Monday, April 28, 2014

Flatiron

When I was a teenager, my parents sent me
to group therapy. During one session, the counselors asked us
"How do you see yourself dying?" I said I imagined myself
run over by a steamroller, flattened out
like in the old Looney Toons cartoons.
The other kids laughed, and my counselors berated me
for having such a ridiculous answer. But that
was how I felt; crushed by anxiety, rendered two-dimensional
by depression. I've been feeling this way again lately:
pressed down, smothered beneath
a concrete slab, or on better days merely
a stack of mattresses. I see things
and I can name them but I cannot describe them,
cannot put my finger on what they remind me of.
It's normal, they say, this flattening out,
this deadening of the senses. It means the drugs are doing
what they are designed to do.
But as I lie here, crushed and mutilated,
I feel myself fill with a different desperation
than the one which led me to this brink,
which caused me to finally give in and fill
those prescriptions. It is the desperation
of being unable to write. And if
I cannot write, what good am I?
I have no answer for this.

4/28



Saturday, April 19, 2014

Spread Your Filthy Wings



     Slap rubbery eyelids shut. Burrow beneath a blanket of grimy leaves, lying motionless in the tangle of brambles at the base of the charred oak. Do not scratch the bugs in the beard or pluck the lice that squirms on the scalp. Let the fleas hide between the folds of skin. An umbrella’s collapsed ribcage shoved beneath an armpit, duck tape shoes squeeze swollen toes. In the pocket, rubber bands bind a deck of cards with the black suits removed. Munch on a salad of thistle, sedge, broom. Chew that food with a mouthful of sticks instead of teeth, lick those lips with a stuffed sock tongue. Remain clothed to wallow in the streams that wind sluggishly through these woods. Clinking strings of metal pull tabs around the neck. Ferns and moss sprout from various cracks and orifices. Crotch slippery with rubbery fungus. Branches covered in dried paste that peels and hangs like strips of snakeskin. Furry stumps teeming with wet grubs. Flex knuckles plastered with mud that cracks and crumbles. There are no tracks in the mud, just an occasional raw notch in the bark where antlers were rubbed. A rustle and scamper between the trees. Feathers slapped against a bush, billowing clouds of dust slowly settle over everything, weighing it all down.  

Friday, April 18, 2014

april 18th


Twelve Rounds with the Citalopram Kid



No story. The mind reaches out but instantly snaps back, dragged back into its skull-cell. Leaping frogs bounce wetly off the glass. My head stuffed in a pillowcase knotted shut beaten with rubber mallets. I feel like I am throwing punches, lashing out wildly, but when they play back the footage I see that I am just standing there, swaying slightly with a blank look on my face rather than rage. I am about as fierce as a deflated basketball, my passion burning as hot as a head of lettuce. The soles of my bare feet are sticky as if the skin’s been flayed from them. There are slivers of broken glass caught between my teeth, lacerating my gums, but I don’t feel them. Something runs down my face, dripping from my chin; I go to wipe it off but keep missing. My cock has dropped off and every time I bend over to pick it up I get woozy so eventually I just let it lie there in the dust. A thousand gnat wings sprout from my shoulder blades and shiver there soundlessly. There’s no story. My attention doesn’t even snap back anymore but lies limply on the ground. I reel it in and wrap it around my head like a turban, then count the bells until it’s time to hit the floor.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

april 10



Spring Midges



I wanted to flick a midge from her collarbone but her boyfriend was standing right there, staring off into the distance with those blue glass eyes. It was the first truly warm day of April and all the little winged creatures were starting to dance about. I brushed one away from my ear. Boyfriend scratched his beard, yawned. At a nearby table a deaf girl gave a tarot reading using glossy cards with dragons printed on them. She yelled and gestured wildly to the girl across the table from her, who nodded and stared back with wide, serious eyes. As my friend hugged me goodbye I tried not to press against her ram’s head t-shirt with the low-cut neckline. I watched as she walked away, her cracked leather jacket slung over her shoulder. Her boyfriend nodded goodbye, chain attached to his wallet, snakes and devils twisting and swirling up and down his arms. The midges crazed and swarmed around my head. I closed my eyes but the sunlight seared right through.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

National Poetry Month returns, again, somehow

Yeah, I was going to boycott it this year, but I say that every year, so what the hell, here are thirty breand new poem/pictures, not up for anything more ambitious this time around.