What should I do now that I’m addicted
to moments of clarity?

I know a guy who became a songwriter.
There’s a poison to pick.

A songwriter can strum listless all night,
almost saying something.

He can vamp satisfied before seven angels
and a full bottle on the house.

Each of his calloused fingers plucks a climax
out of a string it sets to shivering.

Ain’t got much use for a god I can’t swear at.

When angels giggle, their halos bobble
like loose lids over boiling broth.

If I can’t take his name in vain,
he can’t take away my pain.

When the giggling stops, their pain oozes golden
out of the glimmering corners of grins.

Won’t forget, will regret what I did
for obedience.

He’ll spend half a night tuning a tuned guitar,
leaving the bottle full,
sipping his clarity.

The truth is he’s riffing on other people’s
songs, savoring their somethings.

Anyhow, the tired angels come for the mood,
not the message.

His sold out club is empty if you only tally
critics. Just the doters show.

Maybe, I’m six months of guitar lessons away
from being as loved as that guy.

Seeing as how I’m addicted to moments of clarity,
what else should I do?

Become a prophet?


Poet’s Notes:

Comments on the above poem are welcome. And if a pub with live music is not your scene, as I suspect for many readers it’s not, perhaps you’d like to visit the beach: Florida in Deep Winter.

The featured image is from Pexels on Pixabay.