We fell from Heaven
And struck every branch
On the way down.
The impact left a crater,
Half the diameter of a New England town.
With no direction I dream
Of rambling on.
Lucidly waking, scrambling for
Planes, trains, or bus.
Filling my hiking bag, hand encompassing a compass.
The only thing killing me is time,
It’s no longer a cigarette
Sitting amongst the pack
Within my breast pocket.
Craving immediate effect
Leads to side effects.
Portsmouth was settled in 1630.
My first glimpse through universe-rimmed black holes was in 1987.
Smells of rain spattered cobblestone, dusk, and wet wooden framed brick structures
Churn with diesel fuel and brackish ocean.
I’m surrounded by the building of burned hours…
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.
I use a Baoer fountain pen.
When I finish writing, my fingertip
Is stained with ink to the swirling rivet.
His decaf brewed from the K-cup single mug,
Steaming in a white Styrofoam cup
Doubled to protect his palms from the heat.