7 of 8

I sit at my desk

staring into oblivion

of my silhouette on

the window.

the list on the table

keeps getting

longer

and longer

as days pass

then weeks

then months.

years.

 

time’s up.

 

my eyes blink

slowly

thinking hard for a reason

to be alive

again.

the dead-tired breaths

live on.

 

I think of the men

I’ve known

read about

who’ve been there

with no way out —

beaten up to their soul

fading away with

every breathe

striving while living

striving while walking

on their 23rd street in the

21st avenue in

the most ferocious of blizzards

while everyone else

stayed in &

watched

as they all got stuck

and fell seven times.

 

but sooner or later

they stood up eight

& walked

further than

anyone ever has.

 

everyone remembers the eighth.

 

some suicides are just never

recorded.

Perspective

This world is nothing

but a poem

– poetry without stop –

hymn, ode and epic,

poetry

still flowing,

Apollo and the Muses

chanting still.

 

Will these too

separate themselves

from me again?

 

I fear it not.

 

I’m as real as the things I see.

Warm Foothills

I picked up the blanket,
and buried myself
under the sheets
The sky turned black treacle,
warm enough
to close my eyes.

I opened my eyes as a
Tiger on the grass
next to a river
with tangerine trees
and marshmallow skies,
I looked around to find
the mother tiger
with my kaleidoscope eyes.

she called me in
the boat on the river,
I shut my eyes and took
the leap of faith.
In the air, I looked at her
eyes, and realized
Everything around me was made of
faith,
and trust,
and pixie dust.

at that moment,
I believed in fairies,
the myths, and dragons.
It was all real
as the here and now.

My head calmly rested
in her lap,
she took her arm and
laid it on my head.
Suddenly,
I existed on the inside,
and became too lost on the outside
to be.

I opened my eyes and looked around.

Everything seemed a little bit
more beautiful,
except my inside.

The arm over my head was
missing.