Unexpressed

Unexpressed

On my nightstand there’s this notebook
And in magenta ink, one morning, I wrote
In Capital Letters
And Even Circled
two words
UNIVERSAL PERCEPTION

There’s this thing inside your head and scientists argue
Over whether it’s an electric impulse,
Whether it’s something that can be quantified.

So, maybe it’s not in your head, maybe it’s in your heart
Or somewhere else in your body,
Or maybe it’s not connected to you "Physically" and it’s something you just
sense
But whatever it is
They want to say
(In order to have an explanation)
It is intimately connected to the grey matter.
The stuff that runs all your bells and whistles.

Some of the lucky ones
Walk smoothly around in neighborhoods
Like Haight-Ashbury, or maybe The Village.
They smoke interesting things
(or refrain)
From pipes and hoses.
They stay up all night
In cafes
In bars
At open mic nites.

Sunday comes and they sleep
They can do that
And Monday too
All the way until Friday, or maybe Thursday night.
So, my question is this:
How did they get to be that way?
What kind of bravado allows
Splashes on canvas,
Words in messy ink
On napkins or matchbooks

"This Is My Art"

I’ve tried and thought and travelled and dreamed
I’ve laid awake all night and into the next day.
Too damn depressed to get up out of bed.
How many files are in here anyway?
panic

Upstairs there is blank canvas
Paint
Pastels
Pencils
I must have a thousand dollars worth of art supplies (retail)

There are pages everywhere, full of words and supposed meaning
But there’s that one,
That I see every morning
I keep trying to remember why I wrote it.