I Wish You Would Have Just Gotten Diagnosed

I
His voice used to roll through the open house,
From his office it would bounce off the walls, into the den.
The deep vibrato shook my spine.
Now he just speaks in broken whispers.


II
I poured Kettle One into his favorite square glass,
“The only medicine I need.” Fuck L-dopa.
His massive hands griped the sweaty vessel,
And his shaking made the ice cubes rattle
While vodka splashed from the brim.


III
He had been shouting for help for hours,
I was late for our weekly visit.
I found him limp, naked and cold on the bathroom floor.
He stopped shaking.

Well shit.

I'm not really sure what this has become.

I'm not really sure what I have become.

I've just been stuck in a rut, but I don't know if it is a rut or I just don't have anything else to say.

I may have just become one of those people that say they are an artist but nothing to show for it.


That's not who I am.... I just need to produce produce produce.

I'm going to screenprint on saturday. (FOR REAL) and after the reading at 28th street I want to write more.

But it's one thing to want to do something, and another to stop plopping down in front of the computer and actualy make something worth while.


Maybe I'll write poems about The Wire, that seems to be the only thing holding my intrest lately....