the rain came
down in patches,
sidewards and
misshapen

words are
poor conveyers
of what is locked
up in the very most
center of my brain
or I'm just full of it,
either way it
feels like something
is in there that wants
out

After sixteen
hours on
your feet
Pabst Blue
Ribbon treats
you better than
a two hundred
dollar ******,
"keep your hands
off," she said
"get away from
my beer," I said
and the other used-
up souls in my
apartment building
began their own slip
into dreams of
suicide and release,
only to wake
the next day
groggy and hungover
but alive

In this world
You can be a
Dreamer or
Be in another's
Dream,
Or, like the
Best of us,
Exist outside
The dream,
Dreamer and
Entire concept,
Creating out of
Pure unadulterated
Joy and excitement

Old dreamers
As extras
Lifting few
On high
As crows
Pick at
Sunflowers
In a field
Behind the set

back to
wine and
stained
shirts

Eating canned
Goods drunk
On a Wednesday
Evening or a
Dog rooting through
Yesterday's garbage,
We are weeds
In the grass,
And the fences
Are covered with 'em.