Heighten your involvement? Perform things related to your work by yourself instead of delegating the responsibility to others? "The more you get involved, the more you feel connected," said some overpaid, foreign to hard work doctor. Not so detached, disconnected, apathetic.
Monotony stems from repetitious routine- dull drab passionless existence. Management is God. Bow. Chant the mantra: all work and no play, all work and no play, all work and no play. Thanks Mr. King. Frustration finds oneself handcuffed with no more options other than continuing as always. "It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere." that's Voltaire. Who cares? Not I said the guy I work for. Not I said the falling sky. Not I said the insomniac. Not I said the sleepless night. Not I said the dollar bill.
Monotony may just be the slow murderer of me.
Numb now, half-dead, and dumbed down
Happy Monday.

Understanding In A Car Crash

The screeching tires and tearing metal,
I am sure to some that night they must have seemed to scream,
but to me they lovingly whispered:

 listen, you blind child, listen,
all lives have meaning, 
all disasters have reason, 
and after this is over,
you will stand,
            and continue breathing.

 So, with my eyes wide and my ears hearing,
I have grasped the understanding
those universal powers that be 
are demanding of me,

Understanding in a drunken flash
glass shattered ribs cracked
The deafening sound of understanding in a car crash.

Each second is precious,
and I will attempt to take advantage
before every second here has completely

i am not capitalized

 a stream of consciousness flows from somewhere that is neither here nor there is a way to write automatically if only i could find it in these lines of stiff, and brittle brushes

my fingertips touch the texture crusted with paint, and grime,

i sleep beneath
unused canvases stored away
awaiting the vivid colors 

                                 that never come
here any more, 

staying up late 
with empty bottles, and bent cigarettes.

i am (painting) in a cave,
i am (typing) in a tomb

Without conscious awareness of the content herein. 

i have bloodied my fingers on strings,
i am a dust drawn man with skeletal hands.

i am talentless, and asleep.
i am not capitalized,
i am talentless, and asleep.

Every Artist a killer,
every Poet is a thief,

We would kill our Inspiration
just to sing about the grief.

Church Bells

On Sundays, in the small city in which I live, church bells echo through the streets. The deepest sweetest tones called across the cold air this morning.
     I can stand on my front steps, drinking down much needed caffeine,
and remember a time when I still believed.
     Once those bells that sing, calling worshippers to attend the morning service, would have summoned me.
In the apex of the nave during the elevation of the elements the intonation resonated something inside me.

                                              Question and answer.
                                              Call and response.

I remember Sunday school as a child when I knew nothing of other religions, or schools of thought. We all lived so much more simply, and innocently.

      The bells that sounded before I learned of: Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Santeria, Maoism, Taoism... Oh the superstition, the beautiful mythology. The bells that sounded before I overanalyzed everything. The bells that sounded before magnets were no longer miracles. The bells that sounded when magic existed, and the world held wonder. A time before mass communication.

     Bells ring for so many different reasons. Now they are ringing, as I write, calling the Worshippers to attend, to kneel, to be forgiven, and to forgive.

      Never mind what I believe. Every time I hear these bells I still feel younger.

Cranberry Moon

I have held my fingertips up to 
the cranberry moon

whispered to
the one who

splattered this sky
with a set of paints,

whose palette was so
multi-hued and
full of myriad blues,

whose brush reached brilliantly
to touch orange peaks,
and lush and verdant valleys

whose amethyst knife carved
dark chasms in grey stone.

I have looked in my daughter’s eyes,
felt the same awe inspired intake of breath

Fill my lungs and expand my chest

I have lifted her fingertips
before my face 

to stare at the

rosy pink crescent
beneath the nail.

Surreal, And Vague Memories

I had my cards read 
once awhile back
in a pizza place.

By the waitress who was so eager 
to clean and close.
Still she was so serious. 
She was sure to face South
"Table or booth?" Booth.

Tarot. Left to right. Her face was red.
She seemed to see some meaning
there as they slid across the slick table.
I saw only crumbs of garlic bread
on the face of the Hanging Man

Years ago on Bourbon St. I handed an ancient man
twenty bucks to read my palm.
"You are not from around here are ye?"
"No you don't have to be a psychic
to see my wide eyed amusement, do you?"

I had a seat in a rusted folding chair.
He probably didn't notice that my eyes
begged for fortune to smile on me.

"you will have four kids,"
technically I did. He caressed my
hand which made me more
than a little uncomfortable.

Suddenly, I had to stagger across the littered street
with an enormous sense of urgency.
Inside the bar, as I took another shot
I saw the man staring through the window at me.

In Savannah I tried to compose epic
literary poems in my head,
intoxicated on Absinthe,
perception askew and vomiting emerald green.

It was genius rhyme and meter
rhythmic grandiosity.
If anyone had heard these verses
they would have been awestruck
and praised me!

In my head turned more than one beautiful verse
about the human condition, and our inherent mortality.

It was gone the next morning
in the haze of a headache
and shaking hands.

I was left with nothing, but some vague memories.

Language Of The Crows

As the rose that rested on the pulpit unfurled
I saw galaxies in the petals, 
and smelled old hymn books and bibles.

Feathers fluttered from the
the vaulted ceiling,
The crows always got inside
and cawed -raucously cried.
The pews were hand carved hickory,
Rough-hewn and heavy

I watched in awe as
the women wept
and the men babbled

I didn't understand a word that flowed
from their crazed and rapturous maws,

They might as well have been
speaking the same language as those 
dark and hungry crows.

Neither believing, nor denying,

I silently sucked in that sweet opiate.