Poem for People with a Cold

Oh dreary dawn

stuck in my nostril like a burning rubber plant

Salted teeth

facts are not friends when fire is ash

Heart burning

Kleenex all over.

Late at night

seething moods

hurling adjectives at authority figures

to pass the time

Oh, sweet relief

Where are my vitamins

How do I kick myself properly

for not getting enough rest

for not drawing enough lines

for not being the boundary

between myself 

and madness

I'll walk in the rain

think about coffee

and watch my steps

I will see the people on the sidewalk

the guy in the nice shirt

the woman sitting in the street

like she's the monk who set himself on fire.

Who am I to ask questions?

I'll just pull my hood tighter around my head

I'll call a friend who delivers ginger powder

in a cup kind of like gunpowder

I will be a samurai

cleaning slowly methodically

I will let my friend call 

and talk me into spending $100 on a UHaul

to pick up 

free sewing machines. 

Sharp

In the middle of the forest dark and dreary full of fog and dragon fury

I stood with a sword and slayed the beast within my heart

only to find myself woke and bleeding inside a wolf

I dreamed of tenderness and goo

Played my wheel of fortune and came through

the other side of the needle 

is as round as the bottom is sharp

is there any more sense in having a needle

as in having a sword

I wonder

with my thumbs

I wander

too sometimes.

Fast Master

Fast tracking the groping theme of mental health

the stewardess gave me coffee and a small fortune cookie

wrapped in heavy plastic

I had to bite it to get it open

meanwhile champagne was flowing in first class

and the plane of my existence

was perpendicular to my heart

My forgotten rage is tongue tied

Weeping in the graveyard for mastery

Slipside

Three and a half oceans

slipping on the side of the helicopter

Cuban cars are well cared for

Highest Point of Light

I pulled back the arrow

in the quiver

pointed it at the farthest highest point of light

held on as long as I could

until I knew that holding on any longer

would affect the apex of trajectory

held strong

and then

I let go.

The Stairs I Sleep On

The funny thing about a poem 

is it doesn't have to be good

it just has to be written.

If it is unwritten it is worse than bad

it is non-existent.

If it is non-existent then you can't have

your token existential crisis.

And what would you do with yourself then?

Go back to Zen

Go back to backyard barbecues

Go back to pool cues and railroad tracks

abandoned cars and factories and 

the elevator that they told you to never take all the way down to the basement

The giant building on Pershing and 37th

that used to be a place

where thousands of people worked

is now a little like a Ghost town

and they rent out areas for companies

like the sound company I worked for

to store gear

and I always took the stairs.

I passed the little office window

where they used to put in time cards

and imagined the factory workers

It was strange and so desolate

on of many insane things I've done

not more insane than not writing 

a poem though.

It's so simple.

Why be scared?

It's not an elevator going down to a boogie man

it's not a strange basement in a whore house

covered in blood and grime

and salesmen with smiles

and frozen handshakes

It's not a rotten deal

It's not a politician's crime

It's just a poem

it's just a line.

A Long Story

Follow the directions exactly.

The two cards look the same.
It looks the same to me.
It is exactly as I remember it.
I need the same thing that he does.
I have the exact ingredients we need for the cake.