retired bohemian

poets
tapping out safe little sets of words
that give rise
to the lukewarm emotions
of
the contented
the complacent
the habitually afraid

the ideas are safe
the words are safely placed
an attempt to polish
and
nothing is left
of raw nerves
exposed
to uncertain currents
welcoming death
or
electric
upheaval
and
tonight
i'm sick
sour

still drying from walking thru a storm of high winds
hissing rain
lightning dancing about me

bitter over blood i shed in order to turn to ink

thinking
maybe
it was all
only
for a nation of cowards
that no longer has any patience or taste
for outlaws
who make their lot a whole lot more

i'm a retired bohemian
who breathed in too much
and still hasn't had enough