The spectrum.
Brilliant.
Millions of pinpoints.
Slamming down.
It’s like everyone is doing jumping jacks at once.
Our ankles hurt.
The spectrum.
Only lasts as long as a million of us bunched up,
tangled, scraped up pieces of globs.
I am unspoken for.
So I pledge my heart to the spectrum.
Of potential and of not.
My skeleton was in the shop.
Fell apart like a chewed up lollipop.
All I have are globs of brains in a bowl.
And eyeballs tearing up as the dry air takes a toll.
Without a skeleton I’m not much at all.
My tendons fell out in the bathroom stall.
I need a shoulder blade for my bag to hang onto.
But muscles without bones have nothing to do.
When I went to pick up my skeleton that day.
I figured they would want their pay.
But I left my bag with my wallet behind.
And the shop owner was not very kind…
He said to pick a bone I didn’t care for.
To pay for the skeleton repairing chore.
So I walked out with most of my bones clacking.
Still I felt some lacking.
I couldn’t speak when I answered the phone.
I guess I shouldn’t have traded my hyoid bone…
Pottery scattered and came to life.
I opened up that art supply closet.
Flicked locusts off of me.
The winner in me started out severed.
Fast talking, mixed up, mangled.
Something in me took off like an old billboard torn away.
I thrived.
I throve.
I thrived like miles of sick globs.
I thrived like spikes on a cloud.
I thrived like bites unspoken.
I thrived like being stapled to the wall with a gold star.
I talked as fast as they could scarf a whole seal off the beach.
A little clay figurine.
That little, monster figurine from the supply room?
Doesn’t remind me of anything special.
And yet, the chattering continues.
Flicked those locustsssss.
I thrived.
I throve.
I was mangled and covered in drool.
Psychosis cuddles with the far-off.
And grumbles.
In my face they shrieked like slop.
And globs of truth.
I’m multiple.
Struggling in this desert.
And then “further” grows.
Crumpled like secret codes.
Psychosis made me walk 10 miles.
It was the nearest gas station.
I’m multiple.
And we grumbled.
Makes me far-off.
The only thing that’s constant.
Is not remembering last Wednesday.
How dashing.
Mental illness slithers like floss.
Hurts like stabbing lip gloss.
Runs around like trash with feet.
But that’s not the cause of retreat.
It’s globs of smiling overflowing.
And patterns of unknowing.
He walked up one day, like a dried up jellyfish.
Asked what kind of coat I wish.
But I’d rather be chilled than endure a soft jacket.
Which stings like a loud racket.
Mental illness isn’t like just any wish in a well.
And it’s more than being unwell.
It’s junk piled in a corner shed.
And fangs appeared on me instead.
An apparition or a voice in the trash can?
That’s when I tossed my clothes and ran.
Steaming.
I could go to work in a work car, work clothes, work shoes…
Or just simmer like pajama pants.
When I’m getting ready.
Soup.
That’s what time is.
Something that’s not horrible, but it’s awkward, and hiding in shoes.
Globs of stuff like prayers, that I’ll make it! Yes!
Slippery, laughing soup.
I have a work car, clothes, shoes.
But instead I stayed home to scoop up whatever cold broth is in me.
Leftover like all the fridge magnets I tore down.
It’s all soup and getting ready for work.
Lips falling off into the bowl.
Already slimy with my slobber.
Steam hitting me over and over.
I don’t think this is how you get into heaven.
But maybe I can get to work on time.
So might as well pile my body and willingness into this car.
And those work shoes are ruined already for no reason.
There’s a million things in a prayer soup.
Not much excuse anymore.
I’m a soup.
I’m not too good to become microwave slop.
Steaming.
Electricity turning human.
Breathing around the globs.
Like the breath of a squeaking door revealing again.
Expansive like eyebrows twitching.
And the alphabet crawling its way through the mountains.
Electricity can be human you know?
Tears can grow wings.
Bones can teeter totter a little bit painfully.
