The Fear

it used to be tripping acid in the park
now it’s just reading thick books in the dark

       it used to be coyotes, magpies and blue jays
       but now it’s just a caged macaw that makes a lot of noise
                       in the late spring or autumn afternoons

       putting on another jazz album as the clock keeps ticking
       evenings away and you sit in the dark or you sleep and
       either way, nothing actually gets done, instead the page
       stays blank and the mind stays medicated and the fear
       sets in, the fear that nothing is ever going to get done,
       that tonight and the nights recently haven’t just been
       a slump or an exception but instead are truly the regular
       and you will drown in a sea of booze and recycled jazz
       and a sadness and a sorrow that you can’t shake, even
       when you duck down side streets and try and lose your-
       self in the crowd … if only you could lose yourself—


                                               let the words flow …
                                               let that horn blow …