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…