The Many Depressions of Life


One of my grandmothers
had dementia toward the end.
A ten-year old end.
My other grandmother
who is still alive has schizophrenia.
Not good to have so much
mental illness in your family DNA.

I don’t bring that shit up on dates.

I went to meet the dementia one
because this time, 
she was way too close
to the end.

She didn’t recognize me at all,
nor my father and worse yet
she wasn’t herself anymore, either.
Everything that made her my grandmother 
was no longer there.

We could as well be two strangers
communicating through two different 
languages 
while suffering from different mental illnesses.

Five months before she was diagnosed
they’d flown her to the USA
for a very expensive eye laser therapy.
This old husk of a woman could see
as well as a cyborg.

“ What a waste” I had told the room 
after I’ve given up getting through to her 
“ such a waste of money just for her
  to turn Ike this now.”

My relatives has scolded my thinking.
My father had put both his hands
in his pants pockets and said:
As much as good timing can help
bad timing can harm.

They scolded him, too.
They didn’t understand 
that my fathers pants pockets
were once full of money and relief 
but were now empty.
My relatives hadn’t counted coins
on the palms of their hands
anxious that they’re adequate for
whatever sad purchase you might
need to make in decades.

I never saw that old lady again.
I got a picture some months later
of my father leaning over the open 
casket of his mother
and planting a kiss on her forehead.
She looked peaceful. Done with it all.
The sadness of my father’s face
baffled me. 

He always had a great disdain for his mother,
for her intellect or lack thereof 
and the fact that she never helped him once
in an essential way, or at least
that’s what he maintained. 

“Put the smartest man in the world
To live with the dumbest person of the world
and I guarantee you the dumb one will win.”
Addressed to his mother for when they lived together.

But family is family.
I guess.
There’s a biological factor
in the stubborn love
of a relative you would never 
befriend in your life.

That old lady was once
my grandmother
washed my baby butt
tought me how to take a dumb
in a Turkish toilet.
Kissed my tiny weenie when we were done washing
and always told me
that I’ll become a lover boy.
That I would see, some day.

What can you say?
Plenty of reasons to get depressed
while in the joy ride
no matter the joy— the fleeting joy.
It’s a game of turns.
In time, I’ll be leaning over my dead father 
thinking of all the time we wasted not talking
about art or women or anything at all
and I’ll wipe my tears over his forehead 
and soon enough
it’ll be my time to be weeped over
and who knows 
I might finally look peaceful then.

Pinch

You stretch, getting out of bed, and I’m as tightfisted as the trees with my love. I could cut you but that would hurt too much, so I smile at you instead, my gainful governor. See, I’ve given up so much territory already, given you my hopes for some kind of trip to the sky. But we can’t afford it, you say and shrug.

Here’s payment, I say, jaded but educated in what turns your body on. You don your protective suit, shy but exultant as I’m busy fumbling with your parts, making slow but tidy love. You enter my halls with enough force for four as the naked nymphs of the past bathe in a fountain beside where the poets educate and the fairies are lying, waiting for various forms of approval from the romantic Gods.

My main interest is to toy with you, but don’t be concerned, I’m deranged. I want to rule you and obey you and maybe that’s why I’m upset, filled with worry for the daily. It’s a great morning though and I promise I won’t be so aloof and overwrought. I don’t tell you these things I’m thinking for fear of your reaction. You’ll just have to split my legs and wait for the result. 

Author Bio
 
I could advertise the network of scars I bear 
from a neurotic upbringing, or say I live mostly 
 
in my head, or even joke that I am a noted writer 
of blurbs for other people’s poetry books, and 
 
I could do it, just as required by your submission 
guidelines, in “50 words or less,” but it wouldn’t 
 
be the whole truth, more like the article of clothing
given to a search dog to learn the scent of a person 
 
who has gone missing.

What the Billboards Say
 
They say, NO DREAMING.
It’s true the world has fallen
through the looking glass,
but no dreams?
Just last night
I dreamed about a truck, a dog,
and a field of poppies
growing near my house.
Tonight, they’ve brought search lights
shining them into my windows
as if to say, Hand them over.
What will they do with my dreams
of armored trucks, brave dogs,
and a field full of soldiers
fighting to save us?
Now they’ve finished with our land,
they’re searching deep into the heavens.
Now it’s up to the stars,
so far failing to shoot them down.
 

Good Book

this book makes me uncomfortable
with each page crackling
like whips at each turn
there’s too much rape and slavery
along with a few pinches of incest
the slaveowner has no redemptive quality
 there’s no Morgan Freeman to narrate
and soothe me. there’s no real conclusion
just more death and rape
let’s read romance
yeah, the hunk is a misogynistic asshole
with ripped shirts, disguising commandments as chocolate tones
and he always appears out of nowhere
but the sex is so good and consensual
and they live happily ever after
now that’s a book

Guillotine
 
After reading the work; upon finishing the last of the editing
A certain feeling, a feeling of despair
A feeling of inadequacy,
A feeling of impotence,
Makes its way into the room.
A realization that has taken 250 plus poems to come to:
I have written nothing
Notebook upon notebook of words ill conceived
The artistic endeavor prematurely executed
Now witness the art execute the artist.



Seashells?

I’ve invested stocks in Taco Bell
I am not a financial expert of any kind, but after watching 
Demolition Man, I figure Hollywood must know something, right?
Taco bell, the future of fine dining… my fortune is secured like the criminals of the future
Now, the real mystery, how do you use the seashells?



