by twenty-five
I had acquired
more brass
than Yankee Stadium
traveling extensively
I lived
predominately
in the asshole of the world
seriously
armed with
slick threads
polished haircuts
five-mile cologne
cognac snifters
weak-minded players
white lines
brainless women with impeccable toenails
and
a
fat
wallet
constantly sporting
a gold chain mentality
that I defended
with the virtuosity
of a concert pianist
yes – the lonely miles . . .
the harrowing psychic terrain
all nothing, really
compared to
the terrifying excursion
back
to
earth