Like a Caged Pet Without a Wheel To Run On

What is that I see?

A question at the start of my poetry,
a cold, dark and gloomy sea,
laid out flat and flawless in front of me
stretching to the end of my divinity.
I love this blue globe I roam
far from the beaches of my home
where I watched the waves spit and foam
listening to people bitch and moan.

Sweet Heart,
We can fall in love at a
Truck Stop.

Baby Doll,
We can break it off at the
Shopping Mall.

Sky dive, mountain climb. Set sail.
Let’s derail the train of thought you were caught
claim jumping the pot I came to watch
the hangman work.

Everybody is staying afterwards
for milk and cookies.
My best friends are ballers and bastards
and bookies.

My life is like a Spaghetti Western, but I can’t figure out
if I’m the lone sheriff or the scruffy-faced villain.
Or maybe I’m just the prostitute in some whiskey saloon.
A player piano wailing away ghost-like in the corner…

I can’t figure out if I’m a hipster, an intellectual, or a fool.
I have an ironic sense of irony and listen to thoughtful music.
My pop culture savvy is as sharp as they come. (Fist Pump!)
I’m a foodie. I blog. I play Frisbee on sunny days.

Have you ever laid awake,
feeling the thoughts in the back of your brain?
And keeping them there,
like a caged pet without a wheel to run on,
made you feel like God,
but it was only your own brain you were controlling?
Still, nobody can say you didn’t reach for Heaven!
This usually only happens the day after drinking,
in the throes of dehydrated torment,
my head throbbing like a rowboat in hell….
I bury my brain into the pillow and keep my thoughts
at the back of my skull, like a caged pet shitting in the sawdust.

She told me,
“You act about as natural as the color of mother’s hair.”
But I had never met her mother.
“If you’d only walked in my shoes,” I said,
not really knowing what it means.

You, baby. You, baby.
Choo. Choo.
You’re my greatest derailing.
You’re my greatest derailing.
Choo. Choo.