It's September: evening
and Bukowski stares at me,
******.
My phone rings
"Mhmm, ok, thank you."
wrong number and wrong language.

Pretty sure somebody was just stabbed outside
or got violently ill eating garbage.
I walk down there to have a cigarette
and avoid the stale smell
of the pizza box falling asleep on my bed.

After counting the number of cats I see-
stray as Satan's own- I head back inside
I glance at the bills in my mail jail
at the foot of these foreign stairs
(the building is Chinese, the city is Korean).

A hissing air brake laughs at my back
and the bus' transmission joins in- or farts-

by the time I get back up to the fourth floor
I want music, something that will help the
incense chase away mosquitoes.

And as I'm thinking of what to play
I glance at my bike, blankly,
and I'm reminded of how the rear
tire is ****** and how mean that hill was
and how road bikes belong on the road
not the sidewalk and I can't remember
when I last wore a helmet, so I try.

Half an hour later I finally get some
Stan Getz through my speakers
and don't mind that he invites
Joao Gilberto over.

I push my guitar and used clothes
out of my way so I can
sit on my bed with my
wonderfully cheap pizza box
desk, and my fancy leather pen
and just then she texts me.

Can I please just write?

Still, I can't help but smile
because I really just hope she dreams sweetly.

In times when the heart is lodged
somewhere between the brain and the throat
I try to force it back
down to its chambers, before I choke,
or before it strangles my head's precious, antagonized gland.

There's only one way to avoid
certain tragedy, and that's to look, feel, taste.
It's either make mental tracks-
run and jump- or drown.

It's at these moments when I start
playing tricks on my mind.
Doing this is easier than you may think.
Just stop all thought,
for the mind's constant churning
chafes the heart.

Now, allow your hungry eyes to sidle
to and fro- let them wander-
dare to wonder about what hasn't,
but don't idle even for a minute
on what has, or what couldn't.

As long as you can avoid relapse,
you might even venture into what could,
as long as it's new and fresh.
As long as it isn't some woeful inquiry
growing stale since last night.

Then once you find yourself daydreaming,
or better yet, DOING,
you are halfway there.
You've made it uphill
and only need to coast down-
down the lovely unkempt *****
of impulse without crashing.

Do something new,
preferrably silly- stay
away from dangerous-
go somewhere new,
talk to a stranger,
eat something expensive,
drink a little, burp loudly.

Go wild, steer away from crazy,
but cruise through hilarity.
Bombard yourself with creative juices,
**** your phone,
bury your watch,
put on your shoes and let yourself laugh.

Once you've had some laughs,
cue up some Planet Earth
-Kung Fu's good too-
roll a joint.
Smoke it.
Grab a pizza,
fall asleep with the television on
then wake up with a smile on your face.
Trust me, it won't come off in the shower,
and trust me your heart's ok.
You're gonna be just fine.

Send a prayer up for the families,
send a prayer up for the lost.
Send a prayer up for your enemies,
your friends, your crazy boss.
Send a prayer up for tomorrow,
for good weather and good health,
send a prayer up for all of these things
that go beyond yourself.

I want to speak with the director of my dreams,
ask him 'bout the plot twists
the cast, deleted scenes-
ask him why he shot it backwards
on a paper trampoline.
Then I'd ask him why I had no lines
and where the crew had been,
why the props were real,
how he made it it feel
so **** convincing.
Then I'd ask when next he thinks
he'll need me on the screen.