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The False Starts

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I want to write my way through nothing.
Stick to short lives.
Seems easier,
When there are only two minutes left,
Not three.
Tired of searching the dictionary,
For cups of adjectives and gallons of nouns
Won’t fill up my pockets
Because they’re too small
Not probably.
And there are still the stubs
Of Tickets
From last night’s show,
Left in the silt sandy butt
I don’t know why I read it
Like that
Not fat
Strange maybe, crazy and wild,
Flying beyond over ‘cause nobody ever looks up
Eyes on the top of my head
Or the fourth dimension
Or a red cape
There are struggles
That paint masterpieces
With a gold tipped pen
Make believe
Or there and then
I try but
Words come clotted
Knotted in my sinew
And I swim through syrup
Through the dream
Underneath my bed
Racing the drunken dream catchers
To make my place
In the words





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