You have no control of your brain.
You always move: left, straight, right.
Three times a year you wake up sweating,
Thinking your brother is going to die.
Your band breaks up, followed by long
Periods of depression, all sleep, no eat.
You smoke your way back into a smile
But know that one puff too many equals
Left-right-spend, left-right-spend, left-right-
Spend. Then something kicks you in the balls.
Being a space ant is only fun until the bill comes.
Then you discover that your friends are all gone,
Your soul-mate is mad, your art is piling up.
You spin one more time, searching paper
Mounds on phlebitis legs. You’re away from
Your desk, someone cancelled your email
Account, your life breaks up: this time there
Is no net of art, the bands play without
You, you discover a crumb, something to hold,
You float down a river on top of a tear, alone.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2001. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.