Out of food for thought and the stores are closed.
Closed eyes and sighs tonight.
Tomorrow I'll go shopping for an idea or two;
mending my inspiration with tape and glue.
dot dot dot dadot dot. tap tap tappy.

We're so much sleepier than we used to be.
So drained, so strained,
                 so uncreative.
It's been a blast while it's lasted,
but at last, perhaps it is time to quit.
Quit running in circles looking for miracles.
New things and new beams of light
will ignite (the tender) and give us
our sight.
(Or at least I hope.)

Fickle gleaming light once shown bright
through the tunnels of your eye holes;
dreaming and deeming yourself truthful
in action and fastened in your traction
                             (on the Traveled Path)
A refraction, split in two.
Mind soaked in indecisive dew.
At a loss, where do the paths cross?
Crossing your mind, two zig-zagging,
                              spiraling,
                                              constantly
                              colliding
comet tails leave debris that hails
down on the soft and welcoming
surface of the brain.

Mishaps and mispronunciation,
messy rooms and messy beards,
crops and crop duster airplanes.
Too many insiders,
too many to count.
We counted on the fresh air
in our bike tires to get us out.
Out in the open world,
the woods, the fields,
the lakes, the ponds,
the Indiana bonds
too tight to ignore.
A prison with open doors
if nothing more.

Slippery roads throwing you off track,
falling backwards, flat out on your back.
Sights and sounds fading out;
                   down for the count.

Sleep tight and eat right.
Spend each night thinking about
                                  the right track
Track your steps back through
the slushed snow and gravel dusted road.

Your abode; long gone, burnt black from
firey lights shone bright through the fog of dawn.
No more thoughts of home,
                                                 just the road to roam.

Unhinged again.
Tired and untied,
loosely bundled,
huddled and dodging
rain puddles.
Cold cement, slick and
unforgiving, giving you
sweet/sour visions of
each year gone past.
Longing to be home at last;
warmth and a television broadcast.
Something remains.
Some distance retains
its unsympathetic pains
embedded in the grains of your being.
Being so cold, coy, together, but alone
for the long winter to come.

My eyes have wandered
to the woods and back to
where we could and should
have spent our evenings, nights,
and seen the morning
lights through the naked limbs
as our limbs remain tangled
among the root mangled soil.