Last night my head exploded.
No one was hurt but me.
No wonder no one will sleep with me.
Who keeps exploding my head?
They must know
How volatile are its contents.
Not much will set it off.
My head has always exploded at night,
Waking me up with a start--
Heart racing, sweating profusely, and
Surviving the blast.
Now it's exploding in the daytime
For no reason at all
Head mines tripped by accidental thoughts
With a perimeter of collateral damage.
She sat astride the thought
Transfixed with horror at it's dawning.
... comprehension'd struck her guts in place of stretch or yawning.
The thought deserved at least a "why"
if not a "what the fuck?!"
But she ignored it
(as implored by shameful, prideful pluck.)
None would want to know the thing.
It shan't be written down.
No beauty there is worth the fling of stones at thorny crown...
So she kept.
And keeps it in
A jar of smoked emotions
Amidst pickled devotions, capered qualms and kippered hopes (if mummied memory serves)...
She keeps it in her cabinet
of cured mind's preserves.
I am palming the bulges of my stomach.
I am scraping the feeling off my forearms.
I am clawing at my clammy scarlet palms with uncut nails.
My head is dizzy, decayed, what's the harm.
I am ripping the plastic fat of my things.
I am peeling my cheeks till they're numb to tears.
I am pinching the skin that settles by my collarbones brink.
Somethings craving the spinning wheel's touch.
Sleeping beauty skin, sweating and pink.
Tell, my skin confines me far too much.
I am intangible, uncontrollable,
I am a psyche, a soul,
I am feelings that feel far too infinite-
And yet, how am I soft thick skin, far too firm, too whole?
How must a finite thing envelope my existence, a riot?!
I am my everything, and yet I stand on ten toes?
I am coursing blood and,
I am coursing thoughts without close.
Rather, make my fillings pocket-sized and planned.
My skin, horizonless.
My skin, dimpled earth.
My being deep in crisp cold soil.
Tremors sweep me,
Yet my skin is deep and tan and old.
Skin beneath the willow tree.
Skin on the bathroom floor.
Skin sunken from the sea.
I'll be skin, forever more.
The Last American Outcast (Updated)
So I went to the Smithsonian
and sought out the lunch counter
taken from the Woolworth’s in Greensboro
some sixty odd years ago
slipping under the velvet rope
I pick the pink leatherette stool on the end
and wait to be served.
Joining those audacious dissidents
the stench still lingering in the air
catsup hemorrhaged like blood thickened by the musk of history
me the last of them
linking arms with them here
joining in their spectral midst.
The curator is called and comes clicking swiftly perplexed.
“You are in a restricted area. What do you want?” she says in a stage whisper.
“To be served…like the others” I say.
“But you’re not even a…person of color …” she pleads quietly.
“No, and I am not Native American, Jewish, Undocumented, Trans…
they all would be served.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Just a stuffed tomato with chicken salad …and perhaps an ice tea, no lemon.”
“Who are you?” she asks again
cocking her head like a chicken looking for defects unseen to her naked eyes.
“I’m a mentally ill American.”
Her eyes widen and she speaks quickly into her phone calling for security.
“I have legal rights. You cannot discriminate”, I tell the uniformed men
who arrive and pick me effortlessly off the sacred pink artifact to cast me out.
As I am carried I glance back at the ghosts
eating their grilled cheese sandwiches and sipping cokes clinking glasses together…
the Blacks, Feminists and Gays.
My time has not yet come.
The last outcast in America
not welcome at the great lunch counter of this free and accepting land.
The Jesters Sonata
Balls in the air. Juggler of emotions.
I am torn between ending it all, and starting over to try again,
because the end of a muzzle seems like a headache, but also, the pill.
I pace back and forth until noon, then I realize its midnight.
No sleep until the witching hour, for it is where I am most awake.
“Eat something you bastard,” they say, yet I am not hungry for whats on their menu.
Peanut butter on bread, spread unevenly. No milk.
A moonlit snack becomes a meal. A tear becomes a bath.
A thought becomes another episode that I must binge until its very end.
