when noone’s looking

They aren’t all gone

They cant be all gone..

You, know..they still come..hear ‘em in my head

Over the rainbow and under the bed..

Bits and pieces…crumbs and bread

and they seem to fit… fall in place

till I sit up and take notice

go after ‘em with a pen

Like bed bugs they flee…at the sight of me..

Its not me I tell ya!

The pen is to blame!

That’s it! My God, I’ve got it!

If I had a typewriter…you know..

like the one Bukowsky’s got

I bet that’d do it! I’d have a shot.

Its all about the right tool you know.

(Well, may be not a typewriter.

Way to heavy to carry around

And they tie you to a spot – a table, a chair.

Nay! Tablets are better...get me one here!)

Heck, you think I’m full of it?

That a smirk on your face?

Good for you, you figured it out!

Sadly though, that without a doubt

that aint gonna do either of us any good. Would it?

No sir! This aint no excuse,

Nor another expedition for self pity

Or a testament of self loathing

Au contraire – this is a poet’s last stand

One last run..to squish the mites dead…on this page…

in black and red.

A spring cleaning of the head,…if you will.

Cause like I said,

They cant be all gone

They aren’t all gone

They come…tip toeing at night

And gather in numbers..when noone’s looking