3 poems

~~~~~~~~~~IN DREAMS~~~~~~~~~~

A dying demon lies in my bed
and he must be slain which is too bad,
because he's actually quite nice.
Jack-o-lantern faced executioners
are killing children in the streets
of New York City, as I ride by in a
station wagon driven by a stranger.
A madman is running back and forth
in the hall, and I wish he would stop,
because I'm trying to find the
old lady's secret room,
and he's very distracting.
I'm trapped in a phone booth,
hiding from John Laroquette,
who is a very bad man,
when he's not playing pool.
An empty milk bottle is chasing me,
but it's quite slow. It's the bust
of Mozart that concerns me...

I think he's catching up.


~~~~~~~~~~WHY AM I LAUGHING?~~~~~~~~~~

Why am I laughing?

Half-conscious and blurred, I can't quite recall
Amused by my own hilarity, for whatever reason
Through the haze, you, standing over me, looking down
I raise my hand, reach to you, inviting you
Join me in my absurdity, laugh with me
Disgusted, head shaking, you walk away
Lying alone on the floor, helpless and shunned
Uncomprehending, the meaning escapes me
Surely, this is of great importance
My sedated mind spins in confusion

Why am I crying?

~~~~~~~~~~PATSY CLINE KNOWS~~~~~~~~~~

I've been living on beer and cigarettes, and listening to sad songs.
Yeah, I'm a walking cliche, and you know what? I don't even give a shit.

Patsy Cline knows the score.

I'm pleading and bleeding and needing, and sighing and crying and dying...
And every other cheap rhyme that translates to I'm fucking miserable.

And what the hell rhymes with calloused hands? Maybe ‘understands’?
But how could I ever put your hands down on paper? God, your hands...

I mean, Damn it, baby.

Should I mention how much I loved your stupid cat? Lots of rhymes there.
Cat, hat, that...Get a load of me, I'm a regular Doctor-fucking-Seuss.

God, I'm so tired. I hardly sleep anymore, too many other things to do.
Like not listening to the phone not ringing. Like not thinking about you.

Yeah, good luck with that.

Not thinking about your ugly-beautiful, perfect hands. Your crooked smile.
The way your hair smells. How you like wearing dress shoes with jeans.

Not imagining you with some other girl...I bet she’s prettier than I am.
I bet she'll be able to write a decent poem when you break her heart.