And so I wake in bed
at dawn
under knotted covers
the heat blasting from the giant vent by the bed
and sense
what there is
to what there is
stretching the wrists
breathing
listening
thinking
each point
popping out
turned to a thing
blooming and dying
before the next.
And if you slow down just barely enough
for a glimpse
of the big picture,
it finally becomes possible
after all that water
under all them bridges,
through all the swamps,
for all these eons,
to get
how truly immaterial
and incomplete
the feelings,
and perceptions,
and voices,
and ideas,
and centralities,
and egos were
as compared
to the everything else
that isn’t a thing at all
oozing along
on its way
to the truth
that lies
in the pivot
of nothingness.
Everything ever
in all time
and all space
brings itself
to this
precise
moment
which itself
like the small end
of a funnel
explodes
whatever
through it
and on
to the next
precise
moment
within which
everything
else
again
pops along
in one
long
ever changing
cacophony
of now
as if
it were all
meant
to be.
We want to think
there’s the moment
way back when
we realize we got to be done
and put down the bottle or the pipe or whatever
and the rest is history.
We want to believe
them problems we had
were caused
by the whatever
now’s put down
and so after getting clear
of such debris
and taking a stab
at trying to fix
the shit that went down
before we put down,
now we’re really done.
And you see folks
who cling as tenaciously
to these ideas
as they probably did
to their old ideas
so that just like the angry drunks and addicts
before,
they’re still
pissed off
about the what now
that’s crammed
down deep
just as tight and stuck
as back then,
and though they may not freeze
under the bridges
or drown in their own blood
like might have been,
its still
not a pretty sight
to behold.
I seen them
pound on tables
about humility
and serenity,
scaring the crap out of newbies
and luring away the gullible ones
we all are
most of the time in our lives.
When I put down
it was nice for awhile, too,
being sober and all,
but before long
the reasons
getting fucked up
was a good idea
in the first place
came creeping back
like a cat in the morning
looking guilty
about the night before,
and it scared the shit out of me.
Still does.
Because that stuff
is the stuff
I still ain’t got
out of my system yet,
haven’t touched
and barely even have
a clue.
All the clarity in the world
about how crappy
using for its
medicinal value was
doesn’t do a damn thing
for the stew in the pot
climbing higher
boiling over
and snuffing out
whatever heat
the meager flame
of mere sobriety
emits.
And I don’t want
to pound no tables.
nor scream and cry,
or spout off passages
from sacred texts
whenever
the pain flows.
Because that’s not enough
to have
a life worth living.
And I don’t think
there lies in me
another
whatever it takes
to clean up the mess
all over the floor
again,
which means
the time now comes
for the stuff the lies
down deep within
to get a little air
and a look or two,
perhaps with an eye
towards making friends
with who I am
become today.
