I do not know why
I want to sleep
all the time.

Life is fine
as much as it can be
with a virus
limiting our society’s
ability to interact.

I am not depressed.
I am just meh.

So, I go to work,
get drowsy,
come home
and go to sleep
and hit repeat
all week.

Then when
it’s the weekend
and I get just
a little tired again
I instantly hop in
to my bed
and pass out
instead of
trying to stay awake.

I barely remember
any dreams,
there is nothing notable
to make me
want to stay sleeping.

Maybe it’s just that
there is nothing worth
staying awake for.

I’m a prisoner of this lullaby.
Almost asleep,
almost awake,
halfway
between
night and day
as I work
to make my pay.

Theoretically,
I am a zombie,
brain dead,
flesh fed
beast
who needs
to rest in bed
but I live in my head
instead.

Walking in the
wrong waking world,
on a ride to the otherside
of a goodnight,
but I just can’t
pass out with
all this disturbing ****
on my mind.

I’m so tired,
that I feel ill,
and intoxicated,
probably gonna wish
I had stopped and waited,
taken a fifteen-minute nap
at the nearest gas station.

Groggy and trying to drive;
You might see me,
My head may nod softly
as my car slides
and I hit those
who drive to close.
I’ll be
to weary
to even try
and cry out
any last words.

“I hate to be this way,”
mother nature says.
“I gave you a chance
to be the steward
of the animals and plants,
on this little blue planet,
but you made other plans.

You prioritized greed
and made impossible demands
on the resources
you claimed to command
in this beautiful land.

There were signs,
obvious trends
to portend
a horrible end
to all men,
but you wouldn’t listen.

Even the children
you claimed to cherish
jumped on this important
climate issue.

So, despite several generations
of obvious observations,
about natural education,
and the best efforts
of kindhearted
people who have started
social movements,

at this particular moment
mother nature declares
that you are not important
and should proceed to locate
another biosphere to occupy
because while you have been
grabbing and destroying
evolution has decided
you’re no longer invited
to stay on this planet.”

I write as well,
tell myself
I’m not made
to perform on stage.

The blank page
is the place
where my grace
is the greatest.

I display this
humanness
by touching depths
I haven’t even
swam in yet.

I drown in
the sound of men
woman and children
moaning,
begging
for a living,
when no help is given
by those in power
who have been
taking without returning
a single cent
of human decency.

I can write clearly,
because I have time
to edit each line,
the same ones
which I hide behind
and pretend that I
am helping
when I am just
doing enough
to not be
the enemy,
less of an ally
and more of a lubricant
that helps
my own guilt
slide off
the walls I built.

I have tried
to understand
how those
who were denied
a helping hand felt
and mirror it
in my poetics.

But I am pathetic,
self-indulgent
pain appropriating
social movement
inactive student.

Taking out loans
I never plan
to payback,
other than
in writing
human events.

Some say,
I am a good man,
but I feel unworthy,
uncomfortable
because even though
they heard me
I don’t think
they were listening.

Life is a prison,
and I am self-convicting,
admitting that in my laziness,
I might as well be complicit.
I write so later on I can ignore it.

Work hard to explore,
then exploit what I didn’t earn,
take all that I have learned
and try to make a better world,

but no matter what I do
I feel like a poser.
Even when I am trying to help you,
I feel like a cheap magician trick exposer.

Though, I am trying to foster,
a compassion movement,
I am just an empathetic
poem writing imposter.

Half asleep the creep
takes a back seat.

Eyes ahead I drive instead
of acknowledging anything,
but something is nagging,
some question is blinking,
like a bright red turn signal.

He sits silent, but present
all stillness in my presence,
while the sound of rain
pelts this metal carriage.

No words, but I know
where I am supposed to go.
No time but I still stall,
try not to move at all,
cause I am not ready
for what waits at
the end of the road.

The engine hums some
endless tune,
rattling on like a sad song,
with skies that are so clouded
that I can’t see the heavenly crescent
that should be right above me.

I panic, crying and frantic
tell my passenger that “it’s too soon.
Give me till next June,
cause there is so much
I still want see and do.”

He leans in, breathing
and I can’t believe
what I am seeing
in my rearview mirror.
Eyes like mine,
lips that match,
same hair of black.

He says in a voice
I am sure is mine,
“don’t look back.
You’re driving to **** fast.”

The rain subsides.
The night finds beautiful moonlight
and I drive.

I turn on the radio,
let my stress go,
and move with the
Billy Joel flow.

Somehow, I can tell
my passenger is grooving as well.

In the distance I can see
carousal like lights
swirling in front of me,
glorious shades and hues
of reds, greens, and blues.

The highway is slick,
and for a millisecond I can feel
my tires lose their grip.
I let the pedal up and turn the wheel
into the spin before it begins
and keep on driving.

Memories follow.
My friend is still riding.
Night turns to dawn
and I keep on driving.

Towns come and I go out.
I see a lot and learn to doubt,
questioning what this questing
is all about.

Not a word from the dude in the back,
and I am okay with that.
The road never ends
and I don’t remember
where this journey began.

I am just driving on man,
just driving on.

I hang on to
childish memories and dreams,
but they don’t seem
to want to hold on to me.

I lost the leaf laden road
with the overhanging oaks,
soft swaying leaves,
and blinding sunlight
that flickered as we
drove underneath.

I’ve misplaced the place
where I would sit and read
with my bare feet
dangling out in front of me.

I cannot locate the field
where we picked strawberries,
or the local grocery store
that has been closed for more
than ten years.

The old wooden swing
that hung from the branch
of a sturdy front yard tree,
the one with a fraying rope
that I would further fray
when I twisted myself up
and spun back and away.

The little baby boy,
with his soft little head,
tiny fast chubby legs
and pink teddy bear
has managed to grow up
and no longer lives here.

The space faring
cape wearing
wonder kid
who dreamed of doing
such amazing ****,
no longer exists.

I miss all of it.

He walks,
pine trails,
and high hills,
and partly feels
as if he is still here.

A young man’s energy,
a child’s idealism;
Hope is real in him.

Passing poet’s
parting pleasant memories,
imprinting kind words
on those who were
lucky enough to hear.

So, many years,
distance
between the loss
and those precious
instances,
such goodness.

Like the grandfather
who is lost farther
in my memory,
who spent time
helping families
in disaster areas,
another traveler,
another example of
what kindness
and love
can bring
into to being.

To two hearts of my past
goodnight
Ken Sibley,
and
Hugh Amos Graff.

I watched her pick
particular flowers,
not the prickly thorned type
but the purple poesies
of innocent delight.

I adored her visage
whilst making petal plucking wishes
“of she loves me,
or “she loves me not.”

I watched her go
and all that I got
was the sweet afterglow
of a beautiful show.

Everyone’s a poet in their own fluid motions.
Everyone’s a planet with their own private oceans,
deep saltwater life, underwater caverns that take us to
unknown depth that we need an open mind to view.
Everyone’s a fish just swimming in the sea
floating, falling, rising, uncertain who they should be.

This is my body
I think
You see some days I am not sure
Because it's covered in opinions and handprints
That do not belong to me
And they are dripping all over this better life I am trying to build

- Was this supposed to be winning?