Three weeks, by now, of
constipated thought; of
hand cramped beyond stretches
of practice. Three weeks spent in attempt of detox. Of mind-numbing lack for inspiration. Mind-numbing words muttered, "I haven't been this ****** up .  ." (in a long time)
Always, ****** the feel-
good of chemical percentages.
Where the green grass grows, is all. Reflecting is all; standing alone
on warming winter sunrise. Slop-
made bed, the corneres left out. Stomach churning, smoking cigarette,
waiting for the coffee to finish.
That good ******* coffee that
held me through the rain.
Another night meant for day,
and this gracious vessel has never
been meagre in following along with the whims of some spongey tissue.
Of letting loose the general acceptance that a brain's attached to spine. 
oh   oh,    oh oh;  that brain'll die
easy some day. Not today, not now,
not but maybe.  (who knows?)
maybe the wrong decision been
made. No questions now;
(after so many cut hands and feet)
they're too small for answers so large.