Train of Thought for the Empty Head

Clean white crescent moons dance across the starry sky of my keyboard

Coffee stains the papers on my desk

The color of your skin

Like rolling dunes,

And howling winds blowing through my empty head—

Rolling through the tomb.

A distant echo recites the song of the modern major general

Except I don’t know the kings of England

And I can’t quote the fights historical

Despite 14 years of internment,

Textbooks chained to my wrists,

Handfuls of Adderall and Vyvanse—

Medical snowballs with “frickin’ laser beams attached to their frickin’ foreheads.”

I’d rather be watching Austin Powers

Than beating my head against the grindstone,

Capsizing the dinghy keeping me afloat.

My cup runneth over—

“My train of thought has never been on schedule.” Photo from:

Austin Morgan

I keep tossing the contents into the bushes

To make room for the next batch of refried information and freeze-dried quotations.

My train of thought has never been on schedule,

Coming to stuttering stops and taking detours into the exotic wilds of my subconscious

I once dreamt I had magic powers,

But I had to do long division in my head to cast simple spells—

Even in my sparse moments of escape

I am trapped

In the forsaken tomb of my hollow head

Echoing thoughts ricocheting off the walls of my skull

Bouncing back and forth until the empty air vibrates with the sound of nothing.