maybe they are stuck

in thirty minutes

used to fill

five to seven pages at a time

some days it takes

three days to produce

three pages

what a let down

like a plumber who

has been paid

but will not work

sometimes I sit as if catatonic

for thirty minutes at a time

waiting for thought

to come out maybe

they are stuck up in the mind

and will have to wait

until it dries and cracks

then while still sitting I will

leap from my spot

with so much thought

and then everything stops

sometimes I come back and reread

what I have written

astounded shocked and awed

and a little bit saddened

as the day comes

to an abrupt end falling

asleep drowning myself

on the pool table…

up later than most

up later than most

second wind

asleep at the desk

spinning the wheel

not to particular

about which direction

he is facing

as long as he can see

he closes his eyes

to hear the rain outside

with each pass

he swings closer to

the ground thoughts

like smoke

think and swirling

around and he’s nearly

dizzy and half falling

asleep but always puffin tough

one hundred one years later

a legacy ends in the city where

it all started it’s too late

now but somehow his coffee

is still warm he is in the basement

contemplating one hundred

and one years some trees

might not live as long

up later than most

second maybe third wind

caught him in a sandstorm

luckily his eyes were shut

and mouth was closed

tight like a fist raised

and used as a hammer

to pound a point across

thirty minutes pass like thirty seconds

intervals in between thoughts

and quick rest periods…

seven one nine to the five oh eight #1

so now he’s in the basement

mixing his own medicine

underneath the pavement

trying to figure out the government

hacking like a bastard

preparing for disaster

this summer learned to plaster

only wish he could do it faster

two minutes left it might all end tonight

no worry he won’t go down without a fight

thinking of all the things that are not right

out in the backyard under the stars

arms with some muscle mostly just scars

more nervous habits like trapped behind bars

waiting to escape where’s the getaway car

parking and ready to go on a whim

no one will know or attempt to follow him

but that’s only if the future’s too grim

and shot after shot he’s hitting the rim

rhyming and reeling in a twisted state

thinking from the seven one nine

to the five oh eight…

connected to the mind

it’s as if it is connected to the mind

he sits in the basement waiting

for his spirit to return

no one believe

okay maybe one or two would

no one else would when

the cabinet is found open

they know who has been here

in one way or another

less than five years ago

he stood in this spot

shooting pool waiting

for the afternoon drive time

to arrive

it’s as if he has got

all day to sit and contemplate

this thought

and onto the next…

under the ceiling

under the ceiling spins without

anything except caffeine

and a bag of white smoke

like cotton candy

is anyone even keeping track

of how often he blacks out

in the basement wakes

in the middle of the night

wandering around the kitchen

as if sleeping makes me hungry

under the ceiling

slowly getting lower as the night

gets longer until day light seems pointless

to get up for more years of confusion

and fear

under the ceiling he sits

at the base of a tree

in the neighborhood

piling rocks to form

his own private island

under the blue gray ceiling

he knows it will clear

as the night arrives

at least the near full moon

will illuminate the rest of tonight

spent in deep concentration

bumping beats background

under his ceiling whether

cave or sky above

crystal clear in darkness

as if the clouds knew

to leave the spot as quick as

they came back on a reunion tour

of the same sky from all the days before

under the same constantly changing

ceiling until there are no thoughts

locked away as if top secret

government but it's no secret

that the government can be bought

and cannot be trusted

under the ceiling

some will never admit it...

closing my eyes

closing my eyes I see and hear

all that is available

closing my eyes driving

from here to there

beats bumping the main flow

planet asia and a soft chair

on wheels lighting the best

greenery in the basement

been in this same spot

fifty-two bars and counting

back from ten at times

confused by the stray noises

the dog will make when he thinks

someone is holding out on him

closing my eyes

could fall asleep four hours

ago as it started to get dark

and I drove around trying

to avoid the impending

doldrums circular drives

getting caught without an escape

route no plan just the seat

of my pants and what was the chance

it would all work out

closing my eyes as the night

gets closer to being over

every minute not at all disappointed

by the sounds surrounding the head

in the clouds either way

closing my eyes

imagining my thoughts

could inspire as the spit-kickers do

closing my eyes as if I was one as well...

nap in between

the heavy head and eyes

remind me of twelve hours

ago sitting in the same spot

kicking around the same

thought twisted

into another day

find behind eye lid spots

as I make my way

from here to there

with a nap in between...

