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