Life Dreams / Lucid Living (c) 2003

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For Mark


His home is always
where he is –

Beneath the tressles
of clattering trains, he huddles
in the damp & sandy wind,
eyes across the ocean,
sandwich crumbled,
filthy in his coat pocket

His home is just
where he is –

Now inside a box
behind a dumpster
in the middle of downtown nowhere,
surrounded by the bizarre
aroma-therapy
of steaming, festering garbage

His home is exactly
where he can
no longer go –

Inside the placid, welcoming walls
of the house
where his sanity lives

***

He stumbles, aching,
crying from his wretchedness,
crying from his soul –

his pants encrusted
with what he could not
leave behind,

his hands clutching
a desperately empty bottle,

his hair in stringy,
unkempt ribbons,
slapping his face in the wind

***

He, trapped & terrified
in a life beyond his living,
seeks suicide
by public transportation,
wishing it could all
just be over,

Wishing he could somehow
force his feet to take his body
into the path
of the oncoming bus –

But the driver
will not mow him down,
will not have him on her conscience –

she refuses his anguished gift
of responsibility
& slams the bus to a squealing,
furious, bone-shaking stop
& screams at him
“NO!
I will not do it!”

Sad, relieved, horrified, pleased,
he views the scene as
one more evidence
of his beleaguered, hated,
ridiculed immortality
and laughs his drug-indentured way
back to the motel
which has a dumpster
behind which he can

once more

box himself in
until he thinks he can afford
to take the public transportation system
on again,
and maybe that time,
he’ll find his win,
he’ll
be successful
and never have to live
inside these walls of pain
(again)
which he only knows
as home

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