downstairs

thoughts pin me downstairs

sometimes I can’t wait to get up

from above but down below

and besides how could even be

possible that he knows

what it is I say

he hasn’t been here

watching my thoughts

getting pushed out onto

the hot patio something like a grill

with coals red hot downstairs

below where anyone else can

even attempt to be swimming

in an ocean of thought

might just drown as soon as he gets

out over his head and no one

mentioned his lack of skill in buoyancy

more like that of a rock

straight to the bottom

when not dreaming and to avoid

falling he might spend

the rest of the day

downstairs…

political thought #6

doing God's work

is it really how God

would attack the situation

which side is lying

God has the decision makers

flustered telling mortal enemies

separately that they are doing God's work

somehow against each other

maybe the plan is population control

both sides believe they are right

by God but both believe war

is the answer wouldn't God

want peace you would think right

from my own learning

God is all about peace

everyone should stop hating

each other and start hating

the politics around the world

that create these wars

terrorism isn't going away

as we occupy their countries

and terrorism is the insurgency aimed

at the war policies of our country

they make their war decisions

over catered breakfast

lunch and dinner

never finding the terror mastermind

instead continuing the policy

that invented the terror

to begin with

ideas might come in

late night to a clouded room

cramp in the stomach

instead of moving I sit

and let the sound

dissipate into the dark

night air no care about

the politics until they start taking

what we consider minor luxuries

our tax money

being dumped as death and bombs

creating the perfect fighting machines

how many more will have to die

for the politics to come to terms

with what they are doing to the world...

stranded here

absolutely elevated

free emancipated

even if only for a handful

of minutes

or even a couple hours

some can hang

well into the night

to find a thought

stranded here

in the basement

still getting used to the seasonal

surroundings much rather

a window to look out

and see the night

sky light unless

clouds cover

the stars view

of all of us...

nothing concluded 146

still fine without

nothing concluded

within the confines

of an existence

anomalous to some

anyone else

find themselves

inspired by

the regular moments

eternally saved in volumes

this serial thinker

joined momentarily

by one who knows

as well

and dreams while awake

he's attracted to this

idea as it were

a long lost friend

he never knew

nothing concluded...

