While I was in the psychiatric hospital,
I saw a woman try to kill herself with a Gideon’s Bible:
…lotto tickets and scratch cards become the pension funds of desperation,
How far to fall?
How cold & cruel?
Thinking of a frien…
Our malice made manifest in the pre-traumatic expectations
of the others’ injustice, and post-traumatic vengeance for
our self-fulfilling crimes.
My Judaism has become a Cattle-Car conviction;
My faith trapped behind German gates and barbed-wire fences,
we are confused, unsure of what to make
of ourselves in a world where identity is fluid,
and the context of the past does not seem to
matter to the sound-bytes of the present
I am grateful to have you snooping
through my mail
Our withered elders, wasted, atrophied and shrunken.
Love is not paint by numbers, we’re meant to experience wonder.
warping kindness for concrete hardness
Cape Tribulation contours an unusual embrace.
Upon being diagnosed with Bipolar Two, I was struck
…by the oddity of the psychiatric language,
I have infected you with my nightmares.
Sometime I’m not sure if my illness displays itself
on the inside of my head or on the outside;
Today the world breaks.
She clutched herself in the midday sun
while waiting for the train,
A slanted, shoulder, self-embrace
whose body spoke of pain.
A number of people are suspicious of those of us who are honest;
I thought I had time to fix things – I was wrong.
Like Aesop’s Grasshopper, my winter was here,
my summer was gone.