Pray For Rain
My hunger hides out in a diner,
The one in that painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper
Which lays suspended in the mood
Of the neglected city...
I ache like the city aches in it's amalgam of pockets
Where busy shoes refuse to shuffle,
And the crowds leave gaping snags
Of prosperity in the lurch...
God bless those teeming time capsules of so-called unimportance!...
...When I pray for rain
It's the hot ecstasy and passion of the muse for which I sing
I seek it's intoxication to seep into my body
As I wait it out like a fine wine awaits
A great feast where it can splash it's lifeblood out vigorously
Over the heads of it's partygoers...
O, Rain, come for me again!...
I need you, as I am as chapped and dry as a lizard on a rock
Seeking some forgone conclusion,
Hoping that the walls will talk
And repay me for the many times they only served as straws
To gobble up my restless, fuming, venom that was flawed,
As my snakeskins drop off left and right
Piling up like soiled linen...
Like space food I've been sapped to serve!...
Please cleanse my venal dirty words,
And materialize before me like some sprite
Within a glen...
I'll wait you out until I die...
Though forest fires may
Blacken clouds...
I'll still remain with wretched tongue
Stretched out to greet the pregnant skies
For your sweet drops to tumble down,
Though I'm exhaustingly aware
That you may seal up like a tomb
And leave me scarred and aching
At the threshold of despair...
...An envelope discarded to the
Famished womb of night...
5/19/24
Bunny Villaire
Ghosted
Sweat glistens; she smiles down at me. Eyes locked, hips rocked, we fight the air-conditioning, wrestling in tangled linens. She laughs, I flip her, she's pinned. My breathing changes and eyes glaze; she smiles, nodding, tells me to, but I'm already there.
Whitewash rolls down, but we will never have a picket fence. Her lips part in matching smiles. The bruise on her thigh is a beautiful contrast to the cream of her skin and on her skin.
Adele says we've gotta let go of our ghosts. That’s truth, but these ghosts in my sheets are a haunt I welcome.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fk4BbF7B29w
This Is It
Mom's spaghetti. We all know the song: stepping onstage, questioning everything. The thoughts that get in the way. The anxiety that consumes, a flame. I try to put it out over and over again, but nothing happens: this is it, every moment is counting on me to fill it with purpose and perfection, a curse that won't accept my repeated rejections of its grip on my sanity.
A fever pitch. Tightness in the head, behind the eyes, specifically. Ibuprofen got nothing on this. My wardrobe must have malfunctioned, I'm adjusting my dress. I am picking at my skin. I am crawling out of it, actually, second by second, minute by minute.
Thought after thought. It's a train that won't stop: I'm off the rails, I'm waiting for the crash, I am the crash. The crash doesn't come and I am stuck in a fever dream of anxious reckoning, begging my mind to stop making up scenarios that didn't happen, aren't happening.
I fix my face into a smile that doesn't come off even after I get home, washing furiously at my grin, trying to remove it from existence. I take a bubble bath, lying down and baking in the heat of it. Nothing helps, every thought is agony. The anxiety doesn't go away, not even after I go to bed, tossing and turning, the thoughts pounding in my head, repeating themselves into oblivion.
Repetition. A repeating, a pattern of obsession. My thoughts don't stop, I find myself talking out loud in front of no one, saying: "We're OK. Everything is OK." Is it OK? I ask my inner monologue. And the thoughts keep coming, a string of horrible, painful regrets: but of what? I will never know the true cause, but I'm reeling from the guilt, the idea of being somehow imperfect and unaware of my own effect on the world.
The bartender double checks that I'm twenty-one. I say, "I'm thirty-one," with that grin that didn't wash off. I down my lemon drop with a fervor that makes the bartender say, "That's going down quite nicely." Yes, everything is going down, all the time, falling but never quite hitting the ground.
The ground, with this kind of anxiety, is always far off. I am never quite hitting rock bottom, but it seems like I am, mid-fall, over and over again, and I have to be myself when that's all I was trying to escape from.
all storms end eventually
They say that counting the seconds between seeing lightning and hearing thunder will tell you how far away the bolt struck. I don't know if the same applies when the storm lies within, spiraling away inside my chest, burning me down, down, down. I am blinded by lightning and deafened by thunder, except my eyes work fine and my ears can hear perfectly well. It's the inside that burns, that churns, that heaves.
My anxiety is insatiable. It devours everything in its path; no sweet flower or sturdy tree is safe from the wildfire of fear, the torrential downpour of worry, the ever-present roar of a train of thought that won't stop running, can't stop running. There's something sickening about my desire for self-torture. I mean, there's no other reason I'd do this to myself, right? Because that's what this is—I don't need to worry, but I do. I don't need to fear, but I do. I don't need to pace and pace until my feet bleed red and my eyesight grows dark, but I do.
My sadness is insatiable. It overpowers me, dragging me down, down, down, so far down until all light is gone and darkness is all that remains. I'm tired of being this miserable, this low. I'm tired of being haunted by my feelings, I'm tired of being hunted by my thoughts. Melancholy is my best friend, my lover, and we are wrapped in an intimate embrace.
The lightning strikes, the thunder roars, but the rain pours down to water flowers that bloom, trees that blossom. The storm rattles my bones and shakes my spirit, but it'll pass, it always does, and then the sun will come out again.
My happiness is insatiable. Joy is sometimes fleeting, but when it's present, it overpowers everything else until my chest is full of helium and I am floating up, up, up and away, floating away into a clear blue sky that was once pierced by lightning and thunder. Warmth flowers in my chest—not the uncomfortable fire of fear, but a better warmth, a bolder warmth, a warmth that tells me that everything will be alright, some way, somehow. The anxiety and sadness will come back again, just like always, and they'll be insatiable, just like always, and I'll feel like giving up and breaking down and caving in, but the storm will end, just like always, and the sun will rise, just like always, and that beautiful, insatiable happiness will sweep me up again in an embrace that keeps me warm, keeps me safe.
