i imagine it, but don’t do it. my girls keep me here. my job. my love of this life and these people and this city. my desire to write one more poem with a title much to long to be read by the populous. my fear of ever growing out of obscurity into a lime-light i know my pale-skin cannot accept. i stay not because the couch is much softer, but because i’ve read “the road” by kerouac and i remember how that crap ends (which is to say, better than the rest of the book…. the last 10 pages were the o

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