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Daily notes (Rated R)
there is no urgency to write anymore, dried fruit. I’m an addict? My psychiatrist recommended over eaters anonymous— my weight is becoming an issue, apparently— so I stopped taking abilify because I...
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Flowers for Dahlia
There is a rose bush growing here where I live, the contrast where poverty meets beauty is paramount, like the effect of sweet vanilla pink, nearly silk on filth— I picked one of the flowers for my...
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Thorazine
Yesterday was an orange bottle— sat paralyzed in my chair for hours in pain, because of this or that unemployable reason— when I was on Thorazine I thought. Breath. Line Break. Breath. Air. Space.