Working until 2 A.M.
Mopping a blood stained
Potato peeled floor.
To supplement my basement
Kitchen, I’m pinchin’:
3/8th’s of a plastic bear shaped bottle of honey.
I have the tea.
I have the coffee.
I have a tea bag that looks like metal tongs.
Made of bulbous, Iron-mesh bongs.
My dreams were absurd, scrambled last night, I know.
Can’t seem to recall any coherent flow-
Or any type of image worth review.
When I awoke, so vivid I could taste it.
Sober reality focused and it was gone.
A flicker across the retina of my mind’s eye.
Try to fire neurons in other hemispheres,
Try to recall that little detail-
A detail you might be creating
Or mixing from other flickers.
Like this poem, excavated from my skull.
The sun beats down
With bated baton
Upon a North York community.
Rattling the Black Walnut tree
Which peppers the back canopy
With meaty green seed.
Into the daze of reoccurring reality,
Into the marijuana haze,
Into heavy, hanging thoughts,
Into an empty, nicotine saturated tummy.