The school from my childhood is now gone, along with most other places I roamed. On the horizon, though, in this light, and in this time, I can see them quite clearly. I know they’re not really there, but as the tingle in my bones grows, and the ringing in my ears reaches a crescendo, I view not what is real, but what I feel, and what I feel is a wish for things to be how they once were. It’s not that this modern life of mine is a disappointment—although each hangover would argue otherwise—it’s more that the poetry of life is so much harder to find these days. When I was a kid, the magic of the great beyond existed within every breath. Now though, it only makes itself known through drinking or fucking. You have to force it. You have to tease it—to entice it out of the rabbit hole, and even if you do, there’s no telling if it’ll stick around long enough for you to make sense of what you’ll find waiting for you. Yeah, I miss the bliss of my childhood kicks when such poetry was as plentiful as the air in my lungs, for the words were as clear to my blue eyes as the warm, toothy smile of the sun. Biting my tongue as Meeko thumbs the crown of my cock, I hold my arms up to the town as it sprawls before me—real and imagined. I’m the lowest of the low. A bum writer read by no one, and yet I’m the king of me, and that’s all I’ve ever wished to be.