mile high

his arms outstretched
it’s no wonder
there are two puddles
beneath him
no witnesses
because his cruci-fiction
somewhat symbolic
he knows even
when he doesn’t need to
he finds out
and it’s no fun
his shadow can be seen
from the street below
seems like a mile high…

clean slate mind

strange chill and then

the sun sneaks behind

another cloud

day’s almost gone

and immediately to my left

ears that might hear me

if I think too loud

strange names called

and stories told

extra loud complete with profanity

and laughter what time is it now

how come there are

so many children here

regular coffee ten minutes

after I arrive

wish I could leave

locked into this spot

can’t wash to a clean

slate mind…

not rested

waking with that not rested feeling

he is trying to figure out where he belongs

and why no one is ever there

when his eyes open to start the day

seeing nothing but the sun

not such a bad thing at all

nowadays nothing warms him

like the sun still waking

with that not rested feeling

making the rounds to all the places

he needs to go but questions swirl

what is the solution to the problem

knowing too many people and not

having anyone to share the last few moments

of sunshine with each day…

lost at sea or in space

the room filled with emptiness

all possible forms

circle around the head

creating mind storms

brewing in words for

months even years

passing time without

fear of the tears

and newly healed skin

extra hair on the chin

extended days turn to nights

without a cold soul

lost at sea or in space

no room for a hole

dug deep down

still can’t hide from pains

drowning in all the water

and the unstoppable rains…

pen explodes

just once wishing

it was real
just for moment
hoping something will last
long enough to actually enjoy
red ink or black
splatter the page when created
something slightly
better looking
than if the pen exploded
on the page…

