New Poem – My Mind

My Mind (A Study In How I’ve Disappointed My Parents)

My mind is a used book shop.
It is filled up dusty, piled precariously.
Packrat, hoarder, floor to ceiling.
Unorganized to the outsider,
but to me…
organized chaos. Just right.

My mind is an old record.
Scratched, crackle, pop.
Ring wear cover art. Dollar bin.
It skips a few songs but plays.
Patti Smith, John Coltrane, Lou Reed.
In constant rotation. Soundtrack.

My mind is a medicine cabinet.
Old needles. Haunted. Demonic.
Ghost clang bottles. Glass, shaker.
Bad pills traded for good. Prescribed.
Still not right. Quite far left.
12 steps…baby steps.

My mind is a part-time bully.
Part-time bullied. Fetal position.
Fulltime beautiful mess. Scarred.
Post-traumatic stressed out. Tired as fuck.
Sober, alcoholic, addict. Recovery.
Reclusively on call. Ringer off.

My mind works. Day laborer, inconsistent.
Sometimes nefariously thoughtful.
Vulgar. Tongued whipped truth.
Medicated, for my protection.
From me. From everyone.
The results are varied.

My mind is a collected works. A tattered journal.
Bound with string cheese. Lactose intolerant.
44 years. Ginsberg’s madness marked up.
Emerging nonconformed. Identity crisis.
I’ve disappointed my parents. Again.
They’ll be okay.

Three New Poems

Pills

Crushing pills, formica
Cold cuts. Tender touch
Rolled twenties. Credit card, chop, dice, tap.
Nose burns, tears swell.
Corduroy jacket, sweaty pants. Break the bone.
Slit wrist bath tub gin.
Blood orange, blue moon
Call me. Dawn. Call me.


School Daze

High school, wretched memory, Fuck
Grated my skin to bits. Parmesan ghost.
Priestly garb, clerical collar, choking victims.
Student body, body shaming, phobias.
Catholic cross crusted Christ. Nailed, bullied.
Fuck the nostalgia.
My classmates were cruel. They are. Repression.


Fuel

When you try to die
so much
it becomes a lifestyle

Blood letting us just
a ritual
in letting everyone down

Death trades us in
for rust
and artists that matter

So together we
sink into
our best impressions

Midwestern eyes
only see
burning hope as fuel