Crayon World Poem by Odin Roark

Early Last Night…

Thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was...
I don't know...
revealing?

How much,
how much was one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?

Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness aflame?

Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars,
careening through express stops
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light?
illuminated dream signs
visions that never cease?

That was before i reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river
finding my liver oh so accommodating.

Later last night…

I found my perch atop the familiar railing,
you know, the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.

Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's time?
And, they keep telling me,
200 feet allows plenty of gravity to collect.

But…

They've got me in this awful green room again.

Took my pencil.

Gave me a crayon.

Blue this time.

Thoughts don't care.

Curls and lines,
just the same.

Late last night…

They said I had to stay awhile, again.
You know, ‘til I convinced them, again,
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.

So…

Me and my crayon.

Funny, I'm thinkin',
there's gotta be another way,
you know,
better than making you up all the time
Holdin' hands on paper and all.

Maybe we could meet,
you and me,
coffee,
nothing fancy,
just...?

Maybe early.

Tomorrow night,
before my thinkin' brings in
a storm again.

Maybe?

Sweetheart?