Archive for April, 2012
Sitting in the perturbed wooden chair,
seeing the people paste the people,
the soft red shoes, blinded eyes,
frozen hair shifting, nice from a distance,
but abrasive like a worn track,
and not welcoming, and full of lines,
where eyeballs swivel sharply to sting,
to catch the part of life that matters,
while the napkins sing for company,
the napkins being stretched and lonely,
where the hippie paper crawls in the crack
to avoid being dedicated to the deepest,
most smelly brown bin of evil,
the one I count on for swallowing
all of my sickness while I ride
the spaceship designed by a man
who swims in the brown soil.
Delicious brownie thing with chocolate mousse
and the richest damn frosting, sticking gallantly,
and smoothly lunging in, I feel that joyous murmur
welling up, not gurgling, saying, “mmm, soooo good.”
I’m in Hell.
Sitting in a room full of people,
alone and by myself,
hoping I did not praise the dessert aloud,
and I think I wish that people would think of me
like a chocolate dessert, like I think of this dessert
because that is how I think of many people,
especially when my depression isn’t choking
all of my spirit, but I am alone because not one
of hundreds would choose to be around me,
making me even more tortuous than I normally would be.
God, please make me a sweet dessert, and let people
see through all of the detritus of a ruined soul
with a broken spirit who sits alone thinking
he surely doesn’t deserve another desert.
And I go somewhere where the others don’t go
so that it won’t look like I am an intolerable
human being, but my self-hate is rich.
If one could get through, there is marvelous joy,
but I sit here and cry at my horrible odds.
Man in suit,
hearing a lady
on the same rooftop
as she meanders,
lost, and I stare
down from my room
on this 9th floor.
Everything so accidental,
and later, I’m on ground,
and there are people
who appear ready
to kill me easily,
and there are others
who don’t look
threatening, but I,
I am the only one
in fear, paralyzing
fear and a shrunken
ego that reaches
to be hung in a place
The ice cream man
scooped out my soul
at 10:40 p.m.
At 10:10 p.m.,
I knew he was on the floor,
but I didn’t do anything.
I sat and read a beautiful book,
and my soul was gone
before the ice cream man arrived.
Yes, I know,
pound the shoe
on the table,
but I sit quietly, peacefully,
trying to hear, not do,
I want to shout at all of you!
Together on an unfathomable mission,
but we anxiously beeble at each other,
seeing who will falter,
but not even joy with falters
because first it is my Superior
and She served it to me
and I faltered, bumbled, scrambled,
and crashed. Bad.
Looked around. I was just
Streets are empty,
so I feel strong
in my isolation,
but I should be with family.
How does one celebrate a resurrection?
Merely another birthday party?
It should be more,
Some may not feel comfortable
looking to be in the wrong century,
driving the right car that is so wrong.
I mow the lawn and the terrible dust
ruins the sheen on the Toyota
driven by the man with Parkinson’s
who would have rather stayed home,
it is clear, and I wonder
why they let him drive
and feel compelled to be grateful
through my muddy fog, not
I know it won’t happen
to me, but I’ll have some ham.
The joy of giant vases,
but the shelled-out stone art,
and the man’s eye’s wander sharply
to the left and attack his laptop,
his ego flowing over the sides
of a hard restaurant booth,
and I feel the wish
expand, the wish to destroy,
the wish to eradicate humans,
starting with myself.