I feel shame at my missing discipline.
Take the top half of my skull,
put it on the tip of the helicopter blade.
The air is cool and chilling to what’s left.
Discerning the wind traveling
carefully and confidently
across the field of brown grass,
and she, the wind, lifts one eyebrow
in a knowing manner.
I get to smile at my worthlessness
when someone calls me because they don’t want to be
I’m not good with the people who don’t care about trouble.
Luckily, people who don’t care don’t call,
and I get to write sterile e-mails.
I smile at the others who think something I do matters
I smile at myself for thinking it matters,
sitting in my cage,
my rattled cage of empty purpose.
(As a Funeral March)
I try to walk slowly, deliberately show peace,
allow my powerless brain to crisply
accept the sheets of disease,
use music to shut out the world,
meditate for a cure.
The trains are rusted,
and creaking and
the tracks are
All looks like a kaleidoscope, conglomerate of beads,
a melee, a funeral march for creeping rotted ant carcasses.
(As Fast As Possible)
When my heart hurts in gripping severity,
I’m in an alley from an action movie,
but there is no escape, no hero.
I prepare myself to be crushed.
I do most of the crushing myself.
And I crash there in puddles of waste,
craving for it all to end quickly,
longing for blindfold, firing squad.