Old Dogs


all those years
wanting to write
and living the life
I thought necessary
for a writer to live
only then to discover
that once in front
of an empty page
I drew blank
and couldn't
for the strange
and twisted
life of me
figure out

I drowned
my frustrations
in uncountable bars
across this broad country
and in some other lands
cursing my laziness
and railing against
my obvious lack
of literary drive
and talent

that I'm sober
the disillusionment
has nowhere else to go
but down on paper
and if it holds
anything of value
to anyone else
matters little today
in what I see
as therapy
and not
as art

lately though
I wonder
if the life
that abruptly
left me
to be abandoned
simply for the sake
of a few dry
lifeless phrases
which are
most days
poor substitutes
for roaming the earth
and howling unreservedly
at whatever light
might loom
in the
night sky