I grow tall from where I stand now.

Rivers of whiskey, vodka and wine,
thousands of cigarettes.

Still
aching for the Word.

30 years.

And I grow taller.

Hundreds of poems,
awful lot of problems, fights, wrangles,
poverty, starvation, homelessness, lovelessness,
and small flashes of happiness.

Living on three continents,
eager for the Word.

Only 30 years,
still growing.

Emigration,
alienation,
solitude.

Half of my life is gone.
All of my love is ready for donation.

Hundreds of read books,
speaking four languages,
and still…

My fingers are itchy,
my heart hurts,
my soul drifts

for the Word.

The Poetry is my fix.