It won't be a silent
night this Christmas in
the Psych Ward.
There are some real
wack jobs in here.
One guy grabbed his crotch,
and said, 'I have hold of all my faculties.'
The nurse asked him what
drugs he was on,
He said, 'It's not the drugs that are
the problem, it's the women.'
Maybe he's not as crazy as I thought.
I shouldn't talk; I'm getting
ECTs (Electra Convulsive Therapy)
One of the side effects is
memory loss. I hope they make me
forget the last woman in my life.
Life is so odd.
I'm locked in the nuthouse,
getting shock treatments.
She's home in her apartment,
cooking and cleaning,
crazy and mean as a ****-house rat.

It’s strange on
days like this.
December 30th, 2024.
The temperature reached
60 degrees today.
An ice fisherman
died on the lake.

It’s strange on
days like this,
when winter plays
a charade.
I open the windows
and let the breeze in.
My cats run around the
house, and think it’s
spring.
They wag their
tails and watch the
squirrels hide nuts.

And on strange
days like this,
I look around my
room, at the pictures
on the wall.
Hemingway
Van Gogh
Picasso
and I wonder if
they ever thought that  
they would die someday.

I think about it.

It’s hard to envision.
I’m so alive when I
sit in the hot jacuzzi
and watch the bubbles
and steam.
I water the plants,
exercise, and take
vitamins.
I will be gone one day.
The rivers will still
flow and wind, and the clouds  
will
float slowly by, and
chocolate will still taste so
sweet.

I wonder if
Vincent, Pablo, or
Earnie ever thought about
the strange tricks the
seasons play on us.

The birds started
singing at ten to four
this morning;
coaxing the dawn on
with their song.

The *** would be
great on the clouds
that I saw yesterday.
They looked like
rows of fresh
cauliflower.
Every position would be
a little miracle;
perfect depth and
perception.

The sweat stung
my eyes as I
smoked in the
sweltering July
sun.
I wish I could
live in the clouds...
No job
No taxes or tired back.
Just relaxing in
that puffy white
perfection.

Evening sky reflects
on the glass lake.
The soldier of a
tree carries on
through the lonesome
night.
If we could only
see the dreams of
the fish,
far from the
frying pan.

When I was
20
I became
involved with
a married woman.
She said that
her husband was
abusive.
She was looking
for a way out
or a break.

She had the
most amazing eyes.
Wild and dark,
like a walnut, on fire.
She smelled like
the earth, sweat,
and wildflowers.
There was something
uncaged about her.

I was young
and naive.
I believed everything
and hoped too much.

The *** was
ferocious.
She taught me a lot.
We broke the
bed and took
bubble baths together.
It was a lavender love.

One day, she came
home with a balloon and
flowers.
She said we are
having a baby.
Those wild
eyes flashed pure joy.

My mom was
worried.
"She has a husband."
My mother was a realist.
She accepted it though,
even bought the woman
some gifts.

It didn't take long for
Amber to show a side
of her, I hadn't seen.
I caught her in some
small lies, and she became
violent when upset.

The affair ended.
She went back to
her husband.
It felt like my heart was
being
ripped out through
my nose.
Pain like a
rotting *****.

I remember talking to
a friend about it on
the phone,
pausing to *****.
It hurt so
******* bad.

Her sister called
me a week after
the split.
I asked about the
pregnancy.
It was all a lie.
She had a
hysterectomy a few
years earlier.

I still believe in people,
and hope too much,
and the years have made
me wiser.

I heard much
later that
she died at 40 of
lung cancer.
Those beautiful dark
eyes finally got
some rest.

The tower penetrates
the puffy pink
clouds, and the
horizon squirts
sweet rain.
My face gets
sticky.
She is the sky.

I sit in the day room of
cell block one in the county jail at
4: 30 am.  It's quiet, almost serene.
All the other inmates are asleep.
I wait for breakfast: two hard-boiled eggs,
a doughnut, juice, and milk.  
Once a week we can order books.
They will deliver them today.
I'll get Bukowski, Steinbeck, and Cervantes.
The remaining six days will
fly by.
When I'm released, I'll go under
the bridge—steal wine and
stay drunk.
I'll eat every three or four days.
It's January with record-setting
frigid temperatures.
Survival will be a challenge.
There will be an ex-girlfriend to
contend with.
I'll try to get what little
clothes that I left at her place,
that is if she didn't throw them away;
she's somewhat of a **** like that.
My two best friends who stayed under
the bridge with me, died a day
apart two months ago,
so, nothing but
ghosts and memories there now.
I'm going to miss jail.