Mental Illness at Christmas

I look about this December morn
my hair screams asunder
my graying stubble two days long
my clothes spread out like fallen leaves
brown and wrinkled
I somehow stumble about the ride
I bow down to the industrial clock
I really wish I could find a hole
The solstice gray it weighs me down
a heavy blanket over a gasping wick
It’s a blurring purple that I can’t escape
I’m done, I’m finished, it’s over

no title

I type my way through the abbreviated world
Eat my ham and cheese on split top whole-grain
Clear my throat with a bitter latte
Reason with myself over my very existence
And still fight to understand what anything means
It seem to happen so easily and innocently
(For other people that is)
If there really is a God, why did he make me crazy?
I guess in need to read again the Tao
Where the answer is no answer
Where the purpose of a vessel is its emptiness
Where…oh well.

7:48 p.m.

Why can’t I make my poems
Flow down the stream
Like little maya angelos?

aisles apart

Stare me down with your dark browns
Your oatmeal liner and jet black lash
Grab me with your melting curls of chocolate locks
Your mocha cheeks and burgundies
Bowl me with your luring smell
Your morning pillow scent
Bling me with your golden rings
Your skin tights and baggy hipness


I will look down within my lap
Swallow my lusty inclinations
Succumb to my lack of worth
Not seize the moment
but watch my heavy hands
As you exit the bus
into the evening rain

I am seven...

I am seven
And I can climb a tree
To the very top if I want
But I don’t because I love my mother
And it scares her
To see me up so high
In the tree

I am seven
And I can bake a cake
And layer it with frosting and sprinkles
But my father tells me,
“You cannot bake until you are ten!”
I don't bake
Because ten is way far away.

I am seven
And I can read chapter books if I want
But I do not because my older brother
Says I’ll get bored with it real quick!
who wants to read and get bored?


I am seven
And I can cut the sleeves off my shirts
I can cut and I think I will
While no one else is watching!
And when they ask I will say
“sorry, I’m only seven”

ode to manevolence

I APPROACH YOU AS A FOX IN THE NIGHT
I PLAY TOMFOOLERY ON YOUR REASON
I DO A MAGIC SHOW AND YOU BELIEVE
I CONVINCE YOU OF MY SINCERITY
AND YOU TAKE AN EMBATTLING STAND
YOU SPREAD MY POISONOUS VAPOR
YOU DRINK FROM MY ENCHANTED CUP
ONLY AFTER YOU HAVE TURNED TO ASH
WILL YOUR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN
TURN THEIR RUDDY FACES
AND WISH THEY
WERE FROM A DIFFERENT LINE

The days
and dots
that litter my sight make me happy.


Most people aren’t aware that I could be dead right now.

(Well, we could all be dead right now, but my case is a little different.
I won’t go into that. It’s mainly a sidebar for my own reassurance.)

Nonetheless, I often wonder where I would be
If my paintbrush didn’t float this way
or dart that?

What would my canvass look like?

I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me.
I like my painting in its present state.
I like my days and dots.

Friends

I fight an inner turmoil of my own mind. I really need to give it a rest, but can't. Like right now, I should go lay down on my bed and just lay there, but instead I feel compelled to fill this blog. I don't know why my mind won't shut down; why it won't leave me alone. It's as if my life were the sensation of thirst and the only beverage was syrup.

I think it is my few friends that keep me sane. My friends know that I'm obtuse and they don't judge nor do they seem to care. I owe a lot to them. They give me that sip of water I need from time to time.

A tribute to mom

A old lady with a cracked voiced used all her empathic energy to state:
"It's a mother's duty... to live... for the life... of their child!"
Simon and Garfunkel, "voices of old people"

I know mothers look at the world from a different vantage point then men. So I can't fully grasp the concept of motherhood. But I look at my own mom and all the things she has done- bookkeeping, accounting, floral work, painting, and probably a hundred others I don't even know about. I see all of those accomplishments and all I can think about is how she handled her role as a mother. She has been far-reaching in all aspects of support, and her supply of concern and compassion seem endless.

Thanks mom! I hope you have an enjoyable birthday!

Today's poem

The Asian Elephant with skinny legs
parades up and down my street
spread out like liquid of broken eggs
a bloodied puff of meat

The cheeta with a cotton tail
preys upon the sight
all mothers with their children wail
they know the season's right

The bitter snow of yellow green
is blowing from the west
a tattered boy now paints the scene
across the willow's chest

No light of bluish red
is filtered through the sky
No more words need be said
I wait my turn to die

Ars Poetica

The work is pelting in sleet drops
against my cubicle window.
I type feverishly, yet not so fast
I know that "get this done right away"
is only eminent but not meaningful.
Chatter and interruptions send
my mind into a dizzying array of direction,
and those streams of thought
leave papers and projects
scattered and strewn
and my boss yells at me with a purplish glow
and my coffee cup has long been dry
and the work continues to pelt.
Poetry is that bit of milk chocolate
dissolving in my mouth
with lips gently closed.
eyes gently closed.
with mind gently closed.
with work temporarily closed.