Storm riders

"Out here we is stoned, immaculate."

Jim Morrison carves an altar out of a grey Sunday and I
am flooded
by colour making my fingers itch, words
piling into stalagmites
pushing for release

Lizard king, slither out now, I
can't focus in the deluge. My
eyes ache for wool's soft tug, I crave
Pattern and rhyme, need to hear
A mosaic of line and shade.

Spattered and bruised and ragged,
Not immaculate,
Not stoned. I need a funnel, a filter, a
Priority system.

When this gladiator war is complete, I will lapse into
re reading cookbooks and knitting books
Lamenting my spare time.

Monday haze

I know to escape the labyrinth I must turn always to the right, but
A bright flash of red turns me left,
The smell of coffee, the crunch of gravel, a tumbling shapeless mass of green fuzz,
Light jazz, loud punk, taste of sugar-caramel, taste of garlic, taste of bitter melon,
Soft shag carpet, sharp rocky path, cliff over a vast ocean...
Where
is my
right turn again?

Bus Time

Bus Time.
Thoughts tick,
  Pen clicks,
    Time sticks.
Bus Time.

Bus time:
Phone out.
  Cell-shouter,
    Smelly pouter.
Bus time.

Bus time.
Co-eds preening,
  Disturbed keening,
    Cars careening.
Bus time.

Bus Time -
bell rings,
child clings,
drops things.
Bus time.

(It's odd, I know
It should be so, but
Poems help the anger go.)