who says

this place is boring

and unproductive

better off going into

town and drinking

a bit socializing

or getting hammered

in another state

memories of the past

surrounding like vultures

waiting for some fresh meat

to pick from all the bones

helping him stand

there’s more to do

can’t find it anywhere

truth eludes him as well

whatever they tell him

he seems to accept

won’t fully believe

no one ever really means

what they say

he should go out to dinner

without anyone else

and see who shows

up as months pass

no faces across the table

won’t even waste his time

with words that he

probably won’t remember…

credit for progress

spinning like the ceiling fan

cooling the room down

from up above

today is different

the noise seems to boil

all around silence enters

with a crash and broken dish

girls really crying

over spilled juice

just like milk

what’s the use

getting harder to push the words

without help and someone

else wants some credit

won’t take more than three

keeping one for the self

asking him to read

then takes credit

for his progress…

not impressed

everyone has a story

how many are actually true

what is it this time

can’t anyone have a conversation

why is always a story

and why is it always

not very believable

what’s the use

listening anyway

although

not impressed…

far from the point

far from good English

speaking with every accent

imaginable so many versions

of the same language

should be such a beautiful

place not filled with

so much hate

far from good enough light

to be writing under

there he goes on again

rambling with the pen

page flipping

pen spitting words

and thoughts before

they become words

far from understandable

day turns to night

right before eyes

and words won’t reach

others as intended

and what’s the point…

one with the pen

the picture man

can’t discourage with words

not so much what he thinks

that matters to the one

with the pen

doing everything

he can to get his name

in front of eyes…

find the words

keep it real

only words

in this book

when given as a gift

always been real

always put on the spot

never getting the last word

on any topic

it’s all good

keep it real

forgetting any and all

negative someday

eyes will meet again

under new circumstances

and happiness on both sides

might not know what to say

still he will find the words…

struggle with the rhyme

mood swinging low

as if a year ago

stuck inside the car

under two feet of snow

suddenly the lamb arrives

not a moment too soon

upside down with confusion

reflection in the spoon

positively forward

one foot then the other

looking forward to summer

hanging out with my only brother

high in the Rockies

far from the tower

he can sit motionless

better part of an hour

as the sun sets and

darkness slowly creeps

emptiness arrives and

beats him as he sleeps

one eye open

focused on the time

one eye closed

struggle with the rhyme…

really thought

really thought

it would be ringing by now

only silence through the night

all day today more silence

thought for sure

watching all the beauty

dance inside the mind

what’s in front of him

all his company

only disappointed

by his own hands

anticipation for regularity

squashed with days of silence

and thought spinning sideways…

so he says

hear this

it’s what those

around are saying

no time to try

to understand

don’t know if it

is simply babble

or prophetic visions

of a third world war

ending it all

or stirring up

some real trouble

he can’t decide

or so he says…

strange footsteps

someone’s strange footsteps

followed time is what he has

an abundance of—time spent

curled over a book

so many wonder what is written

how many wonder why

and what he meant

how many would even ask

everyone given the chance

he is sitting writing hoping

someone has a chance to stop by

and offer a conversation

he had plenty up under the hat

where it won’t fit anyone else

for the reason that he has too much

thought going on to continue

on alone some sort of outlet is needed

suddenly even the waitress and bus boy

become potential conversations

how many who pour the coffee

would actually be interested

if they weren’t pouring the coffee

he passes the time for them

he’s a set of listening ears

that doesn’t know

enough about them to pass

any judgment and he wouldn’t anyway

they might never know

he is just one of their regulars

they become his inspiration

and they don’t even know

some could probably be friends

but they will get new jobs

and move on—then

he will be alone again…

facing the sun

finally facing the sun

as it sets wishing

and waiting for a sign of some

sort of signal so that

he can move from the spot

so many have come and gone

everyone has to appreciate

all that they have

everyone also leaves

where are all his teachers

his inspiration changes daily

when will inspiration find

it’s rest here where he

scribbles night after night…

simple thoughts

ink stains the page

never to be removed

into a spot in a corner

of a darkened room

to breathe none to move

again discovering

paralysis taking over

bridge after bridge

the gap between two points

lost in the shuffle from one

room to the next and onto

another page ruining

the purity of the white

light surrounding and

silently pounding out thought

after thought it would be

different out here where

nothing really matters anyway

down deep below all the thought

they say it’s nothing

and even that’s something

he wouldn’t know

he is not yet allowed

to walk the halls of another’s mind

might help him in his quest

for the most randomly

simple thoughts…

already seen

under weight again crushed

becoming a smooth surface

standing strong still

after how many falls

starting again

being left at the side of the road

someone is bound to pick him up

too young he thinks

he is too old do all the numbers

really matter as much as

they say as he is stumbling

through the crooked hallways

in his mind no direction

a maze and he becomes the rat

confused as all the halls

are dead ends

or is he coming back to

the same spots

he has already been to…

he is lucky

his foot is asleep again

it won’t stop him now

that he has a little

inspiration

