Friday Night
strange twisted colors
fragmented eyesight
for another thing to forget
slow motion spitting
dropped to a thing off-centered
thought about till it flickered
into life
out of focus
another day that ended
with no conclusion unreadable and unrecognized
to mock a clich�
a minute behind


Never Ask For Tea
I gave up coherency for a line of prose
(just a way to get something on the page)
with hunger eating at the fat and protein in my brain.
Couldn�t see straight let alone think;
the laws of English broken so soon,
couldn�t stand to the flowing globules
(of malnutrition pissing away the line of thought)
in this warm pool of viscous fluids-
names I never got around to knowing
and a string of consonants got lost somewhere.


Drumroll
Couldn�t be a worse time
For jammin� on a wall
The pound-pound of an hour ago
Rolls down a pale stall.
Speakin� becomes a deaf thing
With a ramblin� loss of taste
Put down in hopes of clarity
(Cover it up, to say,
To see what was there)
What you wanted along the way
The trick to not know
Where to go before you waste
All your time in feeling out
A broken Braille mystery
Lost in waking up again
Forgetting a chance at clarity.

My fingers are sore and worn down
Mornings couldn�t be a worse time
Pounding out a beat
Smudging skin in the grime
Banging at the language barrier
Buried in varied jetsam.
My head makes a dif�rent sound,
A thump, not a ding,
Jumbled thoughts stared at
A bit of jangle on a string
In fuzzy haze
And mangled cerebrum
Beaten bloody time on the wall
And a gaze growing blanker by the hour
The mornin� light is harsh to a faint mind
Faded and a little lacking power.