-2 from 1994

I sit with my pen paper
computer type monitor
sometimes very angry,
hating you me, all of them
and the words don't come.

Pick my nose pull my hair
out smoke ten cigarettes
thinking of ways to clean
up my closets my life and
the words don't come.

Getting old in a straight
line no detour best route
go where you're going
if you know where to and the
words don't come.

Even letters, words
already written would be
fine than just none to
tell them how it is with me
I can't say and the words
don't come.

My mind rages whirls half
asleep, words and bad
memories play at the edge
of sleep fumbles not enough
to land on and the words don't
come.

_________________________________________


I stare into darkness from my narrow bed and hear the sound of tires spinning slick on wet streets. Waiting for sleep with the maddeningly random radiator tick, I forget the very regular, too fast, beating of my heart. I catch myself not taking breath, place my left hand on my diaphragm to be certain of a calming movement there. Four seconds in four seconds out. I place the palm and fingers of my right hand on top of my skull, seeking its shape, keeping everything in place. My eyes pick out the outline of shaded windows, glowing clock-face and television tube, their lines and curves, keeping time alive for me, clear and persistent.

I seek out corners where there is no reminder of the day, points of darkness and absence. I stare into them, leaning in, almost, as if there were a strong wind on my thoughts. Lack of light, of time, makes patterns--bursts and swirls, ovals and long shapes not seen in the day, ill-defined, purple and redblack. They spin and jumps in groups they choose, like ornate dancers from another century, then fall still as everything will. Others take a turn and fall away. With the balls of my thumbs, I press lightly on the lids of my eyes. My face must look as if I am in a sandstorm--eyes squinted and clenched jaw with mouth tight and prim. To see just anything, over time, blind kids will end up beating at their eyes with fists. Many have to be restrained. We all need something to see, even just the lights of nerves and pain. I push again, harder, with my thumbs, just to the edge of hurts. Pictures return to blow and dance before slipping left, right out of reach again.

I stare into what is missing, my future, the fog and smoke of plans and wanting. My years here fall away. My eyes tear with stress, so the patterns split and multiply. I rock my head back and forth, eyes squeezed tight. It is all there in front of me everyway. Up ahead, my eyes, mind, of all things my need to see, they make the dance. I want to take the hard sharp edges of tomorrow and unformed dreams and push them down, hard into my mind to find the axis of unfulfilled desire. What pictures I could see. Such pictures.