these days
these nights
a hammer pounds against my head
after each death in your sea
my tongue is sour
neck & back needs twisting
no matter how early
or late I close my eyes
you pinned me down yeah
less of you I’m no floating stone
too much of you still I’m no floating stone
was I gone too early or too late
with the lights on
and Tony Robbins’ book on the floor
beside the bed
or its pages crumpled under my back again?
these days
these nights
a hammer pounds against my head
before I sit up
& command my brain
to hit the shower
then get dressed
meet the front door
guru podcasts
plugged into my ears
as I walk out in the morning dew air
with stars fading in the fog
along with a coffee in hand
from the corner store
to undo what has been done
again and again
till I won’t need these
in the mornings
& I won’t need these
in the evenings
