Poem : Sleep Deprived Nights

The digital clock

In my room reads 3:13 AM

These red numbers of time smear in my vision

My sleep-filled eyes

Make them look like blurry orange butterflies

With flapping wings made of electricity

Or maybe miniature fireworks exploding

In the bent plastic face of the clock

I fall into sleep again

Tumbling into a pit of unconsciousness

I awake once more to see the clock now reads 10:08 AM

Its cast glow of numbered lights

Now look like playing cards facedown

The longer I gaze the more distorted they become

But another day is here

Time to wipe my eyes

Shake off the sleep

Like a dog shakes off the cold  

Make my coffee

And

Wake up under the blinding rays of sunshine

Light as bright as Dante’s Inferno

Yet, I don’t remember his writing being

As light, as it was enlightening

Nor do I think Virgil

Will join me on my walkabout this morning

The Honeysuckle is in full bloom

As I walk I chew on its flowers

Their sweet taste helps bring on the day

Men are next door

At yet another house that foreclosed

Stripping anything from the property made of aluminum   

They say, they work for the bank

Who am I to judge?

For, the bank was the original thief of the property

But the banker hasn’t lost his home

Or the ones who’ve moved in 2, 3, or 4 more

To make the payment feasible    

Thunder rumbles off in the distance

When I was a child

Folks said, God was moving furniture

He’s more likely playing the drums

I can’t see him not wanting to have fun

Every once in a while   

Either way, it’s time to go back inside

Time passes as I watch the lightning strikes grow closer

God must be turning his porch light on and off again

At least, I think this may be the next rumor

Now the rain is falling from the sky

Its heavy drops fall from the heavens like daggers

Like a bed of nails they fall in sheets on my roof

Or blow against my window in waves of uncertain sound

By now

The men next door have made their way to the scrapyard

Getting money to feed their families or maybe a habit  

Who knows?

Again, who am I to judge?

I ponder all of this as the minutes fade into hours

As another day slips into the shadows of the night

And I lay watching

The glowing red numbers of the clock

Poem : Letter To Tom Waits

Tom Waits, Tom Waits

Won’t you have a drink with me?

Or maybe a smoke?

For, I feel my career is now at a crossroads  

Yet

Some would say it’s just begun

So why not

Have a drink on the town?

I’ve done every job imaginable

To not have any other title than writer

Well

Artist is an acceptable title too

I did what it took

To pay the bills

Cause scribbling words for a living

Ain’t much of a living

But all is well

For the night still holds the stars

The moon still climes high in the sky

Making the broken glass

In the bar’s parking lot glitter

Like spider eyes in the cast beam of a flashlight

I still have a cassette tape of some of your songs

From the 80’s  

It’s old and faded

Yet

Really refreshing

Because it’s not perfect

Like most of what you hear today

Refreshing like a handwritten letter

Instead of an email

Or a painting done with the brush of a toothpick

Instead of a computer graphic

Flaws are now a thing of beauty   

Tom Waits, Tom Waits

Won’t you have a drink with me?

We could watch cigarette smoke

Drift away in the darkness

You could play your piano

I could play my guitar

Until the night is swallowed whole

By the serpent of morning light

Tom Waits, Tom Waits

Won’t you have a drink with me?