The short version: I wrote this by hand at a bar seat at The Vig on October 11, 2026, after a walk. Every word is mine. An editor chose only the order, the line breaks and the cuts.
IWhere does a walk become
a nightmare?
Is it the steps over
(dreams of paths you didn't cross)
the ongoing unknowing
of what that could have been
or what if I did.
Is it the wind
rushing between towers
whispering not yet,
reach higher.
The navigator
maintains, steers, adjusts
course by course,
a meal of decisions about
Next.
Next. Always next. Never now.
The walk you thought
was a nightmare
was just another
day.
IIBloody Mary deviled eggs.
Filled to capacity and more.
A full bloody mary buffet
nestled in oval ova.
Up next: a salad and fries,
not girl dinner, not quite.
Just a dude on the streets
who needed a bite,
an end to a week,
an end to a fight.
I'm ready to go.
I'm now in preflight.
IIIA Sunday in three acts:
The Rot. The Canvas. The Talk.
Alone but not lonely.
Among, not apart.
No matter where, when or how,
we travel with our heart.
To wander, to waddle,
flâneur and tour.
The nightmare's still waiting
for you to endure.
But this dream of mine,
a nightmare no more.
I decided. It's mine.
I control the floor.
How this got writtenThe poem came out of a Sunday in three acts and a ten-stop walk that ended at The Vig.
This isn't AI slop. I use AI as a capture for a fast-moving brain that never stops. It helps me bring ideas to life that I can see in my head but don't have the tools to create. It's not a replacement for my work, it's an amplification of my brain.
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