Poem: Mid Morning to Mid San Francisco by David L O’Nan

cars on road in city during daytime

Mid Morning to Mid San Francisco

About Mid-Morning would be the time I awoke
I took my eyes towards my bedroom window -
to peek at nature.
It was what I dreamed.
A sticky Yellow sky, love dripping from the goo clouds.

Tripping over clothes,
to the bathroom I swam
My hands covered in ink,
lips covered with morning slime.
I do my business,
Wash my hands with rusty fluid
My stomach rumbles feed my incertitude

I decide on a mildly heated vegetable soup
It cured my weakness.
For minutes I was a newborn bat,
Now I was King Kong with the visions of a God.

I took a disgusting look
towards such disgusting dishes.
That overlap the sink blistering the kitchen in scum.
I pulled a thought out of my head,
while in my hand I asked the thought What do you want?

The thought looked up at me,
illuminating spontaneity.
Said "Drive to San Francisco"
I shall drive through the afternoon,
through the menstruation of the evening.
When lady night's lashes curl
and blink blood onto the stars.

Just, just drive.

It didn't matter that I lived in the Midwest
The thought was full,
not ready to regurgitate into thin air.

So I put one foot in the machine,
two feet in the machine.
Popped in some nerd waves from the early 80's
thanks to Elvis Costello.
I put my hands-on a sticky steering wheel 
and began to drive.

Already, quite bumpy the trip is
I decided to switch to a different wave,
and became blind for a while.
In the popping electricity pulsating in the circuits, in my body.
The sun beams down,
horny wearing eyeliner.
It's gut full of lasers.

And my eyes fumigate at a myriad of lost lushes, at bus stops.
They call out "Come here Cobra, strike me, bite me"
They are pocket change vampires,
sitting in the brothel bakeries and closeted gurus with gnat-brain hair.
Spinning around the eggshells, largo and loopy.

The continuous drive leads to fields,
fields, more fields, and doormats.
Thousands of welcome home doormats
For lost sheep,
government Lassies that won't come home.

The perfect place to relax,
drink deep my narcosis
And take a shave to a beautiful rat of a beard.
I have stepped on many a king's crown, 
so sharp and thorny stuck in my salt wounded feet.

The mission becomes radical, sort of
I'm still sort of mysterious to myself.
So I drive a little further, 
now wearing my face like a goliath beetle.
I sense the grass is intelligent
And I jump 4 steps, 5 steps, 
then crawl through the green.
Tangle in wires,
I begin to dream of redheads with a Warrior Edge

With a recluse of a grip
That smile over our dead bodies.
After we mellow in our last yellow snort.

The mortuary is crawling with afterthoughts.
My powder replaces my skin
My ashes will drive the rest of the way.
The rest of the way to ol' San Fran
Where I'll meet a Psychedelic Heaven.

“Whispers” by David L O’Nan poem from new/revised book “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers”

Poem “Alone In My Car” by David L O’Nan

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

 2 new poems by David L O’Nan on IceFloe Press (click links) today “Those Hazels, they Slice” and “Living in This Toxic Coalmine”

Poems by David L O’Nan : Under Rocks, Another Old Spiritual Infection, Minor Fame Backwash

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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