a revision of "Poetic Frustration"

The Blue Lit Walk

Foolish light falls,
from the bed,
out the window,
and onto the dirt.

Run fast, down two flights.
Do not look at them and they will not see you.
I cannot be caught by the humping monkeys.
Hurry back to the top bunk.
Not a good place to write but it’ll do.
Doesn’t take long for the excitement to wear off.

Doubts cloud my thoughts, and
Outside it begins to rain.
If only it could wash the apprehensions
from the gutters of my mind.
Thunder slaps its arc across the sky.
If only it could jumpstart the words
That I do not have.

Enough what-if’s already,
it’s time to put a pen to use.
At the very least I’ll know
whether there is anything
to put on the page.

(this is a strory of one crazy night trying to simply write my heart onto a page.)

Chicken Scratch Inadequacy
Why am I so afraid to put words on a page?
They might not come out write.
I might mess things up.

What if my poems are devoid of image and life?
Like the sterile supermarket.
Bland rows of colorful merchandise, food.
With a chill that sandaled feet cannot escape.

how’s my
line struc
tur
e
?

And as far as rhyme goes
I haven’t the slightest clue.
The difference between poem and prose
is still a concept quite new.

Surrealism is a crash into the slop of reason
one that drives dogs to no goodbyes or hellos
and word decks confuses the muses
in frequent metaphorical plainness, or complexity.

Do you get the point?
Poetry is not my strong point.
But still I press deeper its point
like a knife, until I am at the point
when I can’t handle any more points.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write
such beautiful poems
as the ones I read at Borders,
or be published by anything but my printer,
but I think that I might be ok with that.

Dandelion
Eyes jet between two lanes,
focused on the destination .
Lights flash and streak,
they are fireflies hitting his windshield,
leaving no mark but on his eyes.

Rum, pittle, Rum, pittle, Rum.
Braille driving keeps him awake.
His car rumbles on, bouncing along the road, unslowed.
Ninety-five, stayin’ alive,
dead to his life.

What is that on the side of the road ahead?
Does he see the small weed?
Will he stop to make a wish?
To break the stem
and breathe life back into the world?
But isn’t stopping on the freeway a crime?
He must decline, move on, no time.

The SUV he drives forms a shell.
Of air around it.
One that shatters the cloud,
that sends hundreds of little umbrellas
into a flurried blizzard of seedlings,
as he passes by.

The rumbling of his car fades in the distance.
The naked stem remains bent and broken
Its life has been sent into the world without him.
The blizzard, deflowered, subsides
Will he stop to make a wish?
Only if time abides.