Posts Tagged ‘Sick’

Sick of It

Posted: January 28, 1992 in Poetry
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but tired of listening
to nothing worthwhile,
I got a glass of water,
I walked a long way,
I climbed a sturdy tree and listened to
a worthwhile nothing.

On Making Me Sick

Posted: April 15, 1991 in Poetry
Tags: ,

give me your face;
cut one side then pull.
hand it to me,
and you can’t have it back
until I look at you
even though you think
your insides will make me sick.
everyone thinks that their insides will make me sick.
compose yourself.
your face has been carefully made
layer by layer of bleach soaked newspaper,
phrases and snapshots;
what you think will agree
with everybody’s individual stomach.
stand up straight.
if you are ashamed of yourself,
then you make me sick.

Mind Shaft

Posted: January 18, 1991 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

he didn’t need to be shown how to do
things; he was good at figuring
them out – taking them apart and
putting them back together. he read a
lot when he was innocent and
believed too much for his own good.
too many times he became impatient
and cursed himself for imagined
wrongs, blaming his insensitivity for
his lack of social standing. he tried so
hard he made himself sick with lies
and falsehoods, having to artificially calm
the turbulence of his stomach with
deadened-nerves ignorance. he knew,
or rather hoped (he didn’t allow himself
the luxury of self-confidence) that someday
he would be given the chance to show
another human being what he thought
love was. it was too big, too heady, too
encompassing to try to contain within the
bars of paper and ink, but he knew
exactly what it was and how he would
go about making it work and dreamed
handsome times and admirable occasions.
love would turn some special girl’s eyes
to his if only he had the patience to
hang on to the blades of grass growing
in the cracks of the snail-track laden
sidewalk. he secretly prayed to a god
he honestly doubted and looked for
some reason besides cowardice to not
get life over with and found that he had
matches of distraction at the bottom of
his dismal mind shaft. every time he went
into the dark and felt the slimy pitch
of the terror of being alone, he could find
another match to sputter and flicker
in the cold depths to keep his faith until
someone would come along to crank up
the bucket form the bottom of the well.