tonite, i am the letter
that was never written, the baleful boy
never smitten, the tree weeping
for the conundrum
of a trapped kitten.
tonite, i am the song
that was never recorded, the ranch house
that could not be afforded, the new year's resolution
that had to be
quietly aborted.
tonite, i am the poem of manhood
the ooze of tattoos and whiskey,
feeling both vulnerable and frisky.
tonite, i am the poem of womanhood
the flow of mixing bowls and chardonnay,
feeling both despondent and gay.
tonite, i am the boundless metropolis
where taxis mingle with common cars,
where churches throw their darts at bars,
where you can only fantasize
about seeing any stars.
tonite, i am the endless countryside
where cows and tractors tolerate each other,
where the soil is no longer a mother,
where jobless farmers
don't have any fresh rain
that could smother.
tonite, i am the spirit of whitman
checking out the curve of my ass
astride a bicycle seat, charming
with that everyday verse
that can't be beat.
tonite, i am the flesh of neruda
finding, in exile, the meaning of words
that yesterday meant little, beguiling
with those heavenly sonnets
that like to pose a riddle.
tonite, i am the heart of the moon
throbbing with a zero gravity
walk, not caring if houston
might balk.
tonite, i am the blooming daffodil
shining like an invisible
hero, not seeking revenge
for ground zero.
what i am, tonite
is everything and nothing
with maybe a bit of something
crunched into crevasses
in between.
what i am, tonite,
is neither fat nor lean
neither pleasant nor mean
not experienced nor green
not spry like a jumping bean
nor sinister like a bad gene.
what i am, tonite
is, quite simply,
a whole new scene.
