Muses on the Fly

this is commentary. i comment
with pristine phases on the inadequacy
of experience. low lights and ceilings
debugging the dreams of late...
i dream of racing through mud puddles on dope
and winning by shear will and malice
and of slamming doors
and breaking glass on my father as i ought to
because he has no right to be here
and of old loves refusing to help me carry boxes
heavy and slippery
even though they work there
and I'm spending a fortune.
i spend
hours alone with myself
my thoughts as company and wondering
what next steps to take for myself
if they want me
to bring about creative ways of posing myself in positions
of responsibility.

but who an i to say that it is inadequate
and who am i to say these are even my dreams
and if they are not - then they are just
nighttime tv with no breaks or sponsorship
and i should be judging myself by my actions
so much more than the outcome
because the outcome is really never mine to see.

don't rush me. my throat is sore. and i can't see without my glasses.