Eye Of The Eye
Plop, plop, plop.
The white light of the window's
Modern-day tavern shone
On the writer's keys
as the raindrops plopped atop
The wooden barrels outside.
His mind both racked and vacant
Body-dragged and summarily questioned
Twixt miles and miles of driving to connect
The dots as the mind, the mind, the mind...
Mutters, mumbles, and mucks through the hours
Like a muddied pigeon struggling to spread its wings
As small concentric circles grow outward on the writer's
Cold wet barrel outside in the inclement Seattle spring spritz...
So you have a break.
So you have time to rest.
So why complain?
Look at all this mental health bliss.
Why fuss and moan and
Stress and with such duress?
There's a way to find the calm in the chaos.
Just go away, get away, though check your emails.
The kids have the flu, go take your break.
It's walking pneumonia, where's your harmonica?
Let's sing the blues.
The songs of our lives.
The tears of all the angels.
Human tears taste better.
An eye for an eye
A hambone for a hambone
Who called the vegetarian?
Fooled you that's a pescatarian.
This poem is a train,
That never found the rails.
And that's okay
When excavating
The soul of the soul,
The eye of the eye,
The plop of the plop
From the Beer Barrel Bop.
I am the raindrop.
And even the barrel.
Plop, plop, plop.
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