Horning Truthesque

Out of shower and not able
To write I have to
Get in the click– clock
And I worked late
Last night
I can still smell the wine and the napkins and the food people
Didn’t eat
Pizzas and some rich kind of
Tired and wanting a bed–
Horns and jazz with the firearms
Mediocre music played by off duty
Cops and I danced to support
Cuz I’m that way– beat, my beat beat
Nik, me mike– I’m wrongfully right while
I try to try to write or type
This is caffeine’s pigeon,
swirled in shambolic swill.
Cry and compose and speak
With imported boulders– I drank
The March Hare’s tea. Again.
Crash alphabet, won’t let set
Up a staircase to encased hypotheticals.
Saxophone, then drum doldrum–
I’ll sing now while in listening. Before
That clock catches me.