Must be

might not have the grace        
or the push-pull-perfect placement of weight        
of a poet        
but        
sure as shit have the makeup        
the substance        
the story, somewhere        
in these meaty bones        
       
tag me lotus eater        
cliche edge rider        
narcissistic low self esteem        
cocky extremist        
only the likes of I could divert regret        
into less than latex thin balloons        
of triumph        
       
have hurt more than one woman        
after raising them to pedestal        
on Kimberlite mined flattery        
love        
fear        
respect        
the arabesque opening        
with the fervor of a templar        
and by the androgynous backside of baphomet        
there must be a poem here        
between these weeds that conjure more morning dew        
than moonshine        
       
euthanized by ethanol           
there must be a correct angle        
to view this singed carbon        
and see gold        
because I sense its conductivity        
       
and        
despite        
the aged ego        
of thinking I know whatfor        
there is still humbled levitation in babble        
sincerity in travel, when vowels run together        
art must exist        
somewhere in these ripples        
somewhere between        
childs play        
and master craft        
where the over proud        
defend the light in pocket        
or academy        
with duct tape patched smart bombs      
or the primate ballet        
of right hook        
is a bit of Matisse        
to accompany my Rocky Balboa        
along the red carpet        
where fame is formed        
by callous        
as much as genius