with the little rain drops slicing
like mist on the freeway
I brought the mug to my lips
the heavy green mug
a souvenir from a dream
I tried to build
and might try again later
I don't know yet
but it's heavy and glazed
and I'm proud of it because I tried hard
and a pilot can't blame himself
for getting hijacked by terrorists.
But I needed the coffee to pick up
from where we left off the night before.
We were talking about the arrangement
but passed out early watching a movie with my boys
and the coffee was so damn good this morning
roasted on my iron skillet with my son.
I just dropped it
not the coffee but how much money I wanted to make to write the book
It was agreed to with some timing modification
no back and forth
some monthly, some lump sum
percentage of sales agreements
Just all fair and agreed to.
It was so easy
we are men used to talking about money at this point
we've been around it enough to know
about its utter absurdity
little artistic engravings printed on paper
trying to look all powerful like it has a soul
we talk about fiat currency, how the dollar is doomed
and then turn on a shiny feather-light dime
to talk about sales strategy
without it seeming contradictory.
Doing business leaves a man
unable to shuffle back in to the herd.
You'd rather lick rocks for salt
or entertain yourself with the trees
or eat miner's lettuce for lunch.
We shook hands firmly
typed up an email to have it in writing
talked next steps
and he left.
I was what I always believed I could be
just like that.
After years of reading and striving
and rebellion and poverty
laziness and working way too hard
and dreaming and poetry
love and death and rebirth
and the proper seasoning that comes
from age and taking risks to live a life you won't forget
and losing everything
losing everything is like polishing a stone into a mirror
until the skin on your hands rubs off
and blood smears all over the mirror stone.
I know why there are terrorists.
I know why there aren't more writers.
No comments:
Post a Comment