Nearly 20 years ago (don't read this)

If I were any sort of writer at all,

 Mais hélas, les bon mots n’arrive pas.

despite all the whizz-bang-pow energy,

 all the double optimism burgers with a side of naïve angst,

and stale cigarettes the morning after,

the arguing fine points of the worthiness of poems late into the night

and the love, man don’t forget the love

I have to let it go

Trade-show expense account drunk, sitting on the floor of a non-smoking room in the New Orleans Marriot, blowing the remains of a Camel into the air-conditioning return

(there may have been a crossroads involved).

and I arrived here

 I will reflect on the King-Hell bad craziness of the storms, natural and of my/our own making.

 I will run through the streets of Evangeline and shoot big rockets into the night.

I will wake up in the morning and swim in my orange goggles.

I am fighting strip-malls and real estate rapists
I want to see cow-pies in the grass

Vision

I sleep well at night
I have a chance to keep the consuming cul-de-sac at bay

This is why.