Trying something new - no title as of yet

somewhere, in a sharp corner
between two bookshelves
	and above a bar - or perhaps
a coffee shop - sits a man
    			writing
the future into existence

*

don’t dawdle
mother always said -
	get in and out,
no one wants
		to deal with people
more than they
	have to.

*

everything’s rushed now -
brush strokes hasty
	and too late to matter.
it’ll come out in the wash
			       of course,
but the shadows of stains
are always more
	than just an eyesore.

*

				tell me,
does it matter what’s
sloshing in the cup?
do you write sonnets
			 better
when you’ve had
too much Merlot
	or is it just the fixation?

*

twenty seven years -
three addictions 
	and no rehab -
he’ll sit there all night,
			  hunkered and sore
until something worth saying
wriggles across the page.

he’ll catch it,
skin it and shape it
		        into something worthless
before tossing it back
			  into the sea.

*

darling
	sweet pea
		       , sugar -
didn’t mommy and daddy
teach you not to stare?

*

	in stark contrast,
rain drizzled against the grizzled
roofs cut from the Amazon -

erect sits the man
		        unwilling
	to admit
this was all on him.

*

fifty years later still -	
		  still at it
scrawling on cardboard
as the rain drips
    from awnings,
trying to find the way
back		to the beginning.

*

22,000 blinks of the eye
	some stolen on missions
as relief -		a respite sought
by the entire company.
	
	but in these conditions,
		who could blame them?

*

thousands of beans		just
	like the story -
a prize for guessing,
a realization, a rush
			and a chance
to forget it all that’s missed.

*

shells collecting at their feet
	like invoices -
each past due with the
red stamp shouting
			final notice.

*

for the last time
		   he shouts at the glass,
I will not take
	any goddamn requests!

*

the rain again -
this time coming
		    in sideways.

a few exhales for every
inhale - a moment
too long exposed   
		      and even God dies,
just like the rest of us.  

12