Wednesday, May 11, 2005

get ready for Monday


It's late Sunday night. No music, and
I am kept awake in the dark:
the rain throbs against the roof
and too much lightning makes my dog whimper.

I lie here running
through all the good reasons.
Now I'm angry again, thanks alot
to all of you who do this.

Now it's tomorrow. The radio
is all talk, and the rare songs dumb.
I floor it as I hit the highway, late,
screaming at the slow old lady

in front of me, doing her level best
to piss me off. One thing after
another, and there's birdshit on
my windshield too. This is just


great.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Firstly, to my mother: please stop reading my journal. It is not for you in any way, and you certainly do not understand it. Happy mother's day. It's my favorite holiday, even now.

And, now, a poem:

counting

Three, four o' clock,
and I wonder
when time starts its
counting and why, now,

I cannot see it. Odd,since
so many days are spent
thumb on finger, second to second,
knowing everything.

There is a now, at times,
and hungry for it, I eat
with godless appetite
until: then, on my murked horizon

waits me out.