A light hearted exploration of depression.
The End of November
I have become fascinated by my own,
Anatomically accurate inefficiency and boredom,
My ability to write inarticulate poetry,
To paint hieroglyphics in excruciating colors,
And, to believe in things unproven by science.
Fire has pretty much devastated earth,
The end of the Age of Pisces is upon us,
And, materialism has been conquered,
Matter has been transformed,
Particles outlived and overthrown,
Force fields overgrown.
Now, there is nothing left to do.
I’ve gone about as far as I can,
But, I still have to stay up,
Because, sooner or later, the fireworks will begin.
So, what are you going to do,
Between now and then?
Let’s face it, fellow poets,
Words are a pretty poor substitute for life.
At least with a martini, you can dance.
The End of December
There is a tornado warning in the air.
A strong wind has come up from the south,
Although I don’t know why it bothered,
Because all the leaves have already blown away.
Uranus is exactly square to Pluto,
And, there is bad ju-ju in the stars.
It almost feels as though some foolish person,
Forgot to seek permission from Chango,
Before cutting down a tree.
But, who would do such a foolish thing?
I am beginning to have serious doubts about myself.
I am questioning my beliefs and my choices.
And then, I wonder if it is possible for me to be anything else,
Anything other than what I am?
The world pressures me, impresses me,
Stresses me and, streches me,
Distorts me and, distresses me,
But, I don’t seem to change.
I no longer believe anyone.
I have forgotten how to sleep,
And so, I can no longer escape into dreams.
I am pretty sure my lover has gone insane,
And, he knows all of my secrets.
Sooner or later we will all be sacrificial victims,
To the gods of struggle,
Of destruction, of betrayal,
Distrust and dust,
Of our own ideas of romance or beauty.
Darkness can be very deep,
A long, downhill slope,
Into the arms of a serial killer.
Nobody is getting out of this alive.
The End of January
Let me have my illusions.
I don’t have anything else.
I am a romantic,
And, that’s all that I would be.
I am dressed up like a candy apple,
Like a bubble wizard,
Like a gazelle,
With a cute, pink smile,
And, everybody says they love me.
I am dressed up like a mermaid.
Not a Coney Island, Mermaid-Parade mermaid,
A real mermaid,
Cold blooded, with green scales on my eyelids,
With seaweed under my fingernails,
With flashing starfish in my hair,
A stabbing trident in my hand.
I know the mysteries of the deep,
I know who eats who,
But, I am also the masked, Venetian Carnival Queen,
Who keeps her mouth closed with a index finger,
And, mimics “Shush.”
I won’t tell a soul.
You just wait and see.
All the mysteries of the dark and the deep,
Are safe and silent inside of me.
No one else wants to know anyway.
I am dressed up like a Goat-Fish,
Like Capricorn and Aquarius,
But, without the Fertility of Rain.
I am bleeding out of the winter sky,
Before the world is ready.
No one can see who I really am.
My seeds have been planted everywhere,
But, none of them are growing.
All that matters now,
Is what has already been set in motion.
Nothing new under the sun.
You know, if you start a vibration,
You have to pay attention because,
You might set off some butterfly,
In Hong Kong.
And, nobody knows what will set off a wandlung,
That incomprehensible event which changes everything,
Ushers in an ice age, ends the reign of the dinosaurs,
Starts the human brain.
Ends the race.
I wouldn’t want to set off something like that.
I am just living my life,
Trying to avoid the waves of advancing history,
Which are crashing into society.
The costumes are not helping.
The End of February
The afternoon is cold, and the moon is on the rise,
As transparent as my fingers and as empty as my eyes.
I am so far away the wind can no longer hear my words,
My breath is barely separate from the shadows of the birds.
I am self-contained.
I am inside of myself,
Inside of my shell,
Inside of this gloom in this room.
It is Tuesday afternoon,
And, I am pretty sure I will be alright,
If I can just hang on,
Until the dogwood starts to bloom.
Oh, but what if she does not bloom?
What if she decides to be like other dogs,
To bark instead of blossom?
What if she becomes a snake?
What if she decides to never-more,
Be host to the beautiful, four heart flowers?
Then, never, would ever, this room contain another bloom,
And, my shell would lose all of its protective powers.
I am a creature, tied to the future.
I survive by looking ahead.
Tomorrow is always yet to come,
And, yesterday is long-gone, dead.
Sometimes hope is around the corner,
Somewhere up the staircase,
Somewhere under the bed,
Somewhere over my head.
But, sometimes the dogwood lets it go,
And, it falls to the ground instead.
The End of March
I have let my hair,
Go loose, like a goose, in the wind.
Now, it is a tangled mess,
And, a good expression of myself,
With no idea of where it wants to go.
The End of April
Wash me rains.
I run to you.
Give me a blessing,
A kiss or two.
I close my eyes,
I let you run.
These days are gray.
I seek the sun.
I am undone.
I am covered in clouds.
The End of May
Confetti in the air.
But, nothing has gotten any better.
The wild beach leaves me stranded,
With memories of sandbars and rising tides,
Coquinas, escaping, faster than my hands can dig.
How delightful it would be to share my summer dreams.
But, there no one, it seems ….
The End of July
It is to fry.
It is time to eat blueberry, pie-in-the-sky.
It is time to wonder why,
I even try.
The End of August
Oh, robust, genuine, hearty laughter.
Is that what I’m really after?
The End of September
Or, just forget the whole thing?
The End of October
Come on kids,
Let’s play some scrabble.
Clean the chair and, brush my hair,
And, make believe you really care.
Get in the car and go somewhere.
Is it better here, or over there?
The End of November
Bartender! Oh, bartender.
I’m not here to make any trouble.
All I want is a vodka martini,
And, this time, make mine a double!