After she left the house for realities unknown,
abandoned rooms became discrete spaces
fully occupied by her thoughts.
Buses still stop two doors down,
sparrows hop over the stalks of dead roses.
Road dust carpets, then is windswept away.
Eventually, Girl Guides selling cookies
scrub her address off clipboards.
The mail has begun to forward itself
to nowhere.
The house whispers to passing pedestrians,
It calls to migrant cats, homeless mice,
indigenous tribes of Carpenter Bees.
A face on a billboard is planted in the yard,
prospective buyers enter and leave,
none move in.
Her spirit returns for a while
to inhabit the once lived in.
half-heartedly she wanders
over her own footsteps,
does not stay long.
Her arthritic presence has moved on
to a place, a safehouse for the forgotten,
where grab bars and access ramps
are reimagined and improved.
they called it mercy,
the white coats and clipboards,
a room with thick walls, sterile,
and him sitting there—
eyes like rain-soaked concrete.
Florida sun spilling in
too bright, too harsh,
as if to spotlight the damage,
to make sense of the silence,
the soft snip of scissors
cutting away at whatever was left.
he used to play cards, talk shop,
had a sharp way of cussing,
could laugh till his belly shook—
but now, he was hollowed out,
stitched up like an old doll
left to the attic dust.
in the end, they called it 'care, '
as he sat there, vacant,
a chair in a room with no light.
his name was two steps,
it took him
half an hour to walk one hundred feet
to the chow hall,
I was a child, twenty years old
and it shook me to my very core.
Not do bright after all
Glowing like a bulb
Covered way down deep in manure
Misrepresented and posing
as fertile soil
Backed up by so called expert
quasi intellectual bright sparks
types armed with clipboards
pie charts and endless statistics
To keep us all firmly in the dark
Using flattery as a conniving
erstwhile tool to make us all feel
Ipso - facto
De- facto
Tik - Tok - Toe
Aren't we therefore
Er- Go
Also so very , very smart as well
Poor or too rich,
different in form or race?
Remain slave to no opinion,
identity is a label for a can of beans.
Nothing living and upright
need bow
to a tribal or common hitch or halter.
When they call you this and that,
every badge they pin on you
is a disguised condescension.
To them you will always be
a victim of low expectations.
Man is your name and woman your truth.
When they come to you
with their polls, clipboards,
their pandering unctuousness,
look them in the eye,
say: ‘I am one of a kind,
a race of becoming giants,
a living spirit of God,
imperfect - yes
but I can be seen clearly,
while you
live in the shadow of a lie.’
After she left the house for realities unknown,
the abandoned rooms hollowed out
small discrete spaces for her to rest within
should she ever return.
Buses still stopped next door,
sparrows hopped over the stalks of phantom roses,
Eventually, Girl Guides selling cookies nixed
her address off their clipboards.
The mail began to forward itself to nowhere.
The house tidied up the way den denizens do.
sifting through mites and squamous dust
for signs of her in-dwelling mind.
It found non-intrinsic parts of her
which it glued to the stale air as her likeness,
yet this remembered facsimile
kept dissolving in puddles of moonlight.
The house began to whisper to passersby’s.
It called to migrant cats, homeless mice,
indigenous tribes of Carpenter bees.
A face on a board was planted in the yard,
prospective buyers entered and left,
none moved in.
The previous owner came back for a while,
She occupied the new spaces
pleased with the improvements.
Then she left the house
riding upon a starlit stairlift,
her ghost moving upwards to a safer premise
where grab bars and access ramps
were reimagined
in a newly renovated sky.
She sits by herself in the day room
absent-mindedly taking her med,
her head is a blank, she knows nothing,
as she's braceleted, brought to her bed.
Sedation has settled her nightmares
and delivered her safe from her fears,
but who are these strangers with clipboards,
where'd she come from, and why is she here?
She's showing no signs of aggression,
as a matter of fact she's serene,
no tantrums, no throwing or spitting,
picture-perfect, a story-book queen.
By day she's the doctors' conundrum,
every measure is tried for a clue,
but the secret is buried inside her,
closed for business, not out for review.
As night falls she's back in her bedroom,
left alone in confusion and tears,
frightened, with nothing to contemplate
but the screaming that no one else hears.
