're not at my therapists, now are we?
The widest valley could be filled
with whats between us.
I lied.
You lied better.
...
I never see my son.
His mother had him since 3
I had my own problems.
Still do.
...
Idiocy out for a stroll
Me benched, amazed at his gait.
I get up and go his way.
Sudden urges creep in and make their home in me.
...
I remember when I was three.
Can you?
For me it's easy.
My parents stopped being mommy and daddy that year.
...
God was alone in a room with the universe at his feet.
He would receive no callers that day.
...