This state is in a state of identity crisis.
I'm dreaming of death,
A kiss from the wife of Osiris.
She is the familiar light at 6 a.m. in Jersey
When everyone's still in a hurry to leave.
Just talk it over with yourself
Over some terminal food
Dying from preservatives,
Preserving what was,
What won't
What would be
Traveling alone in this part of the fields
I feel the sun has had enough.
Enough with the light,
Its petals will wither
Its roots will run dry
Much quicker than I meant it to be.
Leave it all there as carved notes in a tree.
Let it take in the meaning
And fall out with the leaves.
Now that all has been cleared,
I can see New York from here...
This is the closest to Montauk that I'll ever be.
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Perhaps I'm left to coming around uncalled by anyone
to leave my little comments and go on my way.
I wish I didn't feel like I was done
like a camel's back can never be fixed
like a simile can never be altered
like a smile more unique can never be found
like giving up doesn't count as failure, as being lost, oh so lost
in a windless sea I considered better
amidst what turned out was another squall in a life of few storms.
Maybe it's fulfilling the cliche
idealist stumbling under the weight of reality
and with all hope seemingly lost,
there's a light from afar approaching.
Like a yellow umbrella rolling down a windswept street toward me
the soaked poet complainig to the rainy sky 'woe is me'.
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