some mornings are like this

i'm staggering at the limits, a hiker gone too far. there's no water left in my canteen. i'll die of dehydration. i panic and spin in circles hoping to turn my body into a screw and drill down until i hit the water table. but i'm too exhausted to move. i should lie down and let the winds take me or bury me, whichever comes first. some days it feels just like this, how a writer thinks, mind full of pinwheels that are set spinning, spinning, to fire images of morphing colors, morphing words, to transform those things we cannot change into things we create. suddenly, i can't remember where the light came from, only that it caught the edge of one of the fins of this wheel and was beat like egg into meringue, all fluffy and white and wholly estranged from its original form.

i search for an oasis within myself, for a patch of land to start my manuscript, somewhere i can nurture it, feed it, but it seems that wherever i go, the soil turns up dry. i am sun burnt and skinny. i could turn back, turn my back, and find myself in the comforts of the civilized world once again. but some part of me needs this, can't live without it. i open microsoft word. the cursor pumps like my tired fists into desert sand, into the barren and desolate white expanse that is the blank word document. i press one key, then another, knowing that movement gives rise momentum which brings force to push the pinwheels to make them spin, to free my mind into a land of tumbling metaphor. i record it, tenaciously, drinking my own sweat to stay alive.

sitting on the grass

sit down in grass and remember where you came from
sole to sole there's an arching in my center
cramped and stiff
the day is coming to a close
a bird sings a frantic song, a methanphetamine melody
while cars zip by
dogs bark in the distance
i'm sitting very unlady-like
foot sole to foot sole
in basketball shorts i got second hand from some noplace town in new hampshire
was it lincoln?
four shorts on the rack and these were the ones that fit
i've got a cup of second hand tea
three uses on the tea bag already
i saw a film about the artist jackson pollock
and while he was an idiotic drunk
i still like the way it looks and feels
to be a artist staring into the sun slinging back a drink
even if mine's only tea.
i've got a bic pen dangling from my lips
i remove it using my index and middle fingers
like the smokers do.
i don't smoke but i feel that every artist
in their turmoil and passion
smoke something
needs the escape of drinkin' and smokin'
i play the part because it feels good
but in truth i'm just a kid pretending
i swish the drops of tea sweat in my mouth
like it's wild turkey
fleas bite at my feet and cars keep rumblin' past
it doesnt' matter how many fleas i kill
there's always more
just like there's always more cars
no matter where i go.
the sun makes my life a shadow.
i wouldn't know i was here if it weren't for the sun
another flea bites me
and one dog alone, barks in the distance
what is this?
sit in the grass to remember where you came from