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 Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog. Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey Wren Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now!
Fevers of the Mind 
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