the inspiration to sleep doesn’t take much
if any of the three
infernal organs
does It’s job
one escape is suspension
then, not even that
grayscale made Technicolor
and now it’s with you still
slipping, weaving, screaming like kudzu rust

pulling away from it like Velcro
and for a second peace
whilst the reboot-
hell, there’s the three again
so easy
to lapse
and away

One.
There is always one.
I wanted to put down my pens.
Sell my politics.
And sheath my interest.
To become satisfied.
To live for yourself, not selfishly.
Not for tomorrow’s children
But your own.
Not the painting and writings and rebellions.
But your children.
For her in her perfection of heart and concern.
Discovering the ideal.
Donning the blue collar.
And feeling forever.
Forever her.
Picking where you sit.
A van.
Sunday glimpses.
A park.
You in concern now will never match which
Would
, Could
,would
Could have, but will not
Be.
We would have had daughters.
Of flesh
And not revolution.
With violins.
Violins and laughter.
                                            We would have felt.
   And felt more.

Sleeps a myth.
Red eyed, at 3:00 super markets
I’m there just because their open
Four cups of coffee and a dollar tea
I’m not any thing.
The only light be the moon and the blue smoke laces
Of cigarettes and the flashback glasses
Three phone calls and I answer everyone
He pleads desperately for words I don’t have
And for word I have no way of knowing
Nosh on a truck stop sandwich and try to find the watershed of my back days
Dreams in the dunk take that lead me to this bed without comfort
Contemplate connections concerning the girl whose half work knowing
I go home
It is 4’Oclock
A good and godless hour
But I want faith
Thinking back, yesterday was the start of today
Make that four phone calls, a rerun
Make that five phone calls, a rerun
Casablanca and a warm blanket
Problem is it’s hot out
“play it again Sam“.  The phone rings.

Sleeps a myth.
Red eyed, at 3:00 super markets
I’m there just because their open
Four cups of coffee and a dollar tea
I’m not any thing.
The only light be the moon and the blue smoke laces
Of cigarettes and the flashback glasses
Three phone calls and I answer everyone
He pleads desperately for words I don’t have
And for word I have no way of knowing
Nosh on a truck stop sandwich and try to find the watershed of my back days
Dreams in the dunk take that lead me to this bed without comfort
Contemplate connections concerning the girl whose half work knowing
I go home
It is 4’Oclock
A good and godless hour
But I want faith
Thinking back, yesterday was the start of today
Make that four phone calls, a rerun
Make that five phone calls, a rerun
Casablanca and a warm blanket
Problem is it’s hot out
“play it again Sam“.  The phone rings.

The history of the map
For ages we have journeyed Agnes, and for what?
To turn brown and lined like the thing we follow?
Don’t cry Agnes.
It was-
I was-
**** it, Agnes!
Let me speak, as we once did, of parts unseen
Experiences not shared
Yet then shared in the telling
Then bounded
Only to find
That together it was a read over
Having nothing to express
Together.
Together we are now.
that’s what we asked.
The joys in the parting?
What use is for one a wallowing, then?
Here take the map Agnes.
Let’s-
Yes, it was good, wasn’t it?

To make once and better
I cannot do
To sculpt my children
Fresh
Stunning
Whole
And then abandoned
To make once and better
I cannot do
Cleave
And sew
To find a
Content production
Is a great sin
To me.

This will be the longest and worst Monday
one to the streets, one to the pavement, one to the same, one to the mattress
words falling off the finger tips, shoulder to wrist and toward forever
retracing promises and former hours recognized and gone
wilted apples amidst the caravans and prisons cells
so ripe
only to be ripe
only to be lonely, whole and never melting and like a summers storm, a summers cry, a summers regret
let that cold come,
the world is cutting into my shoulders
Please could you hold this?
Thanks.
I don’t mean that.