Walking down my road
Yellow lines under my feet
Rain on my skin
Down the line
Off the road
Sharp sand
Bleeding feet
Water washing
Sharp salt-stinging
Cold water
Knee deep
Obscure ocean

Tangled breeze
Dancing up my legs
Across my shoulders

We behave
As wind
Behaves

Excitement
Rushing
Wickedly

It felt wrong.
The kind of wrong my mama warned me about.
She would sip her black coffee, look over her glasses and tell me
she would tell me what was right and what was wrong.

I think I forgot for awhile.
I forgot long enough to do some things wrong.

It felt wrong, but worth it.
So worth it.
Worth the changes I don't seem to mind

I don't mind my trembling hands
or the way I can't focus  
the way I flash back to that night
where the sky was deep purple
where the crisp breeze of winter was beginning to roll in
I flash back to the cloud of smoke rising from my lips
I flash back later to your hands on my hips and the pain.
the pain that was so unfamiliar yet so welcomed.

Twelve hours to focus
And redefine one's abilities
To chew one's toungue and cheek
To bounce one's knee
There will be no sleeping
Because sleep has become obsolete
An outdated human ritual
Just begging to be cleansed

Twelve hours to come down
To rediscover one's limitations
To nurse one's swollen tounge and cheek
And to rest one's aching body
There will be no sleeping
Because sleep is never an option
An incessant dream
Just begging to begin

There was a pirate who came from afar
Who sank his ship for a h'penny o' tar
He had a scar on his cheek,
Gold in his teeth
And like Prabhu, a thing for the noir

There was a vicar from Kent
Who gave up religion for lent
He enjoyed a spree
Of being un-holy
Nobody knows where he went

For the tourists to impress
She wore traditional dress
She liked the grass skirt
And the flowery shirt
But the coconut bra caused distress

One of the tourists she knew
Was really enjoying the view
He bought her a drink
Tickled her pink
And said may I remove it for you?

The limerick man was on top
He was writing such a lot
The barrel he dredged
He lost his edge
And didn't know when to stop

I sleep with the pigeons,
I sleep under bridges,
a deteriorating photograph
is all I have.
She left with that winner,
the one that looks like an athlete
but he's actually an artist
you know, the one that gets noticed.
I can't blame her, I've lost it all.
These are the types of injuries that occur
when the ethics are below your pay grade.
So now I sleep under bridges,
the grass is my bed,
and I
bathe with the pigeons.
I keep a hat on my head
while I read the paper with my shoulders
hunched over, although I don't
get cold anymore.

Agitated at how this guy has me figured
out, I just want to throw him on the ground.
I look up at the board in front of me
now and see
that Bukowski has me cornered again
and I want to scream expletives
as loudly as I can, but I catch myself
just before I begin to vent because
the three and four year old children
all around are the only people that
don't yet hold me in complete
contempt and I'd like to keep it
that way.

quick!
tell yourself you're ok.
quick!
before you realize
you aren't.

for once
i wish i had more time
before my next class
i wish i had forever
wrapped up
like a rubberband ball
i wish i could unravel it
and disappear.