For years,
Like a recurring dream,
I’d find myself drunk in a New York City bar,
wishing I’d stayed home,
to build something,
no one would pay for,
in silence.
Even today,
I think of giving it all up,
to drift free in a low rent wilderness,
Where the best women won’t have sex.
These pangs visit at night,
But I still wake up and grind,
for a small piece,
of all the disassembled empires,
chaos has handed down,
since many lines before my Grandfather.
I am running after,
a dying lady,
in a dirty dress.
Friends and enemies,
on either side of me,
nourished by applause.
What does it mean to be a man?
Men arrive when the fleeting longings of their nights,
grow big enough,
to fill their days.