Text:
Here i sit surrounded by my half shaken walls,
two parts headache and one part arm-through-window.
one hand full of discarded tears,
the other, its partner, entangled in my furrowed brow,
amidst the jungle of hair.
I stand, to greet my dizziness, light drawn,
light composed.

I retreat to my chair by my half shaken walls,
half empty world, half packed cartons, half baked thoughts
my memory leaves my corpse,
flies through radiant breeze,
plants me on the couch where
I feed from youthful arrogance
and antiquated rhetoric.

Lovingly shamed by my own admission,
my responsible and necessary omissions,
I take in (via my sick eyes) some life-juice.
When I am done, I retreat to my chair
to sculpt an angel of words,
sitting on a pew, penitent and proper.
I write poems because I am a sensitive man.

This poem is done, without repair,
I walk away, don’t ask me how, don’t tell me when.

Spoil my lunch and steal my dinner,
I am through.