depend on nothing

depending on what is said

when everything else is put to one side

pushing towards something new

other side pushing too

fear unknowing

uncertainty self-doubt

fills the void

when there other side

of the table remains empty

day after day

depending on something other than

what is important

just a moment and reality

sounds a little funny

does it spit it out

what’s on the mind

thoughts trapped behind smiles

wide letting high tide

wash away the impurities of the day…

where is he anyway

knowing he was there

wondering now if he still is

so many smiles

just as many chances

needs to find that spot

again the one in his mind

found him alone after work

where is he now

not there

within the mind

an inspiring place

attachment has to be unlearned

brother’s warning

more awareness not for distance

for thinking rational

patiently taking each moment

in stride never really knowing

when eyes will meet again

where is he anyway

and what or who is on his mind

knowing he was there

delusion maybe in that fragile spot

don’t want to break or be broken

little worry though

at the wedding of a friend

enough fun to make up for lost ground

in the years that have passed

and been forgotten

days fly by like the minutes when he is there

on some level a connection made

never to be lost

knowing he is close to something special

an unanswered question he is afraid to ask

remains inspired how do you fit

into a mind you cannot read…

my closest friends are dead poets

eating reality sandwiches

and reading the planet news

there’s a perfect circle in my mind

Maynard drew it up with blonde wig and all

American spirit in hand

and smoke rises from fingers folded

the moments return as I burn page after page

so close to perfection even if the circle

isn’t perfect or purple and who cares

what the opposite of evil

really is no one is really there anyway

so close to being where I want to be

walking the halls of a museum

never seen this beauty

nothing’s perfect except imperfection

Maynard has got to know this

all of my closest friends are dead writers

or ones I have never met

eighteen and twenty-three

numbers staring at me

from books half a century

since friends were in this spot

where I sit daily so close to what I want

on the edge ready to jump

the looming question remains

will I make it will I survive another fall

regardless of how hard it is

and what it involves

there is a muse somewhere

instantly a courage comes over me

rise up to be reckoned with

let me know that I will survive

any fall everything will work out

in some way…

nowhere

a thought

too deep too far out

unrealistic

look around the room

nowhere

and it becomes

an instant somewhere

a thought

too deep without enough light

or time

nowhere

the somewhere desired

how can I begin

untangle the mind

muscles tighten and my right foot

is completely asleep

a thought…

from inside

from inside can’t see where I am

don’t recognize anything around me

on the floor remembering how I came to be

one night in Canada camping

don’t exactly remember

glad for that

from inside I hear the rain

lightly on the metal awnings

what an awful word

somehow below I hear

my grandfather snoring

the television is on as well

there is a muse

but it could be a hallucination

of some sort wouldn’t even know

in no hurry to wake

if it’s a dream

from the inside I constantly

question myself…

who was he

who was he before me

in line up everything

he might need a push

to get moving

in an uphill direction

left at home

or that places where he stays

under low light at night

you will find him

smiling at the moon

full and allowing his shadow to join him

late night conversation

with another personality

he keeps this man hidden

beneath the layers

clothing and skin

hardly keep him warm

that’s where thoughts come in handy

but who was he here

all along the way stopping to refuel

or refuse help from others

everyone is promising something

he looks stupid waiting for a follow through

everyone has shit they have to wade through

and deal with on a daily basis

hope that not all become ostrich-like

sand in hair and eyes

can’t hear the sirens

when someone has stopped breathing…

words heard

sometimes words fail me but not often
sometimes what I see isn't what is seen
by all the rest many times rising up
from a fall or too many thoughts reaching
no matter how much I want them to leave me alone
a supermarket writer on vacation
at a supermarket stacking fruit
no place for a writer or a good place for one
it's day to day though riding waves out
over my head keep on regardless of danger
not indestructible just willing to put it
on the line want my words heard...