piles of scribbled thoughts
in haphazard stacks
lay wrinkled on a trail nearby
and wiggled in a skid row breeze.
sounds of lost angels
crashed through windows perched
above pink elephant nests
of empty bottles in stacks.
delirium rollercoasters slow
to beethoven on far off radio
while waking to angles of floor
underneath returning equalibrium.
sleep was as gone as that bronc-ette muse
who’d followed him home from the bar,
thrown him after the first round
and would from now on be only words.
(one for good old buk, gone but never forgotten)
– See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11685651-bukaroo-hankowski-by-jim-christ#sthash.GB350GFG.dpuf