Bright Spring Mourning

I’m having

some sort of reaction

to myself;

rooted a paranoia

in my blood

so deep

it can never

be dug out.

And there’s just enough light

coming from the television

to illuminate

and affirm

my unstable

fleeting sanity.

Is mania

the cause of medication

or is medication

the cause of murder?

Murder is

the cause of mania;

definitely mania

because of murderous

misanthropy.

Stagger

          scatter

                   and scramble.

Sick Nostalgia

Simultaneous screwdrivers
in my brain
my liver;

a combination
cirrhosis-aneurysm:

fairly common
in the twilight
before blinking.

When clouds are close
enough to reach
up and caress;

the dread
that accompanies
a false
but albeit

convincing death.

Phantom Pulsations

There's blood
in the milk;

a satin coffee stain
from a styrofoam cup
on a newspaper
is sick
nostalgia;

childhood anxiety
that runs
in the deepest abyss
of your stomach.

I bit the inside of my lip
until I tasted blood,

but I had siphoned
so much of the night

my blood had turned black

running invisible
beneath the stars.

Photon Band

We’re clearing the cold

from these mesh screens.

I’m saving it

scraping it

salvaging it

for winter

when the flannel sheets

grace our bodies

and make us sweat.

If I open the windows

in the scared scars of dark

sultry delirium

to let the icy breeze in

and swoon me back to your arms,

will you promise

not to fly away?

The Demise of Kerouac

Whiskey and malt liquor
at 11 a.m.

or mountain climbing
and spiritual revelations;

maybe both,
or maybe
one won
over the other
one.

Blood poured
from his mouth
faster than
his rising fame
and new label - 

Father of the Beat movement:

A label and a fame he equally despised.

"Something good will come
of all things yet."

But blood won't clot
with a damaged liver.

"Live, travel, adventure, bless,
and don't be sorry."

...and don't forget
to drink yourself into the grave.

Your lifetime of scenery
won't
can't
save your cirrhosis
from a lifetime
of tequila margaritas.

here

there

in the sky

on the road;

"Stella,
I'm bleeding."

Mo(u)rning Dew

The sky was bluish-gray
more blue
than gray...

maybe glue?

My brain couldn't decode
what my eyes were seeing:

happiness being found
in misplaced things;
misplaced happiness -

the mast
the sails
the millions of trees

that aren't speckling
the ocean;

the forest in the boat on the sea.

Some exaggerations
some understatements
some both.

A vision - quite like you -

that got too vivid
too perfect
too beautiful
to bear.

there, here, it's you

there’s a storm coming;

there’s a storm here.

there’s a horizon falling

there’s a grey mess blackening.

here’s where I stood and

here’s where nothing is wrong.

here’s when I see dissonance

here’s when it doesn’t exist.

it’s freely flailing

it’s rattling around my cranium.

it’s a ghost, a mirage, a phantom;

it’s effect is more real – more traumatic – than death.

you’re freely hovering

you’re still scrambling on your own.

your inhibition is plaguing and

you’re killing me and

you’re healing me and

you’re killing me.