Archive for July, 2013
Playing there is what came to mind
when you told me to think of a time
when I had no regrets and no worries.
My sandbox was in the shade.
All around me, sickness was in a
muddy crescendo. Dad left Mother,
but I thought I still had friends to play
with and would never come in for dinner.
Mother’s anger was starting a journey,
an 11-year eruption, and now I know,
on the other side of bricks and sturdy,
metal-framed windows there was a sanitarium
with no doctor, and the trees that shaded
the sandbox smelled strongly of vicious
poison, and they dropped gooey stuff
in my sandbox so there was a creeping
psychosis amongst my Tonka toys, but I
had not been trained how to properly worry,
and I sat there, getting more and more sick
over any measurable period of time, until
I blended with the tree parts and the sand to
make the most grotesque soup, and when
the soup started to boil, I learned how to worry
and learned how to hate myself, and then, only
then, fit into the sanitarium with appropriate
manners. I remember the expensive, light
blue rugs giving me false comfort.
With slow march,
up to mow the lawn,
I slobber in the kitchen sink,
lift my chin to look out
the window on my tiny
world, to anticipate my chore,
only to see bodies
interwoven, crusted over
with bits of attached,
rotted flesh, tainted or
painted with brown, or
sepia, from Instagram,
and I said, “Those were
the old days,” and I
closed my eyes.
I’ve been sold on so many things.
But I’m slow.
Too old to be slow.
Might die in 29
if you only give me 30.
Need infinite time
to create infinite art,
but I’m a wasted old man.
Accept my lack of time,
knowing my dreams are
Dream I might write one,
just one, artistic poem, but
while I might finish,
it will never be good,
so I’m at peace
with my infinite inadequacy,
fueling my hopelessness,
but fighting my restlessness,
and putting it away.
Not working on block-
ing. Hiding is a load of
work. Nerves inside holes
that are pricked, excruciat-
ing pain, anger at good things.
I asked him to stop the music,
the raunchy, thrusting drums,
sounding tinnish, cheap, back
alley, but beautifully persistent
tom-tomming so that I could
open the giant egg on my right,
the casket for Mother’s corpse,
for I needed silence to bring her
back properly, to show her how
her son had survived her be-
littlements, and with great
alacrity, had shed the alligator
skin which she had poured on
in layers of muddy martyrdom,
and show her how I had erupted
from cages, had somehow begun to
like myself for brief moments, all
of which I hoped would allow her
to rest easily in hell rather than
trapsing this earth, working
diligently to finally, decisively
Waning, my dog said
goodbye, and I understand
why I must hope for
heaven for dogs, for without,
I want to hang, dead as mud.
She is a pervasive ghost,
always the tall, the green,
or the brown, the wavy grass,
but here I go, back to Bach again,
I know how to take care of myself.
Ha! Chop those pills by half!
Genius! You dark, stupid,
At least, at my lowest, I know
when things are dark,
when death looks enchanting,
I am in the bad ass real world.
I need hospitals at every rest stop.
Lock and chains and feed me with
Deep d-minor keeps my arms at
keeps me from
destroying all that is bad in
my world, all of me.