Posts Tagged Safe Places

Another Day, When After the Fireworks, I Knew I Was Worthless

You looked through

the windows blocking

my soul, tres-

passing, vi-

olating love, wiping the

thought, trashing heaven.

.

Picture.jpg

Not-so-dystopian today, amateur Carl’s repossessed America. America 2017 #3.

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Two Days Ago, That Joy, So Repressed

Like a dog,

I stretch, legs brittle,

brain panting,

paws digging,

that joy, so repressed, hanging,

chained inside, broken.

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How I Want You to Let Me Go

When I’m Dy-

ing, over last for-

ty-six breaths,

camera

points towards cloudy nightmares

crashing heaven’s might.

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The Sharp Brevity of an Isolated Spiritual Experience

For most of the day,
I had been treading
carefully, waiting and hoping

the tiger would eat me,
or leave me, and my daughter,

suffused in weightless smiles,
happiness. We had walloped

golf balls, hammered them
and missed them and whiffed
at them, so our energy

had been expelled. Driving
east in a smooth vehicle
like an oblong bubble. It was

evening, the sun in the
obligatory west, and maybe

it was a rear-view mirror,
but we were bathed in
gold, bliss and blessedness

on Highway 10.

 

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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.

.

 

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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.

.

 

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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.

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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?

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Office Window Shadorma 4

My bird is

back, coaxing me up

toward new

gold trophies

demonstrating big brain fluff,

painting nice spirits.

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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.)

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