I'm in treatment again.
***** is wrecking my body.
This morning(pre-dawn) I took
my meds, drank coffee, and
did the breakfast setup.
My friend, (a brilliant saxophone player)
came through the line and said,
"What's up man?"
I said, "Oh you know...stuff.
How about you?"
He relied, "Oh yeah, Stuff...always lots of stuff,
...and things.  Always lots of things on my plate.

Our laughter broke through the
sound of Hell's Bells in the background.
There was a connection, a brotherhood of
the stuff and things society.
The little 8th notes and 16th notes,
and the verbs and nouns floated
in the kitchen air, mixing with the smell
of bleach and toast.
Creation was in the birthing process.
He asked,What's on the agenda for today?"
"oh crap, lots of crap...you?
"****...lots of ****, you know."
I chuckled,  "yes, I do know."
I stopped everything I was doing,
and frantically began
scribbling this poem.
He went to his room,
and grabbed his sax,
and began riffing on some
Miles Davis and John Coltrane.
Far from the sterile
smell of stuff,
things, crap, etc...

I want you to say the words I've been dying to hear
Physically dying, making me ill
I want those unspoken words to heal me

They are there,
I know you want to say them.
They are kicking their legs back and forth while sitting
on the tip of your tongue waiting to jump.

Let your emotions pour out.
Sing to me the song inside your heart.
Tell me the words that will heal me.

... I know I'm wrong.
I don't know what goes on in your mind.
I make your feelings up inside my head
to ease the pain you cause

but I know you don't love me
not the way I love you.
so I'll sit here and pretend you love me
until I learn to love myself.

I wash my hands,
And wring them dry,
Watching my worries,
Disappear with the grey water,
Down the plughole of life.