42 years ago today

I first put pen to paper

in earnest to write poems--

a 14-year-old bedroom visionary

who felt some urge

and thought he had something to say

even if he had no idea what it was--

for years--decades--afterward

I scribbled and scribbled

slowly but surely

replacing daily living

with these mounds of blackened paper--

now--with some things said

(and said over and over)

I've run out of different ways of saying

and the daily living I disdained

is all that remains for now--that 

mounds of blackened paper--

blackened with words

few have read and even more had heard

but no difference to me nor that fugitive audience

nor the teetering world at large--

words preserved on the Akasha--if nothing else--

but in their tangible material form

not all that likely to survive whatever cataclysm awaits--

I know none of this for sure--"what endures what perishes"--

I've read Plutarch's History of Horseshit

and though Runyon says the odds are always

six to five against--considering the way of the world

they might as well be even--

so here they are--preserved in some eternity

along with everything else--

for whoever will or will not

receive---

                                Content (c) 2008-2009 Philip Milito.