every two hours
i woke up and repositioned
the pillows as the
embers of the last
dream sizzled gently
hoping to find a single
moment more of sleep before
rising and tossing the
nets into the choppy water
in hopes of straining
enough of the words
to manage a poem or three
and still have enough
in the cooler for
the ever mounting list
of stories getting nearer
to their deadlines and
this morning i tossed
myself around enough to
have a hitch in my side
aggravated sullenly by
anything more than a shallow
breath and i think of
how many poems fell out from
me yesterday with a sigh
because i haven’t strung
together two good days
in over a month and all
the anxieties are mounting
and i don’t feel like
reading more hemmingway while
neruda just reminds me
that at least one person
in a relationship has to be
a narcissist and i hate
myself too much for that
distinction so it will be
sylvia and coffee once more
if i could just fucking
take a deep breath and find
my center for a little bit
but the last time i fell
headfirst back into dream
i asked a question to her
and when she opened her
mouth angrily to answer on
how i was an idiot for not
knowing the things she hadn’t
said in the latest month of
her not speaking to me
beyond the bare minimum in
the early mornings the alarm
sang and for a second we
both looked surprised until
i opened my eyes and shut
the racket off with a pain
in my left side as the
waters churned with pink foam
and i just knew this morning
was not a morning for the
poetic ramblings of an old
man cursing fate with his
arthritic fists half clenched
in an impotent inchoate
parody of being anything
more than broken by it all
knowing coffee alone cannot
salvage the wreckage of this
day that has barely even begun