Old and in a way
supermen, in a way
lint, the artists
who came before
are never comfortable
among their younger
comrades. Something
revolutionary stuck to them
like a tobacco stain,
a badge that pins them to their time
and it’s not now,
more’s the pity.  They’re
all romancing their own youth
and it’s not coming around
anymore, so they grouch
and slouch and grumble
because no one talks to them
when they’re like that, and they’re
always like that.  So
they go home alone and say
I could do better, and sometimes
they do but it’s lint like them,
picked off because it makes
the new kids’ wardrobe look pilled
and shabby, or they get pointed at
like supermen up in the sky far above
when all they want
is grounding and for some of these punks
to say come on, let’s have a beer
and talk, I like what you’re doing now
and I don’t want to dwell where you do
now, but they aren’t ready
for that.  Instead they claim
superiority
and say
damn these kids these days,
we aren’t lint or heroes, just wanna be
honored for journeyman work
right now, fuck the damn pedestals
and the dismissals alike, we’re still
just another sack of artists
doing what artists do, failing as often
as we succeed but not caring as long
as we can work human.

Which means
separating want
from need.  Defining
each, knowing
how to crawl into
the skin of desire
and burst free, how to
swallow need and make it
naturally yours and not
a duty to be resented.

It means
not spending
your limited allotment of grief
on foreseeable losses,
saving it for those that take you
unsuspecting,
allowing it the time it needs,
not wallowing because
you’ve felt it often enough now
to know its strength,
and it can only hold you
if you submit.

It means
less time ahead
than behind, agreeing
to that equation because
there is no other answer, and
not searching for a new math;
there’s no call anymore for hexadecimal spells
or binary hokum to convince yourself otherwise.

It means
another’s love is no gift
to be expected
on a given occasion,
but a perpetual astonishment,
a welcome proof of chaos theory.

Fifty ahead,
like a six-point buck
in a two-lane mountain road:

not at all unusual,
potentially deadly,
formidable from any angle.
A blessing to see if you can swerve,
and if he does not immediately
vanish into the dark wood.

You’re some kind of closet,
aren’t you?  Full of
things I saw myself in,
once.

I loved this, wore that
for fashion’s sake,
found that comfortable,
never really liked that
but wore it for another.

In the door,
the sound of age.
On the floor,
dust and silly notions.
On the walls, old newsprint, pictures
and chipped paint.
A rack groaning
with outlived garments…

nothing fits, nothing
worth saving, but if I give it away
who will I see when I look into you?

It matters to some
that they fly.

it matters not at all
to me anymore.

I can still raise a wind below me
and rise now and then…
but long flights
are for others.

I watch them from the ground.
I think of my own migrations,
am glad of the memories…

glad to be on the hard earth
thinking of rest.  It’s time
to let my wings fall to my sides.
It’s time.

I’m almost old enough
to know the difference
between feeling my age
and acting it,

speaking freely
and not knowing what to say,
breathing easy and taking time
to breathe when things get rough.

A song on the radio
still can tell me what I need to hear right now,
though I may no longer know the name
of every band and half of them

sound like something I’ve heard before;
but the beat still bounces me
and I’m still a sucker for the right
sharp lead in the right place.

But when it comes down to it,
who cares who’s playing?  Some knowledge
is unimportant, and I’ve learned
a lot of that kind of thing

at the expense of a lot of other things.
I’m old enough to know
I’ve missed out on a lot,
still young enough to hope for more —

more chances to learn,
more time to stop caring so much
for the scope of loss.  More time
to be glad I’m stupid enough

to be perpetually surprised
by something old in a new wrapper,
more time to say
I’m a foolish man, and glad of that.

So break out a new song,
let me stumble through the steps
of a dance I should know by now…
I’m old enough not to care,

young enough to believe
I’m still young enough to make it work,
old enough to know
that the end is always sure, 

young enough to forget long enough to try anyway.