hope

Five nights of hurried flights
ten years of solid pain
I want to end the places i've been
I want to stop the rain
I work to press my mental stress
through the tattered screen
I know I can within some span
learn how again to dream

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.

An ocean view

Scattered stones,
Sticks strewn
A metronomed wave
The white ball of a sun
The pervasive fog
They all stand still
As does a vessel in the distance
Anchored to the shallow ocean floor.

When I was a child my father told me much
About that boat named “St. Christopher”
He told me of its history, and how,
Steeped in tradition, it collected many
Lobster pots over many generations
Connecting one family to the sea
And to a livelihood.

It was my seamark in olden days
When I scattered stones
And strewn sticks
when my cares were few in the morning fog,
It made me proud to be from Maine
Though I’m not sure why

Now it rocks and I can barely see
Its pale-blue cabin dancing
In and out of sight
This boat, “The St. Christopher”
Now doesn’t mean so much to me
It’s nostalgic white-washed hull is
Faded by the salt

But many a tourist gaze at it,
Are mesmerized by it,
Worship it through their enhanced optics,
They seem to cherish it as if it were their very grandchild
I guess It paints a pretty picture in their head
That they can carry back to Kansas
or Illinois or New Mexico

To me its just one of many, lonely sea vessels
And its pale-blue
Dances
In and out of sight

The asphalt glows golden

I see a dim, diffused light from a swinging lantern
I hear the hoof clatter of the horse
whose back bears a rain-soaked cowboy
protected somewhat with a leather duster
yet still dripping through the dance of the night

I stand below the awning of Goldstein’s drug store
my core of aches holds tightly the little brown bag of PRNs
The city cabs pass by; streaking white, red, and yellow
horns blare their Doppler effects while happy couples
ambulate through and around the sidewalk puddles

The wet shiny asphalt glows golden under the lamppost
newspaper shards lay scattered like the day’s minutes
I think of my warm and cozy flat I abandoned for the rain
the hoof clatter grows more pronounced
yet I don’t want to look at the glowing candle

I close my eyes and force my mind into music;
I shut the door to the space around me
I live out the notes of Faure’s Pavane, Opus 50
then my brief sabbatical is over, fear rips through my being
as the wet cowboy dismounts his mottled mare,
hands me my ticket, and exits among the taxis

Flight Response

sometimes i want to dive under the blackness of my cat. curl up my life in the white fuzzy spot on his abdomen. melt my access into his cavity; bathe away a gentle heat from his conservatories. dont give me his mind, his agility, his predatory nature. his coat, his curl, my fetal state is all i need to end with.

A day at the pool

My eyes burn red in the cool-blue, chlorinated water
My skin bakes and browns in the hot, dry sun
A skinny little kid does a cowboy backflip off the short board
An ice cream truck meanders by whistling its merry tune
and thoughts of Christmas are far from everybody's mind

The viewpoint of an innocent bystander

He wears a lime green sports coat
covered with wide white pin stripes,
and he don't give a damn
that his wild Irish rose blooms from his pocket
It's only a rose and it stinks
His sweetest desire is it's euphoric nectar;
it can stink and he can stink
and he don't give a shit!

A Kite over Potter Lake, November 14,1990

A kite flies among the cottonballs
It is black and wears a long tail
If one squints, it looks like the wicked witch of the west
flying over Kansas
getting ready to write:

SURRENDER DOROTHY!

with her broom.

a Kyrielle Sonnet

I walked through aisles of blue green
Sea foam floating yet hardly seen
A quick pace in the blackened light
Sandy dunes that layered the night

My ears rang with horror unknown
A sub-sound of ocean wave drone
While winds blew the grains up tight
Sandy dunes that layered the night

The moon gave me a peaceful glance
But would fear approve its advance?
Or would terror rule my delight?
Sandy dunes that layered the night

I walked through aisles of blue-green
Sandy dunes that layered the night

In the vein of "a million little pieces"

(You’ve inherited grandma’s house. Grandma’s secret journal is discovered. What does her last entry say?)

All I could think of for this question was Grandma Tidwell as a little girl



A small, young Polish girl;
now old and dying in America,
her body decaying into the future
her words swelling into the past
uttering more vividly
the haunting melodies...

Perogies baking in the kitchen
Papa walking behind his vending cart
and soldiers dying by the back stoop.

Why such a memory for the last entry?
maybe the memory of death
was the painkiller of life
and the journal, a place
where both could walk hand in hand

Laziness

The smell of Texaswood Cedar
and the sound of Norah Jones
give cause to my pen.
Poor Michael is sprawled out on the couch
with some sort of influenza, and
My house looks like a land-locked shipwreck.
The dishes are taking a bath, but
The laundry hangs around like bad conservation.
Outside the window, it’s a snowy March.
Winter still owns the bar
and today the drinks are on the house.
My writing ‘s already had a few too many
but still calls for another dark stout.
Michael pulls my attention
In the opposite direction
And we share some time together on the unmade bunks
Clanks from the buckles on my overalls
Churn quietly in the dryer
And we hold nothing as pressing
As together we doze.

