I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.

There is nothing like waking up exhausted.
You want to go back to sleep, but you can't.
You aren't sure if you were asleep to begin with.
You had laid in bed for so long in a half-asleep haze
that you can't be sure whether you finally slipped into your dreams or not.

But going by how miserable you feel,
trying to force tired limbs out of bed
while your eyes want to close for just a little while longer,
You can only assume the answer.

What time did you wake up anyway?
3 or 4 in the morning?
What time did you go to bed?
9 O'clock?
You should feel less tired,
but the reality is that you took three hours of tossing and turning,
praying for sleep,
before finally slipping into it for just a few
scarce moments before you're
jerking back away at some ungodly hour
just to spend the next two trying to fade away again.

And then you have to get up.

Purple radiant heat
Reverberations of
Exclamations
Horrific holograms
Reality has received;

Testing teapots and
Tourmaline jewelry
Shattered on the wood floors
Fluorescent firecrackers
For days upon hours;

The nape of the neck
Where yours should be
Sheds blood
Pulsating the prophetic
Paralyzing truths;

Home is a verb, the
Truly inspirational
Deception of defeat
And the drip drip drip
Of disillusioned ichor

Why am I so drained?
It feels like a pile of bricks
On my chest

Not matter how hard I try
To push them off
They want to stay
It’s their home
They say

Existence stretched through a detour,
two spots; unknown in direction.
Turning left when it was right before,
keep all guessing, slide past detection.

I’m not a one stop shop,
once I housed hand crafted originality.
With the increase in demand I let my guard drop,
and now both my shelves and insides are empty.
I believed in a watcher behind me,
I held onto tight to an invisible thread.
Everyone is just silently constantly reminding me,
I’m isolated and alone even in my head.

I hear the loud pop of plastic against plastic,
feeling both relief and shame simultaneously.
Side slipping and back breaking; I thought myself a gymnastic,
though incredulous was the thought of even competing.

But I was sleeping in a Chinese finger trap,
so assured that I would choose to make it a womb.
You couldn’t hear a pin drop but with the concept of a single tap,
ears would shake and ring as if it were a sonic boom.
I’ve got nothing but dirt and dust on my shoulders
I pass it off as glitter and simple magic.
I show no signs of tiring from passing back all the boulders
if I didn’t let them slide it would almost be tragic.

Pardon my complacent self involuntary involvement,
and excuse me while I perform dramatic ironies.
Preparing the conscious for the next inevitable instalment
of prepared monologues of justifications and fallacies.

And I can’t but think in this instance,
I remember the episode of The Simpsons
where Homer is outcasted for screaming “aliens”
and he drinks himself out of existence.
“Red M&M, blue M&M,
they’re all the same colour in the end.”

you have been awake for three
three breaths
three puffs of your cigarette
three hours
what difference does it make

exhaustion is all you feel
in every fibre of your worn out body

you keep moving
although your legs are lead
lead that has not yet fully hardened
you stumble

smoke fills your lungs
you inhale as if it were your last breath
and take another step

Our connection has always been
missed in a different way
than any website is intended for.
The universe endlessly thwarts
any possibility of our being plural.
I long and I hope.
I pine for more
than noncommittal communication
borne of lust and exhaustion.
Shared sentiments
that can withstand
the reason of daylight.
Ours is a road too often travelled
to places I am growing weary of regretting.
It is littered with potholes and oil slicks
remnants of emergency flares.
Reminders of the misfortune incurred.
I’m finding a new route.
It will be packed dirt dappled with sun,
seething with the hum
of nature and the thrill
of imminent adventure.
Fresh and new.
Free of shame.