after 8

driving around back and forth

on the highway just to watch

the sunset in an open sky

should have brought a camera

driving is hard enough

after 8 is enough as well

as anyone could ask for

no one knows the outcome

some wait patiently others pace

drive smoke and bite a nail or two

but after 8 it gets silly

to be standing he sits on the floor

driving home or somewhere

else that quick
stung like a finger

caught in the car door

30 seconds and blue

when he asks the professional

when the war will be over

don’t wait do it now

whatever it is make it now

no other words necessary

the war is inevitably perpetual

unless the people stand strong

and carry a big stick

stung with thought

day after day

looking into the stinger dripping

with magic inspiration

the backyard bares fruit

for the awaiting lungs

stung with compassion

don’t remember when it happened

sometime after 8…

September humidity

the fan upstairs sounds

like a helicopter getting close

sounds of a plane over head

vibrates the floor of this porch

where eye sit contemplating

the rest of the time left

lane must travel fast

to get in and out or linger

and make eye wonder

how and when

and when it’s done

eye hope he doesn’t want

to be a friend to the household

break another chair

and eye won’t charge

or pay any more

than happy to offer a hand

and it’s just a matter of time

and room to breathe proved

the lung capacity is not

fully diminished

the sounds outside

maybe confused crickets

sweat as it took until nine

to cool this September heat…

wrongs written

a lot of times

my thoughts penned

here are disjointed

scattered and slightly random

but they aren’t your thoughts

if you don’t understand

what I am saying

you are halfway there

even if I am still here writing

the wrongs I have written

probably shouldn’t

get into a second verse

or slightly random

un-punctuated paragraph

but I did so there is no stopping

it is here even when I am there

writing the wrongs I have written

it’s been tough to transition

to this spot two years

finally makes it feel like home

the revelations have been

showing up daily

like the mail funny how I never

got a letter but I will continue

to write the wrongs I have written…

nothing concluded 145

what will it be tonight

nothing concluded

unlike any other

how long until the flame

meets in the middle

the remnants of September's

past litter the mind

from then on

who or would

argue with this fact

four degrees fell

in an hour

at this rate

it will be freezing

by four am

no one else

is keeping track

most on their

way home from

cook outs

hamburgers

beer and corn

forget the watermelon

because someone

forgot to cut it

fine without

nothing concluded

within the confines

of an existence

anomalous to some

it's the inspirational

regular moments

eye want to save

for eternity in these

volumes of serial thought

it'll probably take

all my life

to get them all out

Charles' thoughts still come out

and he's been dead since 1997

could've been 1999

he was in his

seventies

nothing concluded

fully loaded

with everyday

regularity the sounds

of the end

of the summer

take me into darkness

began and will end

with a pain behind

the left eye

twitch in my right

pen in hand

as always

nothing concluded

some nights will

be more quiet

than others...

the day is done

the day is done

and the summer

is almost done

as well as he can be

at the moment

waiting for the future

to hold some certainty

again the day is done

puffing hard until the head

is cloud bound but the sky

is most certainly clear

the moon shines

and it may even be full tonight

or tomorrow whenever wherever

no doubt he will

take the time to check it out

when the day is done

tomorrow always brings more time

to the table but who could’ve known

it would come back this way again

for another look

the nights all seeing single eye

looking down to the cloud

he has created and it blows it away

like the flame on a candle in the window

whichever direction

the night takes him is where

he is going and it’s more of a challenge

to try to focus under the enormous cloud…

around this time

around this time

every night

the eyes began to cross

paths with lines

were intended

for these words

start to end

every thought done

up in the mind

with little time to spare

for thought with registered

approval cooked up in a lab

somewhere rather within a cloud

mistakenly misjudged

upon arrival

around this time

he starts to worry

suddenly revealing too much

a weakness which maybe

used by any known enemy

waiting in whatever car driven

the Friday night fireworks

are on time this week

but around this time

the eyes get weary

and the wind carries the sound

all the way across town

from west to east

opposite the sun behavior

and how long will the page the book

stay empty explosions quicken then stop

all of a sudden wishing more

read the shirt as he headed for home

how long until the catch

up to the criminal inside

the town that won’t admit

instead of a self-inflicted

label both city and one filled with champions

how does anyone know

if it’s truly the case

could be tried but the verdict

may not be pleasing

around this time

every night from now on…

nothing concluded 144

apparently not as much

time is as necessary

when most rest

he sits eyes wide

enough to see every sound...

tall healthy children

brought indoors

hope and good care

is all they need

nothing concluded

as if there is a point

to the chronic pen

movement after how

many years will

words become reality

exaggerating when it is

necessary to drive a point

home cutting himself off

from any outside

influence

what will it be tonight

nothing concluded

unlike any other

how long until

the flame meets

in the middle

of a thought

he tripped over

his own stupidity

and fell

to the floor

and beyond

who could

help him up

from this spot

down low

and nearly out

waiting for the rest

of us to fall too

or so he says

nothing concluded

it may be all

he knows

after all the years

to be continued

no particular

direction just going

on and on

into another

world

one tall healthy child

helped create

not exactly what many might think

what one might know

without assumption

outside all the night's

sounds are fully audible

and the dog

will bark until

he is king of the neighborhood

protecting his turf

as the night gets

darker the sounds seem

to get louder

sirens are constant

background sound

as late as eye

will remain open

a mind closed

for nearly two years

nothing concluded

since written on

two Popsicle sticks

to remember

a dead bird

from that moment

on he felt charged

with the task

of keeping it going

nothing concluded...

nothing concluded 143

voices in the dark

not my own

or any I recognize

out staring any ghost

in the dark

disappointed because

I live less than one hour

from more than one beach

and haven't visited

yet this year

room to room

searching for one

moment of silence

none to find

out it doesn't exist

alone for so long

forgot how to live

with another

thinking being

and much more

beautiful than I

nothing concluded

as always

light shining bright

from that spot

an interconnected

illumination

it's what one might

see when two

together endlessly

nothing concluded

probably not

the most appropriate

but it signifies

the continuation process

and it doesn't matter

how long it might take

days months years

still

nothing concluded

and so much

learned and stored

and shared

two ends of the same rope

untied waiting

nothing concluded

another thought

rising to the top

like bubbles around

the ice in your soda

the dog joins me on

the porch for some

smoke having no idea

nothing is concluded

barking just the same

just so he can

be loud

I swear he only barks

to hear himself

sometimes...