only a little

it never follows him home

to the tower where he rests

not a bad place to be at all

he is lucky and knows it

it could be so much worse…

where from here

doesn’t matter anymore

can’t even really think

about what it would be like

becoming the writers reader

forming habits

around what only some

would call art

call it thought maybe

it’s no good to think so much

only a few things will prevent that

none of which will be done

not yet anyway

don’t know where from here…

pen in hand again

ticking of the alarm clock

mixes with computer noise

for no reason ends up back

high in this tower

sounds tend to be louder

street sounds as common

or more than

the birds singing

summer morning

another dizzy spell

falling asleep

pen in hand again…

nothing at this time

nothing concluded again

he sits writing it all down

his mind spits faster

than his hand

one moves slow on the

face of the clock

this time won’t stop

wait rewind he liked that part

made him feel as though

he isn’t falling into

all of the same potholes

he filled them all in the fall

spring now it’s cold again

concluding nothing that

anyone could find beneficial

not artificial though he making

it all up from where the pen

might lie but ask him

he won’t be forced

into pessimism if that

is what they call it now

he has proved to be a lunatic

merely waiting for the perfect

time again too bad it won’t return

will the dreams ever clear up

he thinks about all the moot

points his finger at no one

important as he looks

in the glass eyes meet at last

and still nothing concluded

muffled voices through the floor

he wishes they knew what to say

passing a window wave and a smile

what more can he possibly offer

nothing at this time…

everything is normal

don’t know what is going on

it’s Saturday night

everything is normal

no one is around

he becomes transparent

probably seeing through himself

right to the floor

maybe his eyes are just

acting funny again

occasionally turning what is

into what once was flipping

this mind sideways like a fish

on the floor just a normal night

the thoughts don’t help

but they also don’t leave

someone has got to be watching

but no one is ever around…

bring on the rain

how much longer

until the rain

soaks this soon to be desert

area where the hermit dwells

some think he is the reason

behind such a drought

but he continually denies

full responsibility

how much longer

until the rain melts

the walls that have formed

impossible to see passed

strong enough

considered indestructible

the silence begins to burn

soon everything will be consumed

how much longer

will these flames go unnoticed

allowing them to rage out of control

far from anything now

possibly bringing more rain…

upside down

breaking from the pack

with an explosion

opening up doors that never

existed until now

then he woke up

and someone said

from now on

off the rope he balanced on

high above the busy street

leads to nowhere

he can recognize a few

none of the words

seem to matter

no one understands

seeing into eyes

out of his mind

no one is paying any attention

ashes fall between pages

and the lights suddenly dim

every night at this time

apparently he wants too much

someone should probably

flip him upside down…

does no good

he just watches people

almost a constant occurrence

no matter where he goes

they are already there

he doesn’t mind seeing them

wishes only to see their thoughts

occasionally he gets caught looking

today the silence will end

at the bottom of another cup

notices a mug on another table

close by lipstick stained mug

no one sitting there

never was

wishing he knew who

was sitting there

wishing does no good…

just like yesterday

just like yesterday

nothing made sense

taken from a point

where nothing was all right

doesn’t want to get old

to decay to waste away

inevitable supposing the best

the silence he sits in burns

time continues to soar

high up in the tower…

they cannot tell

comes in contact with so many

none of them sticking around

don’t know what he wants

can’t even guess

rereading the scribbling

of this man getting

older with every empty day

high in the tower

nothing makes sense

especially here

the clouds wrap themselves

around the area tight

unable to see through the fog

created here on another

empty night

probably out somewhere in Boston

he is at home hoping

for a full recovery

just needing something

to fill all this empty space…

uncontrollable

studying but what for

he is no longer in school

quite possibly and simply

to better the quality of his mind

controlled at times

by desire at times by anger

and sadness sometimes

uncontrollable

reading until his eyes get crossed

paving a new way

solo most times

and so low sometimes

higher than the rest

sitting in his tower

where there is none

the silence becomes

uncontrollable

writing until the hand goes numb

falls to one side

as if fatally wounded

where has all the time gone

where will he be when

the storm ends…

think about that

wishing for a reason

to be here

too much like a regular

thought to be different

but just the same

no reason

just sitting

no purpose

‘cept to record

and write down

the random thought

speaking to the self

in a different way

others don’t even come

to this place anymore

not sure what

to think about that…

New England weather

yesterday it was 

seventy degrees

and today it is snowing

this freezes all his thought

where is it now

stuck in his head

much to say and

no one is near

trying to listen

sound is too far away

guess he will have

the conversation

alone again…

supposed to be

no rest though

sleep has been had

apparently not enough

staggering from place

even the coffee

has no effect at this point

no rest after two days work

how many hours now

through how many tunnels

before he realizes

he is exactly

where he is supposed to be…

far from anyone

the day hasn’t moved

standing still on the day

little to do

had to know he would

show up here

wishing he had a way out

for good

the day will pass like

how many now

part of him doesn’t even

recognize that time has passed

suddenly it’s dark

and he’s still scribbling away

far from anyone…