By Douglas John Imbrogno
I am a devoted householder & secret reprobate. I am an insomniac & daring dreamer. I am eternal & dying as we speak. I am a teller of truths & serial liar, too. I am handsome & as ugly as spoiled fruit. I am a poet & a loser. I have been a saint & demon, too, stalking moonless roads. I am in love with you & in love with me. Also, I hate myself. I am a possible monk & an utter failure. I am hysterical & Just as often sublime. I am full of shite, as the Irish like to say, & know also where the Muses hang. I have not succeeded at Life, & Life, that bastard, has not succeeded at me — hence, a Truce. I do not believe in God although I think She believes in Me. I nearly died once, no, thrice, by my own hand. Now, that hand makes a mean bowl of penne pasta. I am OK, then weeping like a fool. Gnashing my yellow teeth. I am stuporous, then awake, & one with the moon rising above the deer-strewn hills. I am your friend, though sometimes I am not my friend. I hear the music of the spheres & the 7 a.m. arrival of the city garbage truck, chewing all my trash & muck, taking it away & out of sight
Douglas John Imbrogno is a writer, editor, wayward web publisher, weekend singer-songwriter, and cat-herder, who strolls & scrolls the hills and vales of West Virginia and beyond, in search of places where he can view the wind.
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