I awakened to the sound of a plane crash
taking place in my own head
someone said some people are
not made for sleeping
and as I saw the sweaty sheets piled up
in a corner of the room
I agreed

Half an hour later I sat perched on one
of those gold coloured fake-fancy
bar stools of cheap hotels
I told the bartender of my situation,
asked for another glass
but he only listened to the latter

That is the problem with poetry
I thought as some jazz tenorman played
his whirling tones out of the speakers;
few pay any attention and even fewer
like what they hear
as for the rest
they must either be drunk
or crazy