Chinese Zen Poem 2
Not Elvis, but sometimes, a pretty decent Elvis impersonator.
Not one to climb Everest, but instead, a man scraping the bottom so he can more easily dream of---and then contemplate upon---the glories of standing at such heights.
Fifty years old and here I am, living in a musty camper---ferrel beard creeping towards the filth of the earth.
Just about every day, crows at the trash cans sing songs about me and laugh.
The falling snow is mostly silent, covering up so many ugly scars.
how deeply I feel it,
the warmth
of my old hotplate