The Tech Center

At 4:15 p.m. the tech center in Denver is abuzz. It isn’t quite the same as it was at 7:30. Instead an insurance agent steadily walks from his office in his grey pin-striped suit. He has fifteen years under his belt; no wife, no kids, and no evening appointments anymore.

A legal secretary passes him on the sidewalk. She too is dressed high-brow; black suit, crisp white blouse, and heels begging to be kicked and strewn by her sofa. She has two kids yearning for their mother to replace their daylong surrogates at pre-K and St. Michael’s Montessori.

Her husband, who isn’t any longer, works as an architect on the other end of the Center. He quietly returns to his high-rise flat in Lodo. His neat, orderly life is peaceful and lonely less every other weekend. One of his five business partners, who is walking with him presently, swings by the apartment on occasion with his twenties-something girlfriend to see if he wants to take in the local jazz scene with them. Even though he hates his third-wheel status he usually agrees to go.

Both men pass a lady in a long, crumpled gown. The dress has no shape or form, and neither does she as she sits holding up a copper sculpture of a long-legged disproportioned man. This man at 4:15 p.m. has no influence on her journaling efforts. Instead her inspiration is mused and fused by everyday people passing by; the insurance agent, legal secretary, architect, financial planner and the like. They strike an esoteric pose in her conscience as they move to the next step, the next task of normality, giving no notice to her or her aim of observation.

A monsoonal rain shower invades the scene and all pop open their man-made mushrooms to protect their suits, their blouses, their hair, their writing pad. Just like the poet, their protection warrants no thought, no appreciation of source or function. Instead it’s just an added cog to the wheel; complacent and ever-so important in the corporate routine of the day.

No room at the inn

I watched my client and friend stand at the wooden door.
He gazed intently through the half moon glass.
It was Christmas and the moon was full this year.
He hadn’t seen his mother for 2 months but
She promised she would come.
She promised she would be there for her boy.
He left the window door and paced about
Not in nervous anticipation, but the way he always paces
The steady gaze out that window became an added part;
An added step to his autistic routine.
I so wished he could communicate.
I wanted to hear the words that echoed in his heart and head.
I wanted to reassure him that his Christmas joy would come,
But my internal mumblings would not be heard.
I tried to sign but he was too busy;
Too busy churning hope like milk into fear butter.
A butter he would have to spread alone this Christmas
Seasoned with the salt of his tears.

Sunday Breakfast in Old Town

I sat at a table big enough for four
There was myself and that was it.
I perused the menu and picked my dish
Watched others come in and sit
The Mexican joint was not too crowded
Maybe five or ten people at most
A college girl sitting all sophisticated
Was reading the Denver Post
She wiggled in place and traded me glances
She sipped her coffee, alone
I buried my head in last week’s “Ticket”
It was the only paper I owned
A college couple sat by the front window pane
It divided them from the walk
They too seemed content in their reading
I never once saw them talk.
The waitress placed a solitary fellow
At a table just next to mine
I continued to read the entertainment pages
Didn’t glance at him while he dined
Absorbing more of myself than others
A man cleared his throat at me
“Can I steal this chair from you?’ he asked
I said, “Go ahead, take three”
More people meandered in and out
I ate my eggs on toast.
Then came a scraggly college dude
He confidently looked “East Coast”
He talked to the cashier, placed an order
And then walked over to the miss
She closed the Post and stood up quickly
She gave him a gentle kiss.
He tickled her breasts thinking no one saw
Then sat down picking at her plate
The party of nine was ordering now
I just read my paper and ate
Seven coffees and a juice and a cup of Earl Grey
It was quite a different mix of folks
More people crowded in, my plate was clean
I needed my pack of smokes.
I took my ticket, paid my bill
I casually walked away
I’d never see any of those people again
But the time was nice that day

Michael's cat

When I look up from my desk, I see pictures in all directions. One is a drawn picture that Michael did. He colored a house. It is transparent with sea foam trim and a domed roof and chimney to boot. A man stands next to it and his left arm is sticking through the transparent abode below the roof and ceiling. He too is transparent, but he is a purple man and rather rotund. His legs enlarge as they approach the ground like extended telescopes. At the base are three toes on each spyglass. They are deep-rooted in the earthy brown muck known as ground. A red and blue Venus flytrap, see through as well, grow straight and sturdy from the mucky earth. Up above is a scribbled sky with an orange sun. Somewhere between the earth and sky floats a blue tree. It is really a kernel of popcorn on a stick, but you know what was intended. It hangs freely just below the warm, glowing orange orb. There is a feline, drawn on white paper with a red pen, cut out, and pasted to this bucolic scene, as if to say, “Oops, I almost forgot the cat?”