Water the Plants

Sometimes I remember

to water the plants

when I see them half dead

prisoners of plastic pots

gradient shades of green turning to brown

folding up like burnt paper edges

in a slow flaming fire

branches sagging downward

limp dicked in a forced death trance

thirsty without legs

no audio

no white flag

waiting for me to remember

so they don’t

die.

That’s a big responsibility.

I can’t be trusted with plants

animals

or small children

(not to mention kitchen appliances made in Taiwan).

Someone shouts my name from across the room,

“Shawn, why don’t you water these fucking plants!?”

I turn around

see no one

my head spins left to right

back to front

but there is no one there.

I am not disturbed.

This happens a lot.

I keep everything, everyone around me on

life support.

I’ll water relationships once and awhile

spray the leaves with a gentle mist

so they appear fresher

then they actually are

and continue to muddle on

in my emotional failure.

If I had remembered to pay the water bill

I might have made it right 
with my bathtub 

my hygiene
my tiolet

my liver

my kitchen floor

not to mention the plants

and the voice in the back of my head

that keeps making demands 
against my

drought stricken soul.

Brother Logan

Heavy cotton ball clouds

with flat gray bellies

move over me

the sky runs deep blue

in all directions

reflecting the acute emotional condition

of my heart

I’m sprawled out naked on a cot

actually, I’m naked all but my underwear

sweating in the late summer sun

the clouds scattered in clumps

roaming the heavens

you’re up there

in the middle of it all

at least I would like to think that

while I’m still down here
with the serial killers and the housewives

holding down the fort

reading a paperback novel

adapted from the 1980’s 
Hollywood blockbuster flick

Lethal Weapon

and all that runs through my damaged skull

is Danny Glover’s voice imploring over and over,

“Riggs! Riggs!”

my hangover two days old now

slowly coming out of the whiskey coma

it was the other night

when I missed a late call

concerning my friend

who was dead

and not coming to my senses

until late the next morning

jumping up naked from my bed

clutching my aggressively lamentable head

dry mouth motioning

“Fuck! Fuck!”

strange telephone number miss call

on my cell phone

feeling for the lever

to stop this ride

but you always told me that

the ride is the only thing going

but I can’t make 
any more sense out of

rushing down to the funeral home

and finding you there

as the booze tore through my brain

a fiery freight train

and a flash flood of tears 
raged down my face
but I pulled it together
enough to function

did what needed to be done

and then, two days later

I’m covered in tanning lotion

laid out under the death rays

of a Mojave sun

reading Lethal Weapon in paperback

drinking water

fuck the fuck out of ever

raising whiskey to my lips again

panting and shouting,

“Riggs! Riggs!”

as I sweat into an old army cot

positioned in the dirt

in the middle of the open desert

and this is how

I’m coping.

I miss you brother Logan . . .