Morning medicine in the garage

Morning medicine in the garage
among the other dead things resurrected,
the reincartnation of nature's leftover
brittle sprigs, vine curls, and broken sticks,
deceased, discarded stems and stumps
whose former growing glory has gone,
rotten symbols of forgotten struggle
now restored as visual art form,
painted, preserved, and proud again.

Yes, the medicine is good this morning.
Thank you, medicine man.

The weather has turned cold.
Well, it's about time, I suppose,
so I won't complain,
just do what I have to do,
turn the collar up and keep going.

Nathan stops by late this afternoon.
We stand in the garage and talk.
He says he likes Dream Demons and Rann,
which surprises me because
I have little faith in myself
when it comes to such matters.
I show him the Truckstop Junkies tribute
and a couple of other things
he finds interesting as well,
so that is a pleasant surprise.
Then he tells me all about
his trip to California, camping in Big Sur,
Tahoe, the beaches, Mendocino,
and his time in the Bay area.
I hear your gardens were flush, and
you told him you had the papers
to prove you're certifiably insane,
ah, but who needs papers
when the writing's on the wall.

Later, I stare at the graffiti wall,
Some Kind of Genius scrawled
obscured beneath splashed paint,
private notes, pictures, poems,
The Concrete Jungle Book referrals,
songs, faces, faucet, ideas, paint.
It's all there, the whole hidden mess,
but nobody knows, nobody knows,
and it's enough to drive you mad.

But the medicine really is good.

Tonight I stand in the garage
and wait for the next shoe to fall.
I was going to call you but
you told me that was a bad idea.
You were probably right, so
I take my medicine,
grab a brush, and add something
to the mix, just another piece
to the puzzle, what u got?
Medicine man, don't fall off
the deep end of tomorrow.
I can't help but to think
you should be the happiest of us all.
Well, at least we are rich in irony.
Long live Little Mo!