portrait of the artist as an old man.

happy birthday to me.
seriously.
the magic minutes have all mounded up in a pile,
and now this is happening:

ugh.
someone turned on the lights.
thirty-five years in a row.
grizzled, beaten, bruised, busted, and weathered.
put it together and what do you get?
i'm ripe, ninjas.
...with age, not for the picking.
bearing neither fruit nor bouquet.
i'm seasoned.
like firewood, which is to say: dry.
fully-cured. but still sick, somehow.
matured?
fermented?
...yeah.
that's it.
bubbling trouble and sour about the dough, yo.
for really real.
a little self-aggrandizing for the perpetually
self-deprecating duder.
hard styles and hard times,
and happy candle-blowing business, b!tches.
it's all really happening.
am i scared, am i pushed, am i worried?
another day,
another year,
so what's the hurry?
*
everybody called and well-wished for birthday-candled cakeworks.
a few folks sent some sweet hook-ups and fresh action-packed packages, too..
a star wars apron? holly made it happen.
and my wifey, as usual, brought the noise.
a new camera?
yep.
a new stereo system?
c'mon.
now if only i looked or sounded half as good
as all this super-high definition dopeness i've got.
i will not be doo-dooing anything much justice.
i mean,
sure,
i doo-doo that creaky, squeaky, freaky sh!t,
but only because i'm old.
and i feel it, neighbors.
thirty-five yeeeeears.
the time is ticking and tocking along,
and still life keeps clack-a-lackin' away.
away, ninjas.
that's where it's going.
not up or down or even laterally along any known axis;
just away.
and we've got a ways to go before it's over.
there will be more of this.
that's something to look forward to.
happy.
birthday.
maybe even at the same time;
never quiet, never soft.....