the stitch of a crick leaves more felled to the back

The more I come back, err, the more that comes out seems to be bringing some of my floated poetry back into motion. So many years, so many poems scribed on dinner and cocktail napkins--a friend of mine had so many, collecting them behind a bar we were working behind. There were men, sure, they got them that I fancied, thinking myself more of a poetress seductress than I probably really ever was. One person who I've lost touch with over the years--I wonder if he's still around as we are all getting to the age when friends die of things that people die of, fuck this, this is a novelty thing that seems to happen to a select few. I think sometimes to move forward you have to un-stick yourself from the cement of broken dreams and things that just passed you by--things you may have actively watched, or maybe there were horses you wish you rode in on--though I realize my metaphor might be used for like a tangle concrete thing like a man. or maybe...maybe opportunities that flew freely by why you stood idly by and watched. I have realized I got to a point of literally giving ...