Ambition

I rise at dawn, strange dreams of old lovers in my blood stream, I am surreal for hours. Try to weed whack my way through a few pesky deadlines as they grow and gurgle around my fingers on the keyboard, forever a jungle and never a clearing, see the window of my own imagination closing as the demands of a supposedly real world grow heavier. When at last I shut the lids of the word processors and go out into the New York City afternoon to actually process my words, it looks lighter than before, easier. 

Return to words of my own making, the familiar sting of a bourbon glass in the margins, an entire world drawn up out of nothing, remember again why I came to this little town, why I came to these crooked conclusions, the world will mold and mold you and sometimes you are right to give in, let it change your shape but oh, when it twists your nerves do not relent, do not give up, those nerves bleed poetry the kind that makes you hear your own name the way it was given, makes you certain again without any doubt that your strange and wondrous image came out right after all, came out
just
how it was intended.