Too Dead Tired to Think...

Too dead tired to think, even Hart Crane can't inspire my worn brain.
Viruses and exhaustion, too much of this world and too few tools
To slow it down, I wander all around on my straight road home each night.
The small grubby towns fly by, no picket fence fictional charm pretended in the rural south,
Just lights along the dark highway. Lights in the morning and at night.
Daylight's spent toiling for money, toiling to finish something and start again, toiling for the myth,
Placated by the worn out lie I tell everyone including myself. When this is over, yea, then things will slow
down, things will become more normal and I'll actually do my chores, start and finish some projects, read a
couple good books, write something good        and rest.

Yes, it sounds good     and threadbare. And I know the whole scene's a big lie. Pushing my luck one more time. Can it be? For my time is finite and the little sharp chest feeling made me aware of limits and how close they may be. Not a happy thought for procrastinators, we ostrich souls sucking sand and waiting for something to transform us.

I know I know I know! Just get me through this one Lord.    One more one more.    Then there won't be another one left. I don't know the count. Just big spin the barrel and hope the empty chambers keep stopping before the hammer.

Gloomy,    gloomy tired.    No desire except a chair no where to go and energy enough to stay awake
and read something for even one lousy hour,    one stinking span of sixty minutes
one brief shot of alert solitude.

Crybaby soul, cry baby cry, that's a song from the days of my youth when I used to listen to songs so much I knew every note. Even 25 years later I remember all the words, though little else comes cleanly to recall except constant battle against the devil who whispers in my ear. I've got to stomp and shout, drown
that little imp who wants me miserable before he kills me.

I've got to make a noise, get that devil behind me and be washed again in the muddy waters.
O praise o praise o everlasting twisted ways . Jelly and milk and happier days when I didn't think
of anything beyond the moment though I thought too much and missed many moments thinking.

Missed many moments moving, vibrating wildly , blindly needing to move. Missed many moments skimming across everything, visions flashed and trailed a kaleidoscopic wake.

Moving tasting running jumping    making bells go mad and fill me with endless jerking jazz.
Get that old devil behind me, turning and turning, cat twisting, drill myself through the floor, right on through dank dirt into hard rock, white stone dust flying back, that old devil white blinded.

Laughing bells blinding hell and spinning right on to the molten core and shot back through
The old wooden floor and roof and I'm blazing across the night sky,    a laughing rainbow.

Landing.       Moving with life rhythm.        Tuned to everything.       Never alone.

Chuck deVarennes was born in 1954 (the year Elvis released HOUND DOG) in Needham Massachusettes. Grew up in Atlanta suburbs, intending to become the next William Kunstler. Attended University of Ga on a debating scholarship, which he quickly abandoned (along with the rest of his academic work) to study brain chemistry through personal experimentation. Surviving, he has worked in commercial construction for many years, and is the happy father of one daughter. He has published poems locally, has performed spoken word on local radio, and can be found at coffee houses and other venues spewing verse.