What the hell is going on...

What the hell is going on!
When I am going on the past, I know I am in deep shit
if the past is what’s coming into play in the future present play,
play, play, what happened to the play
When did you first stop singing, dancing enjoying a story
When the drama became traumatic
When the dance became too lewd
When the singing became rote, end on a bad note
When the furnishings became unworthy of the house
The frame unstable, unable to hold the roof
This roof is on fire and its freezing in the basement
Pendulum once again, easy does it and hard pays for it.
Gypsy seems to have all the answers, hobo packing the meager lunch
Stalled in the fevered frenzied unreality
Reality is calm, takes its time to account and add up the years
Wrinkles all ironed out in rigor-mortis,
no care in the world,
only care in the aftermath as nothing adds up
only sideways to slide rule
Cant keep the dog happy, or maybe, she is happiest howling anyhow
Better off with neighbours’ complaints that are yet to come
Silence in the deep winter, I can hear the crickets hum in the frozen present.
The jungles’…deep rich sounds…pounding out…flows in the river
Grasp of the pen leaving cramped inky blots with not much revealed
Oh the secrets only worth keeping if it is kept
How is it that at the least mention of attachment I fly, want to run from thee commitment.
I am committed to seeing care become the norm…not a struggle to cover
A way of life in joyous part…not a privilege…a right to childhood
A debt I owe from this privileged posit, on to all who went so quickly before me
Of course I owe it, no matter how sour the suckling hours, it will get better
for those who dare to care or none will be left to care…
Crapped out in the howling hours...
Left for dead, wiggled my toes in too tight throws
Split my head on the radio dead
Gibberish leaking out since the ball point pen ignited the pages
No careful setting of pen…to ink…to page…as words whirl…
I got nothing…no rhyme nor shine
Supposed to be just fun, fun justified by the right to life
and make it a musing for the gods sake
Spilling only counts if you’ve only had one drink…always seems to be the last though
Damn you incommunicado men, driving me to distraction
Belong to someone else is the short answer
Never to be seen again
5 other senses to recognize the defeat
Oh bothersome bail out of responsibility
Hole in my bucket, that’s where the water taps out
Rest and reach down. Mmmmm…..


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