plights & gripes: Standing, ready, on a broken toe I cannot help but tremor. There is...

unsinkable:

Standing, ready, on a broken toe
I cannot help but tremor. There is something
the whole of my being is focused on, and several
people, blurred & softly jostling, in my periphery,
do and cannot understand or know it, though
I notice them. Shadows disproportionate
always on the walk & stopping broken
bottle shards from glistening like
shark-tooth necklaces on sweaty suntanned
necks on a vista of snow. Sit through
the entire anguished spectacle, difficult as
it may be to keep still or stop yourself
from crying out in protest for an hour.
Try it. You won’t die. I promise. And if you think
you will, remind yourself, it’ll all be over soon
and take a sip of water. Don’t try to stand
until the lights come on. And they’ll come. Just be
patient. Watch. They’re lying in a circle,
breathing. It’s beginning

There was a green exit sign, mocking me. There was
a winged hermaphroditic angel in the snow. There was
a child, weeping silently in front of me. There was
an exploding goose-down pillow, but no geese. There was
no argument, but synthesis. There was
the phrase you cut into the bark, now overgrown. It was
on the tip of your tongue before you bit it off.

Breath minty fresh, I am still
tired. I smoke a cigarette.
The tea is gone.

Alone, I was once
productive. Now my cough’s
the only thing that stays.

I don’t do much self-editing these days. Not that
I’m not scrupulous, I am,
just not with myself anymore.
I don’t know what
to say or do, or to perform. I sit
and wait until the spheres have changed
and bodies have been rearranged
to form a throne, toward which I walk, until
the tableau shifts into a loveseat, whereupon
I retreat, fuming. The sun returns, roaringly.
I sleep. And when the moon is up, I creep
out again into the lucid night.
I fear my father had it right.
The world’s not for me, but still
I rise & fight.

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