looky here

i couldn’t make this shit up, i’m telling you
the truth, fiction, stranger, it’s all happening
exactly like you see and hear it
live and in living color, stereophonic sound
complete with clicks and hisses
because nothing can be too perfect
even though we strive for it and wish it
oh to be so, to be real.

granted the picture i’m painting
is unclear at the moment but we will
attempt to leave an impression
that will last, so step back from the
canvas and look at the whole-
stop focusing on the minutiae
don’t lose yourself in details
don’t sweat the small stuff and suddenly
i find myself wanting to quote
diamond dave or squints palledorous
you see we could drop names all day
but the moral of the story is that we
don’t always need transition words or phrases
or clauses (Santa or otherwise), conjunctions
will lead us to where we need to be but
first you have to know the right path to
take, the yellow brick road so to speak
that will lead you to your own oz and
the realization that what you thought
you needed you already possess.

cause oz never did give nothing to the tin man
that he didn’t, didn’t already have and
cause never was the reason for the evening
or the tropic of sir galahad
or the tropic of cancer or capricorn
or henry miller whoring it up under
the roofs of paris, trying to make love
trying to make art, trying to make a living,
but living, living, living
always endeavoring to persevere,
and doing my, your, our best
to see, no to worship beauty-
to hunt it out, to seek it, to notice it
in its sublime occurrences
even when somedays it doesn’t
appear to come at all.

but if you listen closely
in quiet times
you just may be able to detect it
in the inhale and the exhale
and the love for the moments between.