What a cliffhanger.
Finally, a feast that I can eat. Hungry, for more.
I am tortured and mocked by my internal struggle, but I don’t want to miss the commercials, because there could be something that I want to buy.
I offer a facelift in the mirror. Then wash away its filth.
The voices all speak the same language, yet they’re foreign to me, and I don’t understand them, but I listen anyways because the sound of silence is deafening.
The translated captions will have to do.
“Walk it off, you’ll be fine,” they say, yet when I do so, the thorn bushes outside scrape against my skin, tearing and pulling at my weak meaningless flesh.
My insides are now exposed, and I lock the door for protection.
Why would they encourage me knowing I would fail?
Am I merely a vessel for their amusement, until the carnival closes down?
A red nose they make me wear. Am I forced to be their clown?
I dance, I sing, I play. I must entertain them until they are bored with me.
Only then, bloody, broken, and tired can I wipe away the paint.
I fall asleep to realize that I was never really, awake…
it's a blissful universe,
one in which i don't exist
my intangibility gives me strength.
i find solace in the nihilism,
freedom in living fast,
i depend so heavily upon
my mental illness
to kill me before i turn thirty-three.
it's a mutual destruction,
my mind and i,
in a quest to see
which one of us
will die first.
an epic battle of the ages,
fought with sticks and stones,
reverted to a primitive age
of childhood insults.
here i can be a child,
where rebellion means
drawing on the walls
and making faces at the mirror,
or throwing a baseball
through an upstairs window
and dancing barefoot
on the shattered glass
won't be mad
because she'll be too worried
about my bleeding feet
and the stains on the carpet
about my mistake.
she'll drive me to the emergency room
and they'll tell her
because little kids
don't get locked up
for doing stupid shit.
as a child my misdeeds
a speck of dust in the maladies of youth.
i can lose myself in the delusion
and my parents will be assured
that it's just
coming out to play.
it is a blissful universe,
one where i don't exist.
i was forced
to grow up
and fill the role
that i'd been trying so hard
As a matter of Fact
It's not the matter
That smatter I'm
Scraping up off
of the big Box
It's not I,
Shit walked off
on Its own
And I know
I've tried before
Oh let me in
next of Sin,
Me from my Will
I'm scraping by!
crud that ain't mine
off from my shins.
I won't feel it.
of the revolving
is a sanitary
as I'm wheeled
Down the aisle,
& crackin' a
Mental Breakdown Challenge @Melpomene
Feed the Kitty
Show me something
Cuz I've got nothing
Gotta feed the kitty
Feed the kitty
Exhausted the dragon
Traded my heart in
And it's dragging me down,
This searching around,
For anything I can chase
Gotta feed the kitty
Feed the kitty
Time's ticking away
Sometimes I just wanna be sane
Make it through one damn day
With a smile and some accomplishments
Gotta feed the kitty
Feed the kitty
For Me He Bled
Go ahead for the kill
Hit me with the stigma
That's been accompanied by havin' to take a pill
One that makes a man appear to be a bit of an enigma
With nothin' but his guts to spill
Due to the churches lack of kerygma
The demons in my mind seldom stay still
Even if I met a preacher with just the right Charisma
I'd still continue to be known as mentally ill
On my head demons have fed
I didn't listen to what was all said
The conversation was sick and red
Then I hit 'em with the power that can raise the dead
I let them see
it was for me
to be free
Jesus Christ bled
Long Day of Dying
Can’t remember exactly when
Everything turned gray
And the shadows began sticking
To my sallow face
I don’t know what sorrow succeeded
In finally disfiguring me
Crippling my body under the weight
Of heavy rain
The landscape is bleak as bone
My backyard nothing but dark sky
Ghosts no longer linger here
Insects turn to dust
I quietly waste away in fear
From the silence that stalks this place
Tormenting me like a beast
Calling me by name
A cold child under black blankets
I pray under a godless roof
For someone to appear from nowhere
Out of thin air
But there’s no point in talking
To an empty room
So why don’t I just leave
Take my chances with infinity