survival instincts. alive. freelancing.
the nine-to-five can’t promise enough.
the burden only pays for the wood-shingled roof.
come nine p.m. the moonlit macintosh weapons
are exposed as the kids close their eyes.
jumping into camouflage boxers. and sliding
between the office doors like a detective.
no one sees. or hears. but of the shadows. and clicks.
as the late minutes tick. hunting down tomorrows meal.
it’s three a.m. only remembering how to survive.
the glass of merlot triggers the right side
of a brain that just worked eight hours of mundane
repetitious, politically vicious, corporate templates.
free. flow. relax. go. paper. throw. horizon’s glow.
maybe writing to distract. procrastinating. break.
one logo. two. brochure. catalog. tradeshow booth.
it’s not easy. this freelance hunting.
sunrise. knocked out three projects of five.
one hour of billing while mama is yelling
to see what the boys want to eat. choices.
oh choices. coffee. cream. a two-grand invoice.
blood-shot eyes instead of last night’s infra-red.
disgused as half dead. happy. brainless place ahead.
there’s nothing left to do. rushing. pooped.
pick up. left off. put down. right on.