Up all night man
Firing off brain cells
Like they're in a shooting gallery
Shooting stars
Off the paper
Sometimes,
I think, if only,
I had Jack Kerouac's cat
Curled around my feet
And his hat
cocked low over my brow
I too could write
Angel-headed love poems
To the stars
But my feet are cold and dusty
And I only have words
They fall like stars
from lotus footed cat paws.
(c) 2010