a mental pain
the anguish
squish
you step on
a bug
this part of
town is
roach
infested
brochures
don’t
tell this
we don’t
read
brochures
a mental pain
hardly can
define itself
the
blinding
pain…
in a book
somewhere
says
the pain enables
one to
point
to the miracle
I tend
to the garden
of my sleeping
cat
once hit
by a car
then miraculously
recovered
I pet him
along his side
to comfort him
his troubled breathing
(I know how this is)
I know a
few things he
doesn’t
one is
world
seems to
be falling apart
I awake
in the day
for early morning
writing sessions
I move about
always
in the flurry
of a high paced
environment
often telling myself
even if I cannot
piece together
all my tasks in
the proper order
at least the idea is
to keep moving and
if I do so
it will all
mostly fit together
it is
not survival school
it is
survival skills
applied
this is the tank
there, the piranas
in the writing sessions
I wonder if my
subconscious will
reveal to me
the truth of my actions
the aftermath
the math
mostly it reveals
itself
as another writing session
jumbled words in a ball
thoughts come across
the mind screen
and type down
it is the despair
of life
that chases me
to the page
and I position
myself on the floor
sit still in meditation
for all of this
I even jangle the
psychedelic keys
that chime
beauty
and horror
red, green, blue
even some colors
that have not
been invented yet
the world
has been
turned
upside down
each year
is harder
than the last
(I tell myself this after a long day and think “even if this is untrue I’m believing it; even if others scoff, just by saying it
I have poisoned the base of the tree.”)
everything
the book has for me
is for my benefit/
when I come
to write
all the things I’ve
not thought about
while reading
spring from a box
perhaps the book
is a repair shop
a mental garage
to suspend
oneself (by hooks?)
and in
ten seconds
comes another distortion
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