To you, From me

You're out like
gray lump of clay on
dusty bookcases
of the past--this one
empty sad without
any books just scattered
unwanted memories
just things that aren't useful
unwashed beer botttles
torn posters faded lines
scribbling a red hot madness
of years and years--ignoring
the light that dances above you
the flutter and whine
of plastic blinds in spring winds
lazy cool sundays whatever
day like it matters or simple
recognition of time passes
those orange eyes shut
to the world ears twitching
waiting for me rise to get
going to do something
important but I just sit
here staring typing wasting
no fun not interesting at all.