So heavily, hands lay upon anxious chest
They pull and they push and they twist
I hum and I haw but I cannot them best
I wonder what I could have missed
When growing to be such a worried old wreck
Why can’t I just push them away?
These hands that creep into and squeeze at my heart
Uninvited during the day

What to write?


What to write, what to write, what to write?
My upstairs is missing a light
I feel I am blocked
Like I’m locked in a box
Can’t concoct nor conceive, what to write?

When your head’s in a cloud, what to write?
Do I give in, give up, should I fight?
Do I stick it to blocks
Though my brain feels like rocks
Should I run to the docks
Or hide like a fox?
Maybe breathe noxious toxins, make words like “fomboxins”, catch pox, latch the locks, till I barf in my mocc’sins?

Oh Lord, what to do? I can’t write!


The Man Who Drove A Sedan

There once was a man
Who drove a sedan
And fam’ly was his only love.

He drove it to work
(He worked for a jerk)
And park’d in the garage above.

His car-space was small
And so was the hall
Down which he would go to his chair.

Today the hall lamp
Was being a scamp
And fell toward the man, through the air;

When all of a sudden his small brain was flooding with flashes of lives old and new,
And he did a turn, burn’d the kernel of learning that happened on that day of Tue.

There once was a man
Who drove a sedan….
He woke up confused, with hurt head.