In a way we try to describe, it gets worse as we get more meticulous.
Scratches.
All that were left were a couple.
And they left their email and a grin behind.
Shocks like elastic repeated.
The globs of them.
Grunting feelings with packaged up tears.
I could have done more relaxation but it feels uncanny.
Like a zipper in my veins.
Cold shocking sensations, clapping hands and amazing tricks.
Drastic measures feel like cinnamon in my nose.
And a breeze of lost air.
The thing about panicking is that…
It’s a feeling as groaning as spaghetti for the tenth time this week.
And it’s always still this weakness.
I wish that the afternoon air was less grumbling.
There’s a skeleton shooting harpoons into my muscles.
And that’s not the last trick he has for me.
Winnie-the-Pooh, from Hundred Acre Wood,
Love living there, carefree, doing a lot of good,
But his pastime favorite was eating and being funny,
Sitting and slurping globs and globs of delicious honey.
My process is like dots.
Not stars, just nothing dots.
Rearranging.
Tangled netting and dragonfly parts.
Whatever I can grab and throw in the shopping cart.
That sinks through the tile.
I thought things were solid for once.
Then the holes got torn up.
And the dragonfly eyes too.
Disintegrated.
In such a poem which is made of sentences and more.
My process is like dots.
Spiky, horned dots.
Maybe a few blobs and globs enticing.
The end of a poem isn’t scary.
Or strange.
It's thirsty, but the end is that drink.
My process.
Like a pen that doesn’t worry about anything.
Nothing dots and dragonfly parts.
Wheeling me away.
Like they did five years ago.
Bags under my eyes.
Are a horrible nothing.
Coffee for me right now…
Would help the globs of pasta sauce clear.
Under my eyelids.
The puffiness everlasts.
Jagged underneath.
One eye is sagging more.
One eye is worse.
That’s how they know it’s horrible.
That the eyes are uneven.
Coffee for me would be like dark matter clearing.
Bugs in my eyelids.
Not surprised, it’s just crawling.
My pulse sends out a message.
About evergreen trees up north.
Bags under my eyes.
Can’t surprise me.
The mirror just caves in.
Like globs of alien slime.
Coffee might be my only choice.
As I gravitate toward this mug.
Heavy as if it’s filled with metal shards.
But it’s empty again.
Dawn, a bed comes ashore,
dripping and fog laden.
Tuna sandwiches float
on foaming waves of nausea,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
surface. Punctured sea-dreams
float; flabby and flatulent.
The day paddles around aimlessly,
tides, rather than wait,
slosh about spongy ankles.
A rubber flipper mislaid
off the Normandy coast,
slipstreams through time,
one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop
bobs on by.
May have to snorkel longer
if there is any hope of seeing
the sun sink.
Eventually aquatic ghosts
depart for a younger past.
Back on the swaying deck
of a queasy reality
a fresh wind dries sheets.
Footprints in the sand
are spied through a fisheye lens.
A shipwrecked yesterday
is waving,
glad to be finally rescued.
Gleaming glassy glistening glazed globs
Glittering gleefully, gloriously glossy
Glowing with glimmers and glimpses of glorification
Generating generous gentlewoman’s grateful glances
Gallivanting gallery’s gleaming gazebo’s grateful celebration of G.
Light larkish lackadaisical lassie lithe and lean
Measured Mesopotamia’s millionth mammoth, not all mean
Nonetheless, noticing the level of lithium in a coffee bean,
Opposing ornery ocelots who are seldom city seen
Providing palatable parables to Patty, platypus who loves to preen
Quarreling with irksome quail-herders who captivated lassie’s queen
Resisting relatives reaching for gardenia’s gruesome globs of green
Stalwart soldiers seriously slicing sluggishness from a computer screen.
gigantic girlish ghouls gathered at Gate’s gazebo
glabrous ghouls glistening grotesque globs of gloom
gothic goldbricking good-for-nothing gossips on the go
green-eyed grandstanding grifters, guests of green groom.
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