Ten monitors
Nine hours
Eight safety messages
Seven binders
Six coffees
Five computers
Four clipboards
Three maps
Two microphones
One stubby pencil
They locked me in a glass cage
Stare at me with their clipboards
Look at me like I am a freak show
Observe me like an animal
Treat me like a time bomb
And cower away as if I am a monster
I want this fate no longer
They look at the blood stains on my hands rather than the tear stains on my face
Look at the bruises on my arms
Rather than the lacerations someone else inflicted on my heart
Shake your heads as if I am crazy
Instead of stopping to consider what I believe
The things they cant see because they don't want to see
Read about me wishing for death
And skip over the passages that speak of the sickness and the constant drilling in my head
I am bleeding from the inside out
Being cut down by the things I am forced to live without
And the fact that no one cares what I am screaming about
All of these people have buried me alive
I am choking...no suffocating on their lies
All I do is try
I am the only one who bothers to provide
They refuse to listen to my cries
Now I am finally dying on the outside
She sits by herself in the dayroom
absent-mindedly taking her meds,
her head is a blank, she knows nothing,
as she's braceleted, brought to her bed.
Sedation has settled her nightmares
and delivered her safe from her fears,
but who are these strangers with clipboards,
where'd she come from, and why is she here?
She's showing no signs of aggression,
as a matter of fact she's serene,
no tantrums, no throwing or spitting,
picture-perfect, a story-book queen.
By day she's the doctors' conundrum,
every measure is tried for a clue,
but the secret is buried inside her,
closed for business, not out for review.
As night falls she's back in her bedroom,
left alone in confusion and tears,
frightened, with nothing to contemplate
but the screaming that no one else hears.
She sits by herself in the dayroom
absent-mindedly taking her med,
her head is a blank, she knows nothing,
braceleted, brought to her bed.
Sedation has settled her nightmares
and delivered her safe from her fears,
but who are these strangers with clipboards,
where'd she come from, and why is she here?
She's showing no signs of aggression,
as a matter of fact she's serene,
no tantrums, no throwing or spitting,
picture-perfect, a story-book queen.
By day she's the doctors' conundrum,
every measure is tried for a clue,
but the secret is buried inside her,
closed for business, not open for view.
As night falls she's back in her bedroom,
left alone in confusion and tears,
frightened, with nothing to contemplate
but the blood, and the screams in her ears.
She sits by herself in the dayroom
absent-mindedly taking her med,
her head is a blank, she knows nothing,
braceleted, brought to her bed.
Sedation has settled her nightmares
and delivered her safe from her fears,
but who are these strangers with clipboards,
where'd she come from, and why is she here?
She's showing no signs of aggression,
as a matter of fact she's serene,
no tantrums, no throwing or spitting,
picture-perfect, a story-book queen.
By day she's the doctors' conundrum,
every measure is tried for a clue,
but the secret is buried inside her,
closed for business, not out for review.
As night falls she's back in her bedroom,
left alone in confusion and tears,
frightened, with nothing to contemplate
but the blood, and the screams in her ears.
You didn't shake
as much in
the psych ward,
possibly because
of the medication.
A cocktail of
paxil, seroquel,
lithium and sedatives.
The white walls
dimmed your
pale complexion.
The pink rosed
paintings on the
wall reflected
the first bit
of color returning
to your peaked
gaunt cheeks, and
big sad eyes.
You'd get so angry,
trying to hold back
cries...stressed
from all the secrets
of your condition that
the uniforms and
clipboards kept
from you.
We'd walk the
circular hallway.
My black work loafers
and your socks
circumfrencing the
middle ground of
sanity.
We'd hold eachother
in the corner, under
the light wood
safety rail.
You, propped up
against the wall.
Me..pressed againt
your chest.
You'd envelope
me with your
long arms and
whisper in my ear
between your tears
that this...
couldn't last forever.
She sits by herself in the dayroom
absent-mindedly taking her med,
her head is a blank, she knows nothing,
braceleted, brought to her bed.
Sedation has settled her nightmares
and delivered her safe from her fears,
but who are these strangers with clipboards,
where'd she come from, and why is she here?
She's showing no signs of aggression,
as a matter of fact she's serene,
no tantrums, no throwing or spitting,
picture-perfect, a story-book queen.
By day she's the doctors' conundrum,
every measure is tried for a clue,
but the secret is buried inside her,
closed for business, not out for review.
As night falls she's back in her bedroom,
left alone in confusion and tears,
frightened, with nothing to contemplate
but the blood, and the screams in her ears.
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