Deep inside there is cleverness abound,
never calculating, never plotting, NEVER quiet
overtly obvious to all who care;
no one….
creativity spurred by adrenaline, nature, song
endorphins a necessity,
all that my pores soak up
once recreated with expensive red wine;
waiting for the brilliance to bubble to the top,
the inner voice
tugged me back to my seat
again and again,
and when I sipped, I slugged thirstily,
and when life entered,
I was too big to handle.
I still miss me,
but you could not live there in that place
the residence of the artist “upstairs”
that which must imbibe in absoluteness
to make the wheels spin slower,
quieter, more like you
I miss the artist galloping
on horseback
traversing the prairies, jungles, stretches of green,
faster than you can say
“Crazy Lisa”