Wednesday, March 29, 2017

To Be Saved For (From) Therapy

panic attack?

not sure what this is?

not sure about anything.

my heart is beating fast. i'm afraid.

can't tell if this physical or spiritual.

the two conflate. can't tell if I'm afraid because of my heart. or that I can't feel my face or that I feel as if I"m dying, or if I feel as if I"m dying because I'm afraid. Afraid of losing of my family. 

Afraid of being irrelevent. Afraid of the anger of Genevieve. Afraid of disappointing her.  Afraid of being pathetic. Afraid of not mattering. 

Am I dying because I'm afraid or afraid because I'm dying.

Unbearably painful words from the woman I love. I honestly am not sure I could survive without her. People always think that and they're fine. But my body is rebelling. My face is numb. My shoulders. My heart is beating too fast. 

It ry to slow down my breath. No good. better. a little better. 

i open the computer and a cat sound is let out, from a cartoon the girls were watching, and I'm freaking out again. I'm not sound. I'm not solid. I'm not together. My wife is killing me, although it is not her, it is me, because I'm the master of my feelings. 

I need to write her a long letter telling her where I'm coming from. 

We are in dire straights. 

Like Mark Knopfler. 

Not funny.

I feel slightly better. 

I need to get stronger.

I need a job.

I need to feel self-esteem. 

I need to be loved.

My daughters love me. 

My wife hates me.

She opposite of loves me.

And I'm so sad for her. I love her so much that I'm sad for her for not being able to love me. 

I disgust her. And the part of me that she makes feel disgusting hates her for making me feeling that way. I'm responsible for how I feel, but how do I not crack under the gaze of her disgust. How do I just sit there and take it? 

My body is asking for something, but I don't know what I can do for it. Besides meditate. Besides somehow finding a real job, one that can support a family. 

I can't be the stay at home dad. the stay at home mom.


CLEAN THE HOUSE

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

gobble the gook

pjower shove to the corner, 
Baudelaire's asshole pershona, 
the glazier who deserves the flower pot.  

none o' this means shambalic vacuums, 
but the movement of the fingers 
has to keep up their paratense, 
their prehensile figurines' 
abrupt adumbrations 
of synapsis and Apollo.
 
I just say low, so know 
one knows, 

How's trikcs? 

Tricks are like the subsistence, 
but the real teller is out of control - 
I've just let go, the tricks are a little play 
in the flow, but not the main show. 
the rhyme gets lost 
grime it up lime
in the lime tree, 
hidden for all eternity 
from the likes of 'em.  

honest to pete seeger, 
not one but two flowers in the attic, 
elizabeth cotton cries one 
and then the way the that mother 
could shine shine shine. 
shimmer as a property of shine, 
sorcery in the pines.  

it's the way language weilds you 
winds it's way into the saying like a bega brain, 
still undone by a woman's pain, 
(a man's is just so sinconquential in comparison. 
goawd how loathe, how blase, how gauche,) 
how I miss my life in the arts. 
How I've suddenly lost the fits and starts 
of late night gabberblasting follw. 
Something catching the words, 
ba bucket made of numbers, 
the two are one, names and numbers, 
numbers and words, letters and numbers, 
eighty spelled AT, word games, math desire 
proliferates bunyons, icegate, applebees fortune, 
applet, follicker, awesipaine, vernactitude,  owel, 
varnitud oppsinate. 

Monday, March 20, 2017

for nobody

These public things are private.]]==]]

The way Emily took absolute care
for nobody.

Follow the rhythm,
the little trot to triage,
the snow dope,
fallen branches inside startled asks, ask.

Awkward foundations.

Hat eaten in flower-stem phlegm,
our forte.

Catch-up in the knot gang,
sun of a gland,
a forgotten land inside supper,
toddler anchor father feeling,
something arcane usurping the brain.

it's too easy to complain.

The answer comes with the refrain
the way we take it all in,
the way Saul took his salt.
Don't believe the witch of Endor.
Lay it down on the floor, Saul,
bring it up through the rear.

It's Saul, good.

Funnel several onions
through opinions
about such and such
rich cousin from Chesapeake Bay,
a verbal abuse in non compete,
every issue, the late Ramiro Musotto,
a track called Mbira,
coming to the Oriental Theater November 8.

The radio takes over.

Solo late night radio-channeled 

These public things are private.]]==]]

The way Emily took absolute care
for nobody.

Follow the rhythm,
the little trot to triage,
the snow dope,
fallen branches inside 
startled asks, ask.

Half-eaten flower-stem 
our forte.

Catch-up in the knot gang,
sun gland,
a forgotten land inside supper,
toddler anchor father feeling,
something arcane usurping the brain.

it's too easy to complain.

The answer comes with the refrain
the way we take it all in,
the way Saul took his salt.
Don't believe the witch of Endor.
Lay it down on the floor, Saul,
bring it up through the rear.

It's Saul, good.

Funnel several onions
through opinions
about such and such
rich cousin from Chesapeake Bay,
a verbal abuse in non compete,
every issue, the late Ramiro Musotto,
a track called Mbira,
coming to the Oriental Theater April 8.

The radio takes over.



Sent from my iPhone

Thursday, March 16, 2017

collaboration

collaboration,

where you can see the traces of two absolutely distinct artists
inside the work of the other, and a whole greater emerges,
Dali bringing poetry to Disney, Disney bringing America.

The one enters the other, like a mountain coming out of herself.
The woman walking out of the mountain, humming like a daydream,

stopping before the triple-sided piercing monument to time and ego,
shedding a quick tear before taking it into the nothingness of her heart

and then rising up through the shadow dress of the ringing bell...