Ah, success so saccharine!
Here I shake in the corner
sand off the sides of my hourglass,
remembering those grains spent
carrying leaky buckets for gold
while hungry mariachis dodge pelted fruit.
Lying on a park bench, eyes clenched
afraid of the spotlight, afraid it misses me,
here on this bold tarmac where I’ve tossed my dice.
What if there is nothing more than empty boxes,
these presents I’ve laid at your feet,
my gumdrops of suffering and blood?
my gumdrops of suffering and blood?
If I respin this roulette wheel,
with my chips on odd instead of uneven,
tell me how it would be for me
to pledge to art’s uncertainty.
Might I have profited more to revel
in the scent of every petal?
Or rather should my sand be spent
on gold-encrusted electronic gizmos,
ceiling-to-floor plasma-screens,
Versace Barocco pet bowls,
diamond-studded fish hooks,
and a never-driven Lamborghini?
No, I’m keeping my chips on the table
betting my life grain by grain,
knowing every moment I toil
passionate, committed, self-aware
exceeds the assurances of myth peddlers
and their close embrace of bucking finality.
I’d rather have dreams and uncertainty
than the certainty of lost possibilities,
letting fear of gatekeepers cripple my strokes
of pens, picks, brushes, sticks, and the very spit of my breath,
as I sing the song resonating in my core.
It defines the currents of my life, who I am.
OK. Perhaps the fruit I harvest is not as sweet
but it’s mine
and at least I can taste it.