WokeUpThisMorning,PutOnMyShoes.
Left for the magic as it happened.
Leaving the thoughts of the night's sleep,
Betrayed,
They were strong, stormy and unsympathetic.
They were dreams.
Thoughts of reality and sanguine.
Struggles bereft of the things of life.
I walked in my shoes.
East of the West-Side highway.
Thinking about being “On the wagon,”
About not,
About Wagoners,
The Oregon Trail.
Other people have sorrow and dregs.
Other people are Somali,
Distended and shrieking;
Motherless.
Others have fathom and fury and find thirty bucks on the walk.
The ball Derek hits for his 3000th will be worth more.
I cannot sleep to my troubles and they continue
To amount to nothing.
To the thought and the lack of money,
Real hard dollars.
But they never resonate deeply but still the sleep dwindles and it is I
And 7:30 in the morning,
A sleep-light night.
I am lucky when it rains and the conditioned-box is on “high” and we are cold.
Tombstone in Antarctica, cold.
Reason know slaps keys,
Fingered in brave.
The smallest spider is creeping across Hunter
Spinning a web for an even smaller bug.
I AM MAD!
TO LIVE!
I am sorry,
For the supposed weakness and the strange path of my dreams.
And the way that I don’t listen when I should,
And don’t forgive when I shouldn’t,
And the way I spit, sorrow, seams.
Swallows diving in divine-light Yankee summer,
I remember their silver sleek.
Their constant wet,
Slimmering Sea Lions.
Racing after prey in the semi-dark but raucous world.
Dipping and diving,
Driving me to call Dad five days before Fathers day….
Next week we head farther East
I will work on more pages.
Think about the Gas-light and the Gin in my Filmography.
Lately captivated by Cheever and the needs of the service staff,
Their capacity to captivate the imagination of someone out of such.
I don’t think it works in reverse.
I don’t think it works directionally.
The good game is the steaming condolence,
But the game is played.
©MORTON 2011
