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I

don’t like this
typing drunk on a keyboard
when I should be writing
in notebooks, scrawling
on lines, in forms
purposefully breaking
margins, confines.
That’s what this should be
but that ain’t getting us nowhere.

The sad songs just keep on coming.

You and I have an emptiness
that transcends content and form
I’m beyond it all now
twenty years removed
from temptations never
realized. There’s a reason
there. A reason why realization
becomes that much less important:
grapes past expiration in the fridge
will be breakfast in the morning.

Sometimes it is just enough.

My cat is now working the fleece,
working, but not to be paid. Working
for her comfort; working because that’s
what she does right now. This just might
well be the last time I’ve seen her
this way.

I’m waiting, waiting, waiting
for you to tell me.

I held my niece as a baby and sang
“Unchained Melody.” I was drunk
celebrating but jealous
found solace in you
enough to get me through
the beer shortage. These
moments can do so much.

There is a plan. There is a plan.
There is plan. There is a plan.

There must be a plan. We’re too
smart for this., but here I am:

Drunk on a Saturday night, needing
the moon light for a groundwire
of reality, listening to Sonny and Cher,

Jim Morrison for advice or inspiration.

What is the plan in that?

It’s time to wallow in my mire.

Don’t sit back. Don’t pause to remember
or devolve. Don’t let yourself slip
slip into the ether of it all
synth mesmerism
alcohol delusion

somnambulist absolution.

A drip stain from hair wetting
into the Wisconsin full moon night
just force itself onto, into the inner
lense of my glasses. Fate controlling
what I see. Is this what I was meant
to see? Just a drop?

Don't I deserve more?

Haven't I earned more?

9/26/10