Cleanup in Aisle 7

I keep looking for the way

Instead of living the way

You can’t swim in a textbook

But can’t some words fan a flame?


In truth, these words are limited

It’s gone like a whisper

What makes sense one second

Goes out in the next breath


It’s like catching a greased pig in hell


Anyway – see, gone.


Moment. Moment. Moment.

How much are you aware?

Which is aware? and who is where?

Oogie Boogie is made of bugs

And things that aren’t even there


And that’s what it feels like

The truth, as I’m aware

Everything so big and powerful

Comes apart with the wrong thread


And that’s what it feels like

Bugs inside the brain

Sometimes it’s not wrong to reason

between the living and the dead


Am I writing a poem (“or did it write me?”)

The diary of the insane?

But the logic created melody

Gods’ gift through you

If we can make music

What can’t we do?




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