I woke up Saturday joyful at my body's triumph
over virus, breathing again without pain and enjoying
winter and the cold that keeps us sane and sober.
But by Sunday my mortality had returned.

If I pass away now, how to assess my days.
Is balancing income and expenditure reports enough?
Our marriage and our piece of land. Dependent
on economy. For food delivery and machine repair.

In my youth, I imagined crossing mountains
to the sea, living off the land. Enduring weather patiently.
It's impossible except three days or three weeks,
with a load of supermarket food on your back.

So I accept home gratefully. And a niche in society.
We could explore these hollows and hills on foot
but my wife is weak and I am lazy. We use the library
to travel inner space. We found this place.

Next spring, a garden. Dig depleted soil behind
garage and fertilize it from our compost pile.
Learn the names and ways of cultivars, their relations
to wild plants and the edge. Finally know the fern and sedge.

Lazy one, life is short. You have never fought, to yourself
you remain unknown. You go the way of an unknown
soldier. Unable to assess the purpose of the battle.
Nameless, hungry, same as the neighbor's cow.

Be happy, slap happy. Within your generation, surrounded
by history. Seeking mastery through practice.
Rewarded with the sunrise, sunset. Yet to have delivered
on the promise expected by the parents of the baby.

you are running water
Spreading, seeping slowly down the holes
Of a drain, and
You are holding a slim pencil
Between two long elegant fingers
And ******* its tip into your mouth
So that its pink rubber end
Disappears behind your pink pliant lips.
Your every sleek movement is sensual
And I am ignited by
Every turn and tilt of your head
And the drawl of every unwakeful stretch
That pulls the skin over your forearms tight
And makes the sweat on the back of your neck
Glisten like imperfect rhinestones
Sliding into
                      forbidden,
                           ­               inaccessible
territory.
-How I wish that territory
were accessible-
You lackadaisical beast of the mornings,
With sandy eyes and ambling legs,
Wrap. Wrap!

I have a whole list of things to do;
Not just for myself, but for others too.
Life is short and yet I do not care;
This is my honest truth laid bare.
Underachieving is a trait of mine;
A recurring statement, an obvious sign?
So far I'm surviving,
Not thriving.
Why won't I just do it?

Cup your palms around
that candle dear lazy
Spells to cast to the wombs
keep our ghosts outside
peering into tent *****
yellowing irises and
stamens strangely swaying
but nonsense
Butte no
out there
they stalk you dear lazy

My shower head was down to the last seven streams of water,
the other thirteen or so were either clogged
or just slowly dribbling out sad little droplets of hard water.
The calcium and lime buildup around the jets grew
greener and thicker with each day passing,
yet I never felt the inclination to attempt cleaning it.
I just stood there in the few remaining streams each day,
rotating slowly like the ballerina in my mother's jewelry box,
trying to wash away the ***** suds from my hair and shoulders.

Until one day,
after I had gotten home after a grueling twelve
hour shift at the dogfood plant where I worked and
stepped reluctantly into my bathroom, I peeled
the sweat stained clothes from my reeking body
and reached behind the curtains to turn on the water.
The only response I received from my poor shower
was a loud groaning noise, like a man attempting to
pass a particularly large kidney stone but having no luck.
Three or four drops of water escaped from the mere pressure
building up in the old pipes, then it quit altogether
and the groaning ceased with a brief moment of silence
before the face of the shower head burst, throwing plastic
shrapnel in every direction and spraying the ceiling and walls
with rusted water.

He lazily wonders, "would it be best,
to manifest,
this array as a poem?"...

Dribbling, drabbling, splishing and splashing,
Summer's scorn whirls unlashing.
Gutter strikes throng cluttered pipes,
filled to burst before crashing.

Concrete delta, chizzled from steel,
devouring, steadily, it's only meal.
Here to stay, but ready to leave,
they swifly pass throughout their eve.

Porch roof wet, drip by the drop,
along the guardian's shielded top.
The sky yields for the setting sun,
but in the night, the bombers run.

Booming strikes desparetely fight
to enter the darkness, and win back the light.
So many things, all the same,
block mountains, laying their claim.

Slicing into theatrical waves,
luck guides as a strider braves.
Running as well, the Tempest to test...
both he and the storm, the other one craves.

Sitting back in his safe little home,
the boy becomes worried,
of becoming too grown.

"How to put into words..."
"This moment may never be seen again."
"Almost gone... lost to the birds..."
"Holding on between a thought and a pen."

I haven't made my bed in days

a simple little task
which seems to hold no value

it's the sign of a new beginning
starting beside the light
it's a little bit of magic
for you to do what's right

I'm lacking motivation
for the simplest of things
looking past the glory of
the magic each day brings

I tell people how to get better
I'll listen to their thoughts
maybe I'll get better
but who's to say I'm not?

I write this in my messy bed
of course, it's by choice
ignoring the magic practically shouted at me
by the words created by my own
voice.

All I need today is a blanket, laptop, wifi, and his lovely pair of arms

My bed was my bestfriend,
That's what I thought.
But, no. I am wrong.
It's laziness that's always with me,
Ever since I met my bed.