the spigot has run dry, its a desert out here, grimace while you’re trying to make it, trying to ******, the bars are beckoning, madness, out of your control, the smoke around your face, you’re laid out on your back, a defeatist, shackled to the plank, memories stick and then they fade out, wasted, wasted away, and you follow with your hands, you shove them into the dirt, and you try to remake what was given to you,, you put eyes in the little scuplture, but its crooked, and it stands helpless amongst the others, in a display window, where passersby think that it is creepy,

"creepy"!!!!

they say, and that is what you are, combing, combing, chasing down airplanes that departed for the towers, their destination is history, and their timing is a bead in your eye, in time, it halts right before it strikes you, inimaginable quest, one episode, and then, its over

and go over old poems
and think of what could have been
and sigh, that beard looked pretty cool
with the scarf
I looked ready to take on the world

but I've changed, I don't look the same
I took the medication
and now I sit
and look over old poems
wondering where the madness went

the rain is wonderful, it makes you feel like you are in a capsule, that you are cradled, and anything is possible, washing out the old day and bringing in the new, its nice, sometimes you drift away and find yourself falling into the couch, and you imagine the homeless, trying to keep dry, but perhaps they see it as a blessing too, a shower perhaps, they stink real bad

and then the bit of rain stops, and it reverts to a light sprinkle, and your ears perk up, waiting for the next hit, hoping for it, you feel the gust of wind the last one brought in, nice, the windows opened just so, drip drop, drip drop


and then you’re ******, why did it stop?
oh well
just keep
pondering

Is drudgery
fixated in time, unkept
mixed mockery
television shows
and showers, bath tubs
the sink, its flow
Facebook info
no lines, no purpose
no therapy
just drink, the woman
the fan

Is easy

for me

I clean the floors

and the dishes

and I give her kisses

so what, she wants to try to be objective?


hurled insults, but rooted in

knowing

your knowing is rooted in

chaos

Subjectivity? Objectivity?

Fine, just fine

sit at the table over a glass of wine

and sip, sip, know

knowledge, in little droplets

drips off the balcony

oh, I guess that was that

I don't know
where else to turn to
I've exhausted my supplies
and now I'm naked writing a poem
my book probably *****
and you are reading this
probably naked