Where are my Plans!

I have no plans!   I need my plans!

I cannot budge about without a trace!

Have I no leave-town muscles and pack-up bones?  

Why do I lie stitched to the floor,

Praying to a stained, cat-haired carpet,

Old, frayed, taped to the edges of life?

Where is the lancing boiling aching love, 

What happened to that tried and true,

That weather torn, that muddled scraggly lock of life?

What will I leave behind me? 

A dull stain on a desiccated stone,

Dead with dry leaves, veined and laced by hardened winter.

Where are you morning psychedelic dew? 

Where are you green striped, bronzed and swollen sun? 

Who is left to paint the swirling aching swaying starlight ?

I saw the moon once through a backyard telescope.

No bits, no bytes, no megapixels.

Moonlight cleaned the stars away that night.

September 10, 2011 (New York)

(A poem a little more on the sharp-edged side of things. We're in transition mode again!)