I'm in the hospital strung out on phenobarbital,
And Librium
The last thing in the world I wanted or expected was several Democrats seeking refuge under my bed.
Nancy Peloski (forgive me for my spelling, I'm high like a kite as George W. Bush at a New year's Eve frat party) and friends are
demanding gefilte fish and Matzo ball soup.  Somehow Bernie Sanders is under there, and he's rattling his cup for more scotch... I'm getting ready to push the call light and ask if they would dose them all with some Thorazine so they would go to sleep. I even think they dug Ross Perot up. Either I need more drugs or they need to get these politicians out from under my bed.  Or maybe order more matzo ball soup.

If you're wondering why there's so many typos? I'm in the hospital,
Benzo'd out and on phenobarbital.
But I guess it's better than hammered drunk at home trying to give the cat a bath.
He doesn't like that band The Allman Brothers which I Blair at the side of the tub and he tends to scratch me
even with the Mr. bubble bath. Now I'll try to watch the Redskin buccaneer game, they'll always be the Redskins to me. But that could just be the benzos talking

I woke up this morning
feeling gratitude
even in the warning
my legs gave in my first steps,
gratitude for one more day
for one more hour or minute
on Earth now in my brief stay
on this tortured beautiful planet.

I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.

There's ether in
the cloud at the
bottom of the hill.
Birthdays come and
go,
and they seal the deal.
Feelings change with
the wind,
but time is real.
It's a thief,
and it likes to steal.