In every room
I've lived in,
all the dilapidated shacks
over the years that I've
stayed in, always had a
brown spider that crawled
the walls.
It had a little suitcase.

I thought to myself that it
planned on leaving, moving to
someplace better.
It never did.
It always just set up shop, and
spun a web in the corner and caught
flies, and occasionally a small moth.

On drunken sad moon nights,
I sang dirges to the trapped bugs.
They smiled and laughed, even though
they were dying.

On my last drunken escapade,
I was sitting in my girlfriend's
living room.
It was 3:28 am, I was *******
on a cheap bottle of *****, and
It was ******* the soul right
out of me.
I knew things needed to change.
She had just ****** me dry in
the bedroom, and I was losing
all my strength.
I had the wisdom of a snail,
inching along, waiting to be
crushed.

I wasn't drunk, just liquid smooth.
Contemplating and configuring the
degradation and the lack of
windmills to chase.
The mirror had become a horrible and
pitiful place. Out of the corner of
my eye, I saw a large shadow zip
across the wall.
A second later, our cat, Patches, leapt
into the air.
I heard a terrible

Squeak, tweet, squawk,

I ran to her and began prying
at her mouth.
It was a small night bird.
I took it from her and put it
outside.
It was still alive, and there was
no
blood on my hands.
I said,

Bad Patches.

It freaked me out.
I woke up my girlfriend and told
her what happened.
She said,
are you sure it wasn't a dream?
I went into the bathroom and looked
in the mirror.
I drained the last of the *****,
and walked to the hospital.
When it's time,
you just know.

The words and lines
aren't coming today.
I lie down for a nap.
I dreamt of metaphors
and similes.
I woke up.
The years swim away
like bass at spawning
time.

On our way into
Santa Anita one day,
an old man had tipped
over in his wheelchair.
There was a pool of blood
beneath his smooth head.
I was with my Dad.
He was around the same
age as the poor injured man.
I was 12.

Seeing that man, and watching
the blank stares of the apathetic
crowd gathering around the
man, and the blood, and the
fallen wheelchair, I knew that
nobody would win, and the
horses that ran were the luckiest
of us all.

As nightmares subside
at dawn, your eyes
reflect the fear and the
pain.
They spill a desire to try.

Please try.

You can walk in the
rain without an umbrella
and let the clover and
honeysuckle guide you
to safety.
Evict the chaos from
your thoughts, and
leave the incubus behind.

On the backs of
flies
we wait for the
next thing.
Something is
always coming.
A birth or death,
food or hunger
hatred
laughter
love...

Something is always
coming around the
corner.
The Mad Hatter with
mushroom tea.
A strange color of
blue that tastes like
almonds.
A ****** that sparkles
in the night.

Listless mornings
of languid
walks with the
wife in the cool
of the evening.

A knife in the back,
a shark attack,
or maybe, just
possibly, you write
a poem about
waiting for the
next thing.

Bowing to the ***** god,
I lived like a pleasure
seeking missile, propelled
toward all things ME.
Empty as a carcass.
Hungry as a desert.
I didn't see the
strawberry moon of
summer.
It was me and the
Ferryman, until the
river ran dry.
Eternal winter for
the soul.

And then

A revolution in my
being.
A total shift in
my values and
perception.
The Creator purchased
my dilapidated heart.
He moved in and lives
there still.

My home, on the outside
might look like
a shack to some, but inside
it's a mansion with the
most sublime bread you
ever tasted.
Fruit trees in every room.