mr three-sheets to the west

the dog's been scratching, and i cant find any fleas
im feeling a bit out of sorts these days
when i lay down, i see sea foams and tiffany blues behind my eyelids
all my drawings want to resemble cy twomblys
but look sluggish and rather forced
and i hit the snooze.

i took the public transit today
and imagined myself back in chicago
ciscero... goethe... those stops i couldnt pronounce
they're dying the lake green today,
says i,
he replying (whoever he is) "i need to buy you a calendar"

my brother sleeps on the hardwood floors next to me
and the room next door moans and laughs,
two new lovers caress and
forget all their troubles and

i dont know if im ever going to find what im looking for
a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck...
pining for yet another dust particle on a dust particle on a dust particle
all i want to create lately are tiny miniscule frames of found wood
framing thick paint chips
adhered to by scotch.

i keep craving the mollusks second course lit by flickering lights i cannot recreate from venice
i keep praying to the false gods and digging for bones
but no memory molecule composed in my body is confirming this feeling of ever-going deja vu,
as my car makes circles in empty parking lots
and i sway
and i sway
and stay