Like a steadfast woodpecker
Meticulously digging at my brain,
The clock beats out seconds
In its Chinese Water Torture refrain...
I ask if I want
To write angry words,
Railing at dirty water
Or suicidal open mics
Or psychopaths running for President...
Just a slice of the "news"
Gathered from Facebook pizza -
Probably a bit unhealthy
If gorged on every minute
Of every day, for years;
All leading to a drying up
Of desensitized tears...
Then I focus on the color orange.
I wonder, "Will my Longhorn spirit arise,
Or will I wander down a mental alley
With a decadent, sweet fruit -
Unaware that it may soon be skinned and devoured?"
Most of the adjectives I'm drawn to
Seem to be colors -
Maybe indicative of a visual mind?
How I thirst for a lovely metaphor,
Or a twist of words
Sunk deep into my brain,
Awaiting the woodpecker,
Or possibly Pink Floyd's worms...
(Or Waits' "Sixteen Shells"...?)
I want to listen to the bards,
Instead of the knocking birds,
Or the silence of a store so bare.
So, I plug in my phone
And blast the tunes so loud,
Hoping some mix of noise
Will find a safe home
That my attention allows
To become one of my attic toys.
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