I don’t understand
why sometimes
I run and hide
in motel rooms
with women and bottles.

Or why the sound of laughter
makes me cringe,
or why my head throbs
listening to small talk.

Or why I dream
of sitting on telephone wires
or crawling through dark tunnels
with no light on the other side.

Or hug the ground
feeling with fingertips
for the birth pangs
of a mountain
on the Earth’s dark side.

Or listen to the static
between radio stations
listening for the music
in the white noise.

Or look for tomorrow’s cliches
among the mad scrawls
of yesterday’s castaways.

Or leave good women and jobs
because I cannot breathe,
only to run off
and hold my breath
somewhere else.

I hate this restlessness,
but isn’t that
what life is?

The restless itch
of the cosmos
******* itself,
and we the blood flowing
from the fingernail marks
on its back.