#poetry - self portrait

and these things happened to them
as examples for others, and
they were written down as a warning
for us. for we live at a time
when the end is about to come
-Corinthians 10:11


It can not be any easier,
you can get out of this box!   
   the note said

i gave her a copy of it
and asked for a personal facsimile
   in her own hand writing

i then pasted her writing above
my desk which i seldom read
   it was a horrible truth and lie



the bubble rose from the lungs
by slow paces fitted through
constricted vessels,
muscles twitched like radar ping.

the bubble is here
               now here
   eh, here

panic in the head quarters and
a salvo of chemicals,
the heart skipped, the legs gave out,
the neck seized, the body collapsed,
the unlensed eye admitted distortion,
the mouth hung open,
the nostrils dilated,

the man tried to look normal and
sat on the top seat of his porch.

weekend afternoon passers-by ambled on,
while he alone thought, "what is wrong?"

the cerebral torment began.
ice wave sensation came up and over,
he tried to find his pulse and could not.
he figured that he sat on the threshold
of his own tireless death and
considered how he might interact---

a man on the street looked at him and
he tried to look back---the bubble exploded
and the man on the street distorted.

he tried to stand and felt his testicles
lift into his body cavity.
                absolute silence.

words did not come easy to his mind
and he could emit no sound from
his vocal chords. this was the torment,
and it was slow inconsolable torture,
effecting one repeating question---
is this really happening?
never before an experience like this.


there's some thunder.
now a gale, sudden and fierce,
a torrential womb of fire and mist---
a mainsheet, topside to dig into,
leaning with the rolling,
a chance to lick the salt
and taste the queen riding hard,
to ignore the throes and make one
the surface and sky---

the sunlight makes storm
and that is awesome,
but the same light by the moon reflected
makes halo auras,
and that is divine.


schizophrenics do not need titles,
ours is a thankless endeavour.
when you see us, you will not know why,,
nor shall we be complete with knowing,
but yours will be confusion of our seem
while ours is what lay beyond that seem.



took the cup for granted
   the water too and
the way of feel as feelings go
between fingertips and surfaces
involved with drink

had to sit awhile and think,
after the fact, of course,
   what is better, steady,
below the grand gesture, but
big all the same---i yielded then
to the smallness of you.

no less a burden to brain
than were i to stich and sew
   the moon to mars,
what is worse though---
i'm watching the cars
exhaust the mean, steady stream.

one by one they run
   on and on
oh steady, some unerring,
some honking in blunder
some in wonder

i watched it all, the backfield
of my wander, a sustained
   and quavering cadence---
the ponder so small this all is
but perfect wrought.

a single atom of hydrogen
   can ignite city wide catastrophe---
so then nothing is too small
for you or me---but i took
the cup of you by hand.

it was granted, and grand.
walked for days with it atop
   my head, with the perfect
balance of the perfect dead,
mute to speak but loud of step,
i moved the cup and almost wept!

today today today today
i am to do this now today,
   cup? ching-ching,
i give you hollow, hear you ring,
something small in you is burning
and if that small it be

the same thing may as well be me