turning out

always thought that I 
would be a writer with hair in his eyes
so that I couldn't be read while I was reading
and that a girl, any, could always fascinate me
but I stare across the campus brick ways and see one
that should never see another writer
with hearts that will never fully 
not be
alone, angry, and contractible
always never thought that I would chance
a cigarette
thought that they, my hands, would surely burn
like the shriveled weathered ones of my mother
cursed with more than two addictions
-or alcohol
a word that carries many meanings like the word "kiss" seems to
be capable of doing
that if I were to empty a bottle to my stomach
I would surely learn to mistake a stairwell
for a sliding board
and an automobile 
for a game to play while dreaming roulette

once while I was growing I was taught
to play a piano, as well as the restless can
and I knew to leave the practice 
before I was caught in the middle of my life
swaying before the untuned drunken Fake Books
and teaching children to loath the black and white keys

once I heard the word "soulmate"
and never believed
but later was swayed by a woman about 
the creativity in correct timing
and swallowed the latter instead

it by myself is always time to let
things be the way they will and sometimes
take change off guard for hearing Tom Waits
die at his piano
or find a new road to let my little honda fall 
apart upon for at least fifty miles of forgetting
or learning the healing agent in asphalt
and 
enjoying
the other capabilities of a writer's heart