am I just a gallant buffoon
or a stark raving prancing baboon
shaking my glowing red ass
under the auspice of a harvest moon
without the pride earned by rudolph
nor the purpose with which to lead
except into a tail spin speed
corkscrew map points to the ground
round ‘d’ round ‘d’ round the night
a carousel, a bumblebee in flight
for one passenger though
my bags packed with thoughts
all they might find, in a crash in the dark
compacted into
this little black box
that lies, in abject presentation
and so I will dance, which
for the diminish, succumbs
the coma of night is comfort
the comfort of numb.

sometimes we all act the fool, in jest I must accept not reject this abject part of my humanity… for at best I am my worst and my best is met beyond my expectations my pet, but I bet I do not know anything yet, with four decades under belt I have felt many things and still stumble like a child learning first steps, because there are always more first steps, there is always first steps unless you live life standing still, but then you would be a dummy, both figuratively and literally… or maybe just a man named quinn…