*****************
Everything human
is leaving
her face."
~ Jim Morrison, Wilderness
*****************
take a minute,
if you can,
from the meds &
the mourning.
they are a dirty
dish towel wet with
rape, your face
feeling heavy &
displaced with
asphyxiation.
it is hard to breathe,
harder still to see.
inhale fiercely against them
like this is the last cigarette
on earth, drag deep
& long at the end of
the filter, riding
that brief buzz from
the dreams of your
youth & the hope
you held for some
tomorrow you have
yet to see.
life is watching you
from a distance,
quiet & drugged,
watching helplessly as
you wander, wondering
what dark night of the soul
it slipped away from you
leaving you alone on
this couch with a bottle
& pills.
remember how it felt once
to be alive & feeling,
to have words to say
& books of dreams,
to be present,
singing, hearing &
touching the now,
knowing love & loss
& that sharing
came easy.
at least you have
one.
last.
spark.
far away though it seems.
keep it close as it burns
while you flicker & wane.
store what's left neatly
in your closet:
thoughts folded,
well creased,
emotions hung
without wrinkles,
expectations scattered
& shoved into the few
remaining places,
waiting, hoping,
that one day
they might once again
see the light of day.
but what's left
belongs to night walkers
& they know the shadows well.
they are intimate with sorrow
as you are intimate with your wounds.
nursed daily,
they grow
large
monstrous
gangrene of soul
feeding on your already
aging flesh.
this is no
aspiration
no pathway to
sunshine
glory
choirs of angels
this is no
lithium
no technique or
letter of advice
to our children.
there is no going into yourself
with you coming out alive.
there is nothing but
cackles and torn wings,
howls in the corners of
your mind that only
more pain can dampen.
only more pain can consume
what is left—
a shell of some former self
blabbing hysterically to
the medics that it is his
only way out.
"I must write, I must!
It is all I have left!"
and when he is gone,
thrown in some padded room
at the end of a dark, sterile hallway
guarded by more meds &
more lunatics overdosed on life,
you wring your hands
like a madman,
knowing you are next.
ourselves are dangerous &
deep, cavernous mouths
feasting on our once active minds
do not go within,
do not find your muse.
run away while you can
run as long as your legs have strength to go
all we have are minutes
& they grow bleaker by the day.
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