this morning drinking my morning tea
up at the main house I noticed
every morning I’m here,
I wake up to inventory
inventory of the itches
is it mosquito is it spider
but always…is poison oak
I made a solid effort whilst working
to avoid any at all costs
but this morning I found
that I miserably failed
failed again, and failed forever
so now I realize I’m faced with a year
a full body year
of fanatical itching and
low grade irritability waking nights
scratching till bleeding
feeling like I want to
extract the first three layers of skin
with a razor because the sting
is easier than the itching

I have come to realize that no matter what you do
they will always throw you back on trial
even if they have to put you through double-jeopardy
for any old already-argued experience

your coworkers, your boss, your friends and enemies
the institutions, the governments, the society tea clubs
your parents, your wife, your children, even grandma

and always, too,
yourself

so many court battles and conversations
echoing through the head
a man is always a defendant and first-hand witness
to his own innocent life
on the stand and specified in all directions and districts,
dynamic levels and
juries in alternate dimensions, lobbied-over, wobbling and
tumbling, cascading and crumbling into himself as he
stands living now, flesh and breath and
undeniable, undying, even when the flesh and breath have
gone and even the cold
grave has been forgotten, the trial goes on, and the man is not
decided

so the smoking pipe, the coffee, the phone calls, recess,
athletics in the yard
every proceeding receives its breaks, and still every open door
is another world

and so, your Honor, in the charge of pleading innocent first, I
find myself guilty
hereby sentencing myself to a long life and a carnivalous
multitude of hearings
and appeals;

may I suggest I find myself a good team of
lawyers and attorneys, take
comfort in the right places, and try to keep a friendly
demeanor with those I meet

now let us put down the drinking cups, smother the ashes and
get back;
another court marshall has arrived, the newsman says the
queen’s been beheaded,
natural disaster has struck the coasts of Sri Lanka, tonight a
singing organist is on
the late show

and this one’s in
the books

I wonder, before all the kids, and the wife, the ever-visiting
friends, what did I do with all of my
time?

well, here I am, finally
with nothing to say
nothing to do

I scrape the tar out of my pipe and smoke it
tastes like hell but it eases my mind

across the room lay two new cigar-box guitars
made by my father
I plan on writing and recording an album with those two and
an old toy Telleno, along with one of
my babies’ toy pianos, just as soon as I finish the
currently ongoing album project

yeah, music, recording, writing: I’m a professional amateur
living in low-fidelity chaos
here I am, looking at a lampshade I once painted, inside is a
glowing blue lightbulb; I painted
a lampshade at some point in my life, and installed a blue

lightbulb

looking into those paintstrokes, thinking back, I remember my
wife helped me with that lamp
there’s another lamp over there across the room, with no shade
or bulb, just bare, a socket on a stem
casting a shadow on the white-plaster wall

I guess I would need to focus on the poem structure, and the
form; I hardly know now what is a poem,
and the same with the novels, whatever they are, and the
songs, the guitar albums

all around me are stacks of printed and folded paper, printers
and computer parts, cables, from the
last time I believed I could forever mass-produce my written
works for all the people of the world
it’s amazing how much I’ve sat here, daydreaming, typing out
the occasional uniquely-worded thought

such a place of paradise
to line highways with flowers

the way he flips me birds
makes me feel so at home

even though she’s there
I manage to still feel alone

but only on Tuesdays

tonight I’ll sip scotch
to ease the synaptic rush

closer to the life of the earth
the life of the ocean

my nose ceases to bleed
tonight I’ll feast a’ la’ yuppie

Cali-cuisine but fuck, it is so beautiful
maybe too nice like call me home

calling me names and throwing its own stones

I still drink cold coffee,
though I’ve decided to give up smoking
at least until the new year
that starts next week

I stare in out to nothing
at the floor, ’round the room,
out the window for three hours
waiting for someone, something
to come and start me flowing
once again

I’ve wanted to get back to reading, I’ve
known that I’ve stopped reading, my life
has sunken and dedynamicized to a solemn
sleeping stagnation, and it’s overly bored
and boring, writhing illishly before the tv

I just broke the bar return
some how as I was smoking
another flaw of character
will I maintain my integrity?
while I’m here
wanting and living the ideal
there is nothing in my life
that doesn’t have something
good going for it

the water was cool and clear
we walked gentile rapids to a small pool
dipped our bodies
floated in the sun of the evening
reeling in happiness holding
each other a-float
washing the grime of a 3000 mile road

my baby wrapped her arms around my neck
as I supported her weight
and I rubbed the stiffness from her spine

as we were leaving I left
my water on the roof
gently stopped and retrieved it

would’ve been sad to have lost our bottle
baby just passed “Reno with the vitamin D”
creeping back to thoughts last week

my baby Rain asleep on the car seat
stopped for water to beat the heat
got out the car with nothing on my feet

I look and I look and realize
I left my flips standing by
at the gas station forever goodbye