Cry

Tears

that break you

every shameful thing you’ve done

pours out

soaks back in

Monday’s Dinner

I better not hold the knife too long,

just cut the carrot, slide it under the plate’s lip

so it is out of sight.

God, help me.

Early Sunday Morning

I feel like I am just spinning wheels.  Out of balance.  When you have one friend, first one in a long time…

I need to take a big step back and be real.  I am not the center of her world, therefore she can’t be the center of mine.  There is an equilibrium and I need to fall into it.

S

The chalk’d smoke whips like a dancing dresser’s tail in a series of silent S’s
jet aisles heavy with lawyerly apropos, chamois-lined purses, the St. Vincent islands
leaving behind the bourgeois debris

Dream ~ The Green Valley

A.

A Chevette hurdles off the coastal highway
arching deep into the green valley.

B.

Outside the window vespers fill the
arboretum with song.  I softly comb fingers
through Jennifer’s hair and she flinches.

C.

As the evening hours disintegrate, Drifter
Boys push around a waitress hollering for
help.  There is no response.

D.

I stealthily lower a water glass beneath the
restaurant table, too shy to excuse myself
and pee into it.

E.

The alienating glow of televisions drools out
the 18th street apartment complex steeling
the wind with static.

F.

Jennifer and Scott lay intertwined asleep in
my bed.  I curl on the cold floor destroyed,
careful not to wake them.

G.

Scott’s wife places her palm teasingly across
my chest.

The Psychiatrist

Timothy’s Ladder

Panic

Today it comes out of nowhere for no particular reason.  You are listening to Handel in the living room.  Your left hand is on pins and needles.  It is going numb.  You massage it to get the blood flowing, but now both hands itch.  The sensation crawls up the vein in your neck.

Neighbors outside are whispering.  You grease your ear against the window and swear they are laughing at you.  You are afraid, death is imminent.  Sitting down is not an option now; stillness is a hand grenade, so you pace with your rapid bird-shallow breath in circles like a toy train set,

chest screwing tight, violas squealing, you kick the plug out.  Unlatch the front door lock, just in case you need to stumble out onto the garden lot, so you may lie by the flowers and be counted.  Coldness recomposes.  Teeth chatter.

There is a blanket nearby and you grab it, dripping down into the marmalade carpet in a psychogenic seizure, knees drawn toward the chest, palms upon the knees.  You can do this, just breathe slow.  Slower still.  Let Mother’s hologram float like a church bell in your mind.

Thankfully, I have not had panic attacks for many years now.   This description was very typical for me.

Geppetto’s War

Straddling
Geppetto’s
Warhorses
Bridgeheads
Redrawn
Battlefield
Marionettes
Jumping
Riversides
Foredawn