I think I’m literally starting to get it.

I could say

I’m hunched

though

I’m seated kind of

lazily – leg on couch

neck bent, ankle

sprain elevated

on green and white pillowcase –

typing

methodically

with a headache

from late payments

unpaid bills

and paranoia,

that could all sound

so sweet, so elegant

like the sound of a typing machine,

if only I was still a romantic

perhaps

I’d use big words to describe my feelings

but

for today

the clouds literally fill the sky,

there’s no check in the mail,

and I’ve got more work to do

at the finish

of this

poem.

Kings will be Kings no matter the King.

It’s ironic, really.

The way I wanted to do it,
wasn’t the way to do it,
until it was the way to do it.

And by that time,
I was already checked out.
My psyche in jump cuts like Breathless.

Plugging away in the same…old…fashion,
as those before me.
My movements were those of a machine.

Until it was the way to do it.
That which once wasn’t the way to do it.
The way that I’d wanted to do it in the first place.

If you’re confused.
That’s good.
Because I was too.

When it occurred to me one day.
The irony.
How kings will be kings no matter the king.

Lucky for me,
I knew this.
I also knew this.

You can dress the kid in the rags of a jester, but don’t expect his tricks to be any good!