There's a thought that haunts me
In the mornings
When the sun peeks through the curtains
And it blinds me
And the coffee is burnt
So I take a morning dose of
Smoke to mute my taste buds

It haunts me at work
Where my smile is as fake
As the honey tone of my voice
But they'll believe it
And buy two for two fifty anyway
Because I've asked them oh so
Nicely

It plagues me in the evening
When I've settled down with a brush
In my hand
Painting abstract strokes with
No road map
No idea where they're going
Just a current of blending colors
And lines

It strikes me at night
When I'm closing my eyes
And willing myself to sleep
Though the sheep don't run home
Because the path is drenched
In regret

That thought
Which haunts me

And itches at me

And runs laps through my mind

Is that I've never felt peace
In someone's arms

Never felt so fulfilled
To touch someone

Never had words powerful
Enough to describe it

The thought that harrows me
In all the hours I know
Is that I've never known
Love

Madame Salamander
With her small, speckled spots
Spread smoothly over her
Skin, similar to the sun.
Tiny toes tip tapping long treks
Through tough terrain.

Madame Salamander
Grand and glamorous, great gales
Of green-eyed ganders give her
Gosh awful grabs as gifts, gabbing
Gleefully of gross gourds.

Madame Salamander
Feel her filmy eyes on her
Flat facade furrow into a feverish
Gaze as her words fan further
And farther whilst she fabulates.

Madame Salamander*
Let her linger on her long legend
Of little lizards lipping to large
Lions and licked away from
Their lovely lives as lizards.

Time ticks on and I'm standing still.

Motions of normality circle around
And I'm standing still.
There's a set of stairs right here.
An elevator.
An escalator.

There's a hole right behind me.
There's a rickety slide and a ladder climbing down.

And all the while everything circles
Round.
Round and round and round and round.

But I'm only standing still.

Rocking, rocking
Back and forth like the conversation
Muttered between plumes of
Cigarette smoke.

"They owe me twenty three hundred,
The hotels and motels -
Eight in all."

He's said it about eight times.
Eight in all.

"And the surveillance systems
In the rooms.
The guy in the FBI lobby
Was talking. Said things.
Better have my money
'Cause it's messed up to
Take a man's money like that."

I nod, agree.
It's all I can do.

He's talked about some officer,
The white female down at
Cherry Street Mission.

He talks about the white male
And the black male
How they pass out cigarettes
And one's a mean *******
Who kicks people while they're
Trying to sleep.

I wonder who else has kicked him
While he's been down.

He's checking the clock again,
Doing the math -
Takes about an hour to walk
To get to the kitchens.
Good to get there early to
Get a bite to eat.

"'Cause man, they owe me
Twenty three hundred dollars
For the hotels and motels -
Eight in all."

Nine times, now.

"You get what I'm saying, though?
Isn't it messed up?"

Isn't everything?

Let him *** another smoke,
He's down on his luck
Though the FBI's got nothing
To do with it.

I've seen glimpses of coherency
Here and there.
Mentioned a brother who
Couldn't give a ****.
Mentioned working in a
Restaurant once.

But all the while he's rocking
And losing himself again in
His head and the imaginations
Of ****** plots and FBI contracts.

I wonder what his last name is.
I wonder if he remembers what
His last name is.

"And the guy in the FBI lobby
Said they'd scrap up an extra grand
For the trouble.
Just takes time.
Don't you think that's messed up, though?
Don't you think that's ****** up?"

*Do I ever.