Posts Tagged Safe Places
The Red Pants Tightened My Heart
There was a lady
with immaculate black
ponytail. I eagerly looked
but not one hair was
disarranged. And not
simply the ponytail. It was
this soft, slick, shiny, furry,
perfect, oval jewel on her
pate. Society would dub
me creepo if I had chased
her, but her red pants
fit too perfectly and her spicy
white blouse exploded
roars of light too good
for this rotten neighborhood,
so I wanted to tag after
and listen to her tell me
about all of the good things
that have happened to her,
listen with glowing eyes
to her indefatigable beauty,
but I am no creepo, so here
I sit, dead and dumb.
.
House Rules
Smoke breaks
are a privilege
not a right.
And must be
supervised
by staff
if time permits.
Only one cigarette
per break. No lying down
or putting feet
on the furniture.
TV goes off
during lunch
and dinner
and twelve step meetings.
No drug and alcohol
glorification
and no
war
stor-
ies.
Only one helper
in the kitchen.
Do not close blinds.
Don’t spill drinks.
Eat candy slowly.
Respect staff
and each other.
No bumming
Cigarettes. Take
your medicine.
.
My Turn, My Turn Was Electric, for a Moment
She can’t hear what I hear,
but a haunting bolt of lightning
of a glance bears terribly gentle
beauty, and I want to be in her
pockets, a warmth chilling her body,
walk with her in a rhythm from
the pink of clouds which reach down
and wrap me in a seemingly-permanent
state of safety, and my turn, my turn,
it made me connected, made me want
to run away forever and listen
to bedtime stories, true ones.
.
The Heavy Flow of Minor Disturbances – #1
The morning shadows have a new shape, and the cacophony of the birds has started again. Foreshadows of hope, it’s on the way, and I refuse to stop, to ask why because I know this little buzz, this hope-thing being on the way is a silly artifice made of tissues.
The winter sun has frightened me for so many countless months, causing guilty pleasure and pride with the trinkets from my endurance, still wondering what kind of animal I might be. Not all of the people see the monsters in the shadows, crawling longingly on the bright winter days. The monsters are ghosts, or spirits, and they’re not interested in being seen as they are far too busy singeing the raw nerves of the fragile psyches (ones such as mine), which make us little, gangly, spider-like animals too timid to go out, lest we be smashed by the semi-trailer which has been dislodged and has flown perfectly to land centered on our little plastic cars.
But today, I’ll drive slowly in the little residential neighborhoods, not for fear of being trashed by the trailer but for fear of smashing any heavy wall, smoothly and head-on. My car window is down by about 2 inches and confidence in my spirit grows with the crisply testy, cool breeze. I will feel comfortable for I will be familiar with almost all of the people, and some of them are as nice as a human can be. I need my meeting, my medicine.
It’s this backdrop that causes surprise upon reflection. What is it buried so deeply that made me break down in complete despair, sobbing like an uncontrollable fruit fly?
Office Window Shadorma 4
My bird is
back, coaxing me up
toward new
gold trophies
demonstrating big brain fluff,
painting nice spirits.
I need an Editor (More Than Ever)
But not the editor inside
my bashed-up mind.
That editor kills me.
I want a good editor
who loves me
for who
I am.
That is all.
(An editor who likes brevity.)
Bubbles Up, from Non-Judgment
You say I don’t say bad things about others.
I have fear, I don’t know anyone so how can I
say bad things? You want me to get mad. You
want me to be okay. With myself. But others
are always right. Never good enough. I’m not.
You want me to think over my noise. You say
I’m a good guy, Others tell me differently. You
are on my side. Of course you say. I’m good.
You say I don’t say bad things about things,
but how can I when it means I think I’m better
than things? I can’t be better than things. You
say I need new speeches when I face bad
people. I need voices that say I’m okay. I say.
Reunions, Smashingly Safe 100
I listened carefully. Parish. They have reunions. He said helacious drinking. It was 50 years. When 68, do some drink helacious? Helaciously. I drank helacious(ly) 15 to 41, a brilliant downhill stretch. Glorious – I don’t remember much.
Go, don’t go. Purpose: laugh and watch grand pianos swim in the pool with giant bottles of vodka. Don’t go, but what about sister? Go see sister. Stay home on couch with a book – Imagine the whole world doing butterfly inside your head. Nothing outside of your home means a fucking thing. That’s what I like. Stay home. Read. Pray.
Looking for the Neighbor
You were in your typical pose, slouching dreadfully on the leather couch with your laptop, drearily reading one muddling thing after another, some very good but too good for your consciousness. The TV was on, playing DVR’s of various temporal shit, so you couldn’t concentrate on the websites, and you had a wonderful novel by your side. It was past midnight, but it was Saturday so you had even less regard for the necessary benefits of sleep.
Gracie was lying with eyes back in her head, dreaming, her paws shaking, and the two Dachshunds, Buddy and Jazzy, were lying next to you. Buddy was a brutally tough dog who was always happy, and Jazzy was a fierce, bitter, old witch who was rarely happy unless you rubbed her tummy. Gracie was your favorite. She was a silky Golden Retriever with overflowing barrels of love. Everyone else was asleep long ago and there was a certain chaotic peace to the night. The peace was meant to be disturbed.
A big man, perhaps six-and-a-half feet tall, though not too heavy, Read the rest of this entry »
Opus 57
Born
down,
roughed up.
Enchanting
stories of music
penetrating deepest cracks of
holes in self made from Beethoven’s most ugly temper
simmering in baby blue bed.
Mother tears apart
confidence.
Drowning.
Red
seas.
