Creativity Sucks!

There is nothing inside,
but you know that -
We are drifting on pedals
and tanks running dry,
or wrists clutch to
knuckles that drag on
the pavement.

There are ghosts and
they’re hungry, but
there’s no food within,
I am all there is
and I’m lonely.
Come in,
help me warm to the
touch.

Help me staining the glass
which we both know will
break, but we’re hoping
that image wipe it
clear, that stone
be rolled away,

Our glass shards
blue and yellow, green,
once scattered sill to floor
might up and lift our
cushioned seats -
perhaps we’ll climb out windows,,

we ought to go outside,
let’s off and find the sun!
There’s a world within
and a world without and
here inside there’s nothing.
There is nothing inside.
Come in.

He’s still something else and I’ve walked off the boarding.
My eyes brim with laughter, my throat seize in pain
and the day into streetlight in some nowhere Norcal,
in a house we were paid to leave from
when there was nowhere else to go.

I wondered where you were and my boots beat the concrete,
blocks of frustrated and fruitless delay.

Panic, relax, find your center,
he’s nowhere, he’s gone, relax,
center- panic! He’s gone.
Cue the sound effects-
a cold wind.

Go back, trace your footsteps,
cry on a park bench.
I’m so goddamn hungry.
Forty-nine cent burritos,
red + green sauce and
settle out details.
Calm my stomach.
Center.

Call the cops-
they haven’t seen him either.

I found him on a table, laid back and breathing smoke.
Where ya been, he asked.
I got some cash and free sandwich, you hungry?

I told him I’d already eaten.

I had higher hopes for this tree root cathedral.
Her crowns were cast in bronze and dreams,
bejeweled by glitter and
set aside.

There was little about
and the story,
old.
By the time my tummy settled,
by the day I took her there, there
was little left to do but wander.

When we breathed,
it was more like snowflakes:
unoriginal,
built by happenstance, and
by no means worthy of
more applause.
She was pretty but she’d never last.

She’d seen no wonder and that would not do.

She was a warm, smoking gun.

Her hips held swagger that
swayed as they’d rock,
rolling in languish over so
many drawn eyes and raised lashes.

She was a warm apple pie,
and I was begging to taste.

In the woods by the path,
the words rolled off easily,
and she lapped them up as had
one or two before her.
High cheeks and whatnot,
true as was told,
but I’ve grown at least a little
since then.

I’ve said before that which was told truly,
but I can smell in the air
something humid approaching.
When it comes,
where can I rest my bones
to hide from the storm?
To break from the form
of the mold I was placed in?

It’s all coming up flowers in this city of roses,
be it nighttime or daylight, pleasure or pain.
There were moments held aching,
coddle clothes curled up snuggling
(no, I’ll never away) to
burn cardboard and wood chips.

I’ll tell you my story,
I’ve showed you my soles.
They’re grey and greying, and
soon they’ll be gone.
Once my shoes fall to pieces,
then you’ll find me on the floor.

I went through your things today and found mementos from your old life.
I read pain and coughing, crows from throat that held back-

I went through your things today and found the reason why I found you,
why you were out there in the first place, so you could ask me for a lighter.

Having gone through your things,
I am seeing light as told me without boom or thunderclap,
no shout, congratulations.
See,
a call to home connects to you and words do change as minds do too.
I am draped by that which I wanted to warm with,
that blanket poured over our heads.
Now that we’re down here and curled up in bedsheets,
there’s no more right future than
here with you nightly and there with you daytime.

I went through your things today and found omens of past,
not a gift or the present, but of night’s dawning shadow.
The sun is now up.

I went through your things and I put them each back.
Those crows coughed up and their talons away –
now there’s no need for fear and I’m ready for you.
Your things which I went through were handed to me,
four lines on a page never written for me,
so I hand them all back or to sides or within me.
I trust that I’ll see them again.

Thank you lord for tea leaves,
how they warm and
soothe my soul
on this long and boring evening
bent to small, the
morning
hours
take their toll, now
I’ve got something
to keep me up, alert
or somewhat conscious
even as the seconds pass
to a third and into
minutes:
these leaves inside
silk satchels
how they warm and
soothe my
soul

the words and dots connect
themselves to silhouette
my shadowed frame, my
darkened figure reaching
out,
as if
any stroked ego meant more
than ego stroked and
shining:

shush.
the radio’s off,
and there are no more distractions
except this glass of wine
and the mug I poured my chips in
had coffee left, but just a bit

and these margins are awful,
this paper’s a mess,
and I’ve finished the wine -

my, but that didn’t take long

don’t touch me with your fingertips, I
want the whole damn things in,
all of ‘em ripping
pulling apart these lungs and vein ‘til
all that’s left is a pit or shell
the little bit where
the words all pass off
& the breathing slows ‘til
all I’ve got is this,
is nothing

Some time we had there -
are you also coming with us?
we’ll tear our limbs like
leaves from trees or
paint from fences
and walk the
streets with
smiles widened -
are you also pulling with us?
The weight’s
not more
than one strong back’s worth
but goddamn
these fingers
are slip
pin
g