Precipice of Danger
Why did I go to Peru? To a rustic camp somewhere high in the mountains? With a broken foot and ankle in a cast and resting on a leg scooter?
Our guide utters something not in English, and other campers pick up the pace of clearing a new site for our encampment. Shoveling snow. Moving rocks. Erecting tents. Building fire pits.
Why is everyone glancing at me and shaking their heads? Because I am just sorting gear? Because I appear to be the only American of the dozen or so campers? And the only one not pulling his or her weight? Fine, you try hard labor with a bad leg.
Break time at sunset and everybody huddles around a large barrel with a blazing fire inside. Everyone but me. I try to scoot in but other campers won't let me. Snickering faces are bathed in the warm, orange glow from the barrel.
Soon, everyone leaves the barrel but me. They line up on a rocky ledge to retrieve dinner from a wagon. It looks like chipped beef, but I can't get close enough to be sure. I guess I'll miss dinner again. They find rocks to sit on and drag the fire barrel away from me, so they can stay warm.
I look for a rock to sit on. I go up a slight incline, and I find one 10 yards from the group. But as I lift my leg off the scooter, somebody from the group yells. I look up, and others are shouting at me. I don't know what they are saying.
I sit on the rock, and my leg scooter rolls backward toward a cliff. It disappears. I stand to look, and I find that I am on the precipice. I topple backward and fall, but my right hand grasps a branch. I do not know how a tree got up there, but I hang on tightly. Now both hands are on the branch as my body dangles helplessly in nothingness. The group's screams have stopped. I hear a crack. I yell for help, but no one comes. Another crack, and a big piece of bark falls away. I yell for help, but no one comes. I can see the yellow innards of the branch. I yell for help, and now I have to pee.
I awake in my warm bed and head to the bathroom.
An Anxious Man at a Party
The dawning of the New Year,
the dropping of the ball -
the countdown leads to revelry
as it begins to fall.
At this party is a man
mired by a lack of confidence;
meek and mild-mannered,
he goes unnoticed without consequence.
And so his gaze shifts towards the earth
and to the feet of passersby.
He turns to clues upon their shoes
to ascertain their lives:
’There’s a pair of working boots,
endowed with mud and grime.
Working days are dreadfully long,
so he appreciates good times.'
'A pair of heels strut past,
her date has a lot of money.
She laughs at all his jokes,
but they’re painfully unfunny.’
You see, these observations
are a ritual of sorts.
Diffidence,
he cannot look upon the eyes of his cohorts.
This man sips his beer in solitude,
out of fear of being noticed.
His only solace rests within
the shoes that claim his focus.
He takes notice of the details,
deduces the paths on which they walk -
it’s his way of meeting people,
for he lacks the strength to talk:
’A pair of crocs go stomping by,
she’s cursing up a storm.
Across the floor and out the door;
tale of a woman scorned.'
'The sight of sneakers stumbling by
in swerving steps of stupor…’
They stop and pivot towards the man,
“I was wondering where you were!”
The man recoils, taken aback,
with the strength that he can muster,
he breathes in deep and takes the leap
and he turns his gaze on upward.
The face he’s met with wears a smile,
and calls him by his name.
That look brings equanimity
and washes away shame.
At last, he sees the festival
of color and excitement.
An extension of acknowledgement
made the present moment vibrant.
Run..RUn..RUN!!!!!!
Running through a dark and creepy forest at night
no light in sight, nothing to brighten up the dark abyss
that's alright..everything is fine.. you're gonna be fine..
is what I would've never said if I knew what was coming next
a pack of wolves on the prowl.. they saw me.. and started to howl.
Now I'm on the run which isn't much fun.. when you're running from wild animals that want to eat you or rip you apart whichever comes first. it's hard not to overthink when I could die in a blink of an eye.. oh God I don't wanna die... God please save my life I say knowing I never pray but this time is as good as any to ask the man of many for some help in this dangerous and scary situation.
I run into a cave, I will say I was feeling pretty brave going into this cave not knowing what would be in there, anything would be good except for a bear.. my heart was pounding as fast as it could go.. I needed to get home but I'm stuck in this cave in the woods..I can try to lay down and rest now..
Staring at screens
scrolling. scrolling.
the loop keeps
getting shorter
closing in
closing
in
no closer
to the finish line.
“why did I come here?”
I forget
to ask myself
anymore, ever- ywhere I
go
I‘m robbed of
my biometeric ID
by dozens of cameras
streaming, storing
uploading to
A cloud or
on a server somewhere
with a roof,
and four walls,
air conditioning
and private security.
While people die outside and
there’s no hiding
The calamity or
the mundane
And the addiction
to crack -ed screen
protectors
And tragedy.
Scrolling into controversy
Like surfers paddle til they catch a wave
And beauty surrounds us
And ugliness engulfs our whims
Where death is entertainment
or a plot device to get rid of the most inconvenient character
Or maybe a bus load of them.
“that’s a shame” we say
but
We gripe if their doom lacks our preferred amount of suspense
or knows no scapegoat
No villain
needed to pursue
For endless
instant gratification.
I want to put it down but
Never
Seem to unfix my
pupils fixed to pixels
to pay rent
to buy bread
and gasoline
to determine the quickest route to Grandma’s house
despite traffic
Always traffic
And smog so thick we’re all smoking
Carbon monoxide
My cigarettes filter that shit though
and nobody gets out of here alive.