quietness with the cats
by my elbow
blue-white computer light
the sound of the cars
out the window
holding me home
sweet air over
my shoulder
everything will
find its way.

and then I will
sleep.

a frenzied
little broken
tornado-
watch me burning
getting wobbly back
on the bike of
verse
I should have
seen that
rock
coming

I need a place
an attic in my head
to go there
sit in the rose
coloured light
the golden hour of
my mind and watch the
willow tree
growing quietly next to
the brick
in the place
I am who I always was a
growing chrysalis
a changeling constant stasis bug
movement beneath crystal
flickers underneath the
ice
but it will be quiet still
and the door will be locked
and I will stay there not
to hide from
myself
but to flee the potential
for crisis
if I don't cross swords with
the inner speed demon
find my zen
and go to the
supermarket.

You love her
in her many
copies.
blue, beige
destroyer, creator.

You hate her
during some
hours away
from sun.
procrastinator
fighter, complainer.

You fear her
the control
you can assert
but can't reign
in. Boycotter
scaredy cat.

You're in her
swimming but drowning.

Your psyche should
not be a
tiger trap.

There should be leaves
and soft earth
not sticks.

As your fears sharpen
them, the pit
will become deeper.

So learn to watch
where you walk
in your veins.
Control your thoughts
your habits
your acts.

Or perish in
your own sea
of troubles
Hamlet's slings,
and arrows will be yours
And let's face it.

You just don't have
that kind of
thick skin.

What will you
do with that gum
on your shoe
It's still
pretty good
mostly new

granted you
may get rabies
******
hep C
but since you
Opted out,
there's more gum
for me.

strangers often see
the most unfortunate parts
of bared hearts
stuffy noses
and baggy eyes.
they don't know
what you thought of
today.
whether breafkast
was toast, or
regret.
so when I
can read someone
Else's face.
like a book
on the second grade
level.
that will be the day
when I become like
prof x
and won't need to
play eye hockey
on the subway
anymore.

Is there anything to be said for being lost
or imperfect?
should we still sip from vessels with flaws?
Am I able to accept that it is I who dropped the glass?
and watch the cracks spiderweb
into the hearts of the people who hold me?
I call foul.
from the bottom of this mud pit
my voice floating...
'Looks like you're going the wrong way, Dorothy.
best to just stop juggling
crystal *****.'