flimsy fire

that sort of burning motivation you feel at 1:00 PM hungover longing desperately for pancakes

It's here again:
that devilish urge.
I feel it when
laying, lazing, on my
stained amphodel comforter
and it's worst
when (if ever) I read Steinbeck.
I think I'd make a good writer
if I got to New York .
Back hugging the linoleum
floor clutching at my hair
twisting - to bast to rope to fetters
- shadows of other people's dreams;
aided by that '07 Central Valley troubadour
- cavorting busker - cools my joy,
heats my rage - filling the sax-case
to feed my raw hide
to his daeads.
So (in the interest of self-preservation),
I pack my flagged hopes- compulsive pandemoniums
- as jetsam,
and see them off.
I take another breath
of misty vine,
and stir my ambrosia
with mustard and salt
bow to dusk's mendacious java
and drift again into the world