sleepy eyes filled with coffee

this world is divided between
artists and con-men
writing and talking
we are thick with illusions
all too cryptic and collectivist
with a shaken hand and steady lips
he crossed the line of
divinity and trickery
laughter and handshakes
captured in slow motion
in a dream he met bukowski
walking stalking through
castro’s abandoned island palace
exchanging ideas on
the death of communism
next he stumbled into an
un-populated and casual airport
to meet a man not as black
as he remembered the father
of a slender indian or puerto rican girl
a bride he didn’t really know
in those moments eyes raced
and time moved in spurts
fits of curiosity and resolution
that laughable obscenity was
the last great thing she uttered
he thought and with two uncertain breaths
he awoke to find the bed
red dead and lonely
it’s morning now far too early
for breakfast or creativity
and all my ideas are gone
it takes days to write a few lines
stoping as suddenly as it came
but then that is
the nonsense of writing free
so tell me how do you kick a bad habit

 

 

 

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