Only half here
eyes held open with
caffeine charms
and sugar spells
thoughts whirl in
a hot delicious haze
All desire
and no purpose
rushing headlong in
a furious attempt to
say absolutely nothing
Catching whispered whiffs of
marijuana smoke
in the conditioned office air
like phantoms remembered from
an old recurring dream
of being naked in public
Casting out
reaching
stretching
grasping
desperately clutching at
shards of pitiful ideas
hoping against hope that
something
anything
will *****
and gouge the flesh
and spill the vicious viscous crimson
artists' blood of poetry
But finding only
endless
fistfuls of sand
Battered Ego
and Bloated Heart
do not a poet make
What do I need
to say?

What needs
to be said?