Under a bright blue sky a grey caped pigeon lays his eye on the boy.
behind the red door
the red door has a doorknob,
but for the life of me I cannot remember
its color. i know i must pass through
to reach the next level
to get closer to the me sitting
in the center, but cannot bring
myself to look at that door knob
my eyes whip over, around, and away
my neck swivellng like a white
girl possessed by satan, my heart hammering
blood vessels in my head threatening
to burst. this is what true limbo
is like—to be on the verandah of hell
just outside of heaven, and too terrified
to find the knob to the red door.
American Sentence #?
Comatose under a depressed thicket of bed clothes waiting for grace.
‘Round a table in a Mexican restaurant eight white guys sneer at jazz.
i’ve been roiling round
this bed for so long
it is soaked by my sweat
piss and tears/and by the
the salt of the sea/not dead
i need to
look under my bed
there is something under
my bed and i want my father to
get up off his cancerous bed to
walk out of the cancer ward
and walk over the sea and look under my
bed, but he does not get up
just grins from behind his carcass/but there
is nothing there
behind his carcass/he is gone/ has
already gone beneath the waves, so I
look under the bed/the lizard king
snaps unto my tongue/i cannot speak/that is the real nightmare
i was so sure/so sure/
nothing was really there/i’m still not sure
whether i was wrong or right.
Well I certainly didn’t think it would be this long until I posted again. However, given my tendency to not finish what I’ve started, I’m not surprised. I will work on not being disappointed in myself.
I will start my entry into the April 2015 challenge of writing a poem a day with a simple assignment. Using a form invented by Allen Ginsberg that he called American Sentences. Ginsberg believed that the linear line of the sentence was more in keeping with life in the West, than the Eastern form of the Japanese haiku.
NaPoWriMo 2015: Poem #1
A young lemon tree stands inside the zendo following the wind’s breath.
I have not written for quite some time now, and I am wondering whether I want to chart my struggles with depression, or will that give the disease too much power? Do I even believe that depression is a disease? I don’t know that I do. I think I see depression as a combination of temperament and personal history. In other words, I believe that I suffer in the way that I do because of the way in which my personal history, from infant hood to the present day, combines with my very sensitive temperament. So, what am I hoping that writing about this and recording it in this blog will do? I think I am hoping that it will help cure me. Which right off the bat sounds a little ludicrous. How can it cure me if I don’t believe that what I suffer from is really a disease? Maybe I am hoping that by using my writing I will be able to bring my strengths to bear upon my struggles. Strengths like my writing skills, my self-knowledge, and my sense of perception. I am hoping that these skills will help me see through the distorted way in which depression colors my life. The way it influences me to highlight my failures and flaws, and diminish my accomplishments and strengths.