The pen may falter, though my imagination does not.
I am grateful for the gifts flowing freely from the universe after
I emerged from the sparkling fog of San Francisco.
Sharing space with Beat Generation poets; prevailing
dissidents of City Lights Bookstore and
the old cracked staircase told me,
I’m capable among faults and flaws; they are all a mark in the notebook, a note in the song, whilst
holding onto reason and
wavering into rhyme.
This time is no time,
for time is not the essence; the essence is infinite.
I stand still in motion toward manifestation of dreams, and
someone told me; the artist is not the talented, but the brave,
the un-accepting of society.
The pen still falters, even as do I.
So sparkling fog we go,
San Francisco spirit ramblings, onward to and fro.