I'm getting goosebumps thinking
about my coney Island baby,
we're going to the boardwalk
and listen to some Rock and Roll.
If I'm blessed by the warped
east coast gods, I'll run into
Sweet Jane and score
some ******, the click that
makes this hell alright.
with a dime bag, this madness
becomes a perfect world.
This should be quite the Walk on the
Wild Side.

This isn't a poem, it's a challenge to write a poem inspired by Tom Waits.  You could write a poem inspired by a particular song of his, or you could just write a poem inspired by Wait's gritty vibe.....it's loads of fun and everyone is welcome to try.

What would you do if you were blown by
the wind and the Cherry Blossoms.
And you were giddy on the nectar from all
the flowers that fell from the sky; Orchids, Irises,
and Tiger lilies...and all you could do was smile
and laugh about how great the heavens are.

I was living in this
flop house above
a **** shop in Amarillo.
I had a one eyed cat
named Walter, I'd bet
a sawbuck that when
I slept,
he drank my whiskey.
I sill love him though.
He stuck around longer
than those old painted up
ladies that strolled through,
and tested my bed springs.
I got two shots of Wild Irish Rose
left, then it's back to these
***** streets of broken dreams
and sick scenes.

I'm in treatment again.
***** is wrecking my body.
This morning(pre-dawn) I took
my meds, drank coffee, and
did the breakfast setup.
My friend, (a brilliant saxophone player)
came through the line and said,
"What's up man?"
I said, "Oh you know...stuff.
How about you?"
He relied, "Oh yeah, Stuff...always lots of stuff,
...and things.  Always lots of things on my plate.

Our laughter broke through the
sound of Hell's Bells in the background.
There was a connection, a brotherhood of
the stuff and things society.
The little 8th notes and 16th notes,
and the verbs and nouns floated
in the kitchen air, mixing with the smell
of bleach and toast.
Creation was in the birthing process.
He asked,What's on the agenda for today?"
"oh crap, lots of crap...you?
"****...lots of ****, you know."
I chuckled,  "yes, I do know."
I stopped everything I was doing,
and frantically began
scribbling this poem.
He went to his room,
and grabbed his sax,
and began riffing on some
Miles Davis and John Coltrane.
Far from the sterile
smell of stuff,
things, crap, etc...

I hate the saying, "Baby's Mama."
It's so ******. As I drifted off to
sleep last night, crocked on a plethora of
pills, and the remnants of *****, I thought
to myself, She's a little bluebird that
burrowed in my heart.
I laughed and slobbered, and drifted
into the warm fuzzy black.

She's intuitive, she asked me to let
the nurse know that her and the kids were
coming so that there would be a smooth
transition with staff. Hospitals can be
peculiar when it comes to visitation with children.

So she asked me how I wanted to refer to her.
She's the Mother of my 2-year old
daughter, and she has a 10-year old boy
that I have been around for 6 years.
He's like my own son, but 'technically,  he's not.
I don't want to offend anyone. It's all so
******* complicated. I could say, "This is Bonnie,
I'm Clyde, and this is our gang." They probably
wouldn't laugh. I feel very comfortable saying,
"These are our kids, and this is their Mom"

If the kids weren't in ear-shot and I felt
like a rapscallion, I might say,"This is a woman
that I used to love and **** a lot! Finally we had
our daughter- WOW- AMAZING! ! !
The boy came along before I met her, but I love him
like my own son- always and forever."

Anyway, this is my daughter, and my son, and a woman that I used to
love and **** a lot, also, a fantastic Mother, and when
I'm twacked out d-toxing- drifting off to sleep, and
laughing about what to call her, I might just call her
my little bluebird, that burrows in my heart.