One might think 
that after so
many I’d stop
but this lust 
it carries me 
forward be my
search for morsels
or mushrooms or 
morals hidden below 
beneath or behind 
dig and rut
ruthlessly I do 
nails now ground 
down to fingers
and these very 
things never found 
perhaps never been 
except in mind 
such are ghosts 

It’s worse
when sleep 
doesn’t rest
but churns
like hoes 
unearthing rocks 
bringing same
to surface 
making visible 
in clouds 
of dreams 
but clouds 
can’t carry 
rocks weight 
and down 
they come 
as hail 
pounding the 
tin roof 
of sleep 

Every thing I 
once had gone 
funny things those 
I don’t think 
about ergo don’t 
miss not even 
the people attached 
to those things 
or the places 
it’s almost like 
I hadn’t lived 
as though this 
bucket I am 
never held water 
I guess I 
could be pot
or even decoration 
but bucket I
am certainly not 

Sometimes those go
before we’re ready 
but know this 
those that do 
understand your wish
but for them 
their work here
is finished and 
there’s more to 
do for them 
somewhere else away 
and you will 
go there too 
if not now 
then someday soon 

I am now 
left to think 
not really remember 
for most memories 
are but anchors
keeping me in
one specific place 
though the illusion 
of movement there
but just round
and round I
go never moving 
beyond this spot 
but thinking well 
thinking is like 
a kite soaring 
and eventually freed
and to land 
somewhere else entirely