Royal Guard

Maria,
Here I am 
a janitor now,
A raw thespian in the custodial arts
But I can’t help but think,
Do you still find me attractive?
Me and my mop and bucket, 
Do I still give you butterflies coming home smelling like
Cleaning solution?
Maria, I have weekends off now just like you.
On Saturday mornings we can make love in the early morning
With the door open and sleep on into the afternoon
Plan what we will make to eat in evening
And nestle ourselves in front of the TV
Maria, I hope you aren’t embarrassed
But I am a janitor now,
A royal guard of the latrine
Mighty with the mop and imperial with the broom
Now, watch this figure eight technique. 

go ask Alice

lazy as a caterpillar blowing smoke
into the curtains
I see a sky full of third eyes
and "hope" is the thing that flies away
and lays a white shit on my shoulder—
while the patriots fight and die
in Afghanistan
I'm lying on a bed of dreams
growing shoots and vines into the walls
wondering what it's like
to be a starving yogi,eating
only a palmful of grain every day
till you're all skin and bones
and beautiful brilliant shining eyes
that see the true reality—
and while the bodies pile up
to feed the madman's itch
while they throw saints and Buddhas
into the prison-industrial complex
I say to the old bearded fuck
with the stupid hat
Fuck you, Uncle Sam
you're an old whore
going blind
in the rich man's broken sunlight.


idle hands

I hear
the seconds
tick
from my watch
on the nightstand
as I lie in bed
doing
nothing at all.
doing nothing
is what I do best.
high school cheerleaders
are good
at bending over
and I'm good
at doing nothing.
sometimes
I talk
to the faces on the walls.
or I sit
by the window
and stare
out at the parking lot.
sometimes I go
for a walk
and give the finger
to complete strangers.
so if you see me
wandering the streets
lost and lonely
be a good soul
and offer me
a goddam ride
outta this place.


cherry blossoms

don't know what I'm doing here
as the clouds swim through blue sky

it's good to drift through life
whether you're a cloud
a whale
or a Bodhisattva

and you can ponder the meaning of nothingness
till your eyes devour the Hiroshima sunrise

it helps when there's nothing around
but screaming insanity
and angels falling from the sky
on broken wings

and times like these
there's really nothing left to say but
OM.

Cibola Sleeping
 
The Bears never came.
 
Last night, charcoal gray sky
Filled with stars, more stars
Than the eastern skies allow,
Watched over me as I climbed toward
Clearing to piss into the stillness
Of cool night at 3am,
 
Fire burnt down to embers.
 
I took a deep breath, 
Closed my eyes, tried to imagine
In the great emptiness, where I was, 
Where I had been, where I was going still,
What I had left, what I had to go back to—
I listened for any rustling in
The 1.6 million acre darkness beyond
 
The woods, ancient, tall, breathing,
Looked into my tired soul, 
 
I faded like falling stars in their stare.

A Confession

An overt flash of a sudden
crowd, no solitude keeping 
us under false pretentions.
That shimmer in the darkness
from those eyes that widen 
with each word, that falls
from your tongue and rests
at my feet. 

The last thing any of us need
is another round of drinks, 
that we drag together with
end of the month scrapings.
Again we remain closed, 
as another murmuring
of questions is on the cards, 
pulled from an incomplete deck.  

Singular street lights make
double shadows, which hide
me from your temptations. 
allowing me to mask that frown
that you trigger with each 
sentence. I escape that slow
pendulum swing, that once
again, fails to hypnotize.  

Ragged Angels
 
Young ones 
in small rooms 
chasing the poem 
chasing the story 
 
going crazy 
 
starving for something 
they cannot name.
 
Drunk 
at noon
and midnight 
and four a.m.
 
Young angels
wandering 
hard streets 
with desperate eyes 
angry 
and in love 
 
lost on the edge 
of nowhere.
Beware them.
They are vast 
and magic 
 
as the moon 
soothes nothing 
as the sun 
burns their eyes 
as the sidewalks 
lie hard 
cracked 
and unforgiving 
beneath 
their holy feet. 
 
They are
explosives
meant
to shatter you 
 
and keep daggers 
hidden 
in worn notebooks 
which you will someday 
plunge willingly 
into your own heart.
 
They need nothing 
you could ever give.
 
Heaven means only
the right words spilling 
from their hands.
 
This is their salvation 
all they ever 
desire.
 
I know them.
Beware.
 
I was once
among their
host.





Advice for Cannibals
 
First of all, no one loves you, 
so don’t expect many 
social invitations. 
 
Bar mitzvahs
weddings
birthday parties
— pretty much anything 
where food is served — 
you can forget about. 
 
No one wants to be reminded 
of your regular menu 
especially when they’re trying to eat.

No one loves you, 
though you are occasionally 
good for a laugh 
if some joker is feeling funny 
and wants to crack everyone up 
at your expense. 
 
Of course, no one is really surprised 
if those people end up gone 
a day or two later 
and you walk around town all greasy 
or gnawing on long bones. 
 
You can forget about women, too, 
unless we are talking ingredients. 
 
I’m sure you understand. 
 
So you’re going to be lonely. 
That’s fine. 
 
Stick to your task. 
Fulfill your purpose.
 
Full pots and roaring fires
sharp knives and axes 
will be your companions.
 
You were born to your nature 
and that’s how the universe likes it. 
 
I cannot speak for the others, 
but I will not blame you 
for long gazes at people 
enjoying their lives. 
 
Your regrets may be profound 
and connections must be taken 
as they come.
 
No one loves you. You know why.
Might as well enjoy the feast.