My hair becomes dandelion thin
and my dreams recycle my days.

Babe, when we're stuck in that rowboat,
life a placid lake instead of flaming hoops

for our motorcycles to jump through,
we'll either be enlightened or boring.

Midnight on a highway I could be driving down
but all I see are the creases on my bedsheets,

words in a language that means nothing
while awake. The onramp to sleep is littered

with beer bottles and baseball scores, each lifted
from the devil's favorite boxes.

Can't I sue my dreams for broadcasting
all my best material to the aliens?

Midnight on the golf course that could be
my backyard if I had certain ambitions

but I haven't hit the right one yet.
The bedroom is full of broken bottles,

each one a dream I'll never have again.

BECAUSE NOBODY WRITES SELF-HELP BOOKS FOR ME

C. Nolan
DeWeese