Missing the wildness of my former self
I degenerate into words. Waiting, between
sentences, waiting for the muse to catch up
I fulminate, flash like lightning, explode so
violently that I catch myself thinking this
is an all an act to compensate for that time
my friend climbed that tree before disappearing
to japan for all eternity. I wish Haiku was true
that an apple blossomed, flash of inspiration 
can cancel out all the impure repetitiveness
of so-much empty rhetoric — and the worst of it is,
too often those who claim the mantle of artist-poet
so easily forget that every human life is precious,
and that even those whose opinions we despise
can open-up our eyes to our own holy imperfections,
that make us love all that is passing, frail and broken.