Wandering between two points
With no other exit plan
Wondering if I
Will ever see the light of day
Again
Even though
The sun is covering the earth
In sweet golden light
I am trapped between coordinates
I put in place myself
Over time.
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I can’t shake off this furious anxiety
That thwarts my breathing, to
Shallow repetitive beats,
Obscuring
My capacity
For normal thoughts,
And when I wondered why those
Intermittent perturbances
Should even be?
The question
Answered itself.
Image from The Odyssey Online
The oak table in the corner, sturdy and solid,
Under the candelabra ,
In the farmhouse,
A cracked jug on top.
With other kitchen accruements
Laid out neatly
By the stove,
The plates and tankards
Strung on the wall,
It’s easy to ignore
The cracked jug.
Most visitors were apathetic
Regarding the unglazed vessel
That had been left
By an old fisherman.
Even the new tenants
And their friends
And families
Dismissed it
As aesthetically spoiling.
And the old fisherman
Who once lived there
Knew what it was like
To be ignored
And untouched
And unloved,
Saw the blemish on the jug
As a scar
That defined the jug
A perceptible imperfect mark.
So before he died
The old fisherman
Dropped a large pearl
Inside the jug
And left it there.
When he was gone,
And when people came by the farmhouse
They ignored the dirty old jug
Sitting alone; like the old man
Would sit alone,
Not realizing that if they looked inside,
They would see the real beauty
The true value,
And their lives could have been changed
Forever.
And they come to tea
Uninvited
Fondling my fragile china cups
Tedious tapping of a tea spoon
On a saucer.
Only to have my faith and peace trashed
And crumpled up
And thrown back on to the path.
Nobody knows
What it’s like
Trying to get out of a locked room
When the key is missing
Your voices make little difference,
The wind has the power to defeat
And take away all this dire screaming
But leave blisters and scars on your feet.
You can dress in vaginal outfits,
Give a finger to every young cop
Throw water bottles
At barking Alsatians,
There is nothing to say you must stop.
Urinate on the stars and stripes if you want,
Wipe your feet or your ass on the flag,
Smash up a Starbucks
(But don’t expect to get served),
Smash up banks
(Who financed your candidate),
And shout down the scum who you hate.
But it won’t make any difference
I can assure you,
The bed in the attic’s still there,
The food stamps will keep on arriving,
And the wind will still blow in your hair.
The streets will be cleared in the morning
As sad bitter people disperse,
To the buses and trains and planes waiting,
And the undertaker driving the hearse.
A fool
With an iPhone,
Is delusional
If he imagines,
A snap of the moon with a minuscule shutter,
Will capture the enormity of this
Striking ornament.
It won’t, of course,
But it lets God know
I care.
And if I hadn’t seen her glow
We’d never have existed.
When you shove me in the back
With your tiny fingers,
You move me forward
A random muscly guy turned,
Lit a little by the beer and disco lights,
Asked me, What happened to your face?
Teen boys in stained white suits
Laughed
Hard faced girls
Giggled into cupped hands.
Not the first time
Someone had mocked me.
Had stolen my peace of mind
Thriving on a hateful slur.
That evening soaking up scotch
I searched for a little self love.
Any time it appeared
It was stung by the slur
And died.
When i woke up
In the morning
They had left me,
The odd number
In the dead disco
Alone with my blackout
In a tight corner.
