a poem or two

It's frustrating. I'm sitting on a greyhound watching the cities turn to valleys and mountains and watching the sky melt and drip downward until its blue blends with the almost shadowlike horizon or i'm in bed with leatherface blasting and I miss the days when I was punk enough to drink a couple 40s of olde english in basements luminated by the passion of some fucked up kids and a flickering lightbulb and a couple lines of poems come to me. i have no pen. i have no paper. sometimes the lines seem like they were carefully plucked from a bukowski poem and left to dry like laundry out of some tenament window. i often get carried away too. i think of books filled on library shelves and st. marks bookstore with my name on the side. it may be a penname or something but i'll know it's mine. but then i do nothing with those lines and they disappear into the shadows they arose. but sometimes i capture the poems with the help of a pen. it bites and scratches and tries to hide because it hates me. but here's one of those monsters..

in winters claws i wait
for you or it or nothing
i like to think that someday
i'll know but now
i'm still
like a childhood memory
or a dream maybe
of some ferris wheel
turning night to day
frozen with kids screaming
up top
in glee
hair all ruffled
unaware of death and taxes
and love beside the love
of a mother.
winter sucks the life
my obsessions return it
the night is young
as two dogs fight to the death
under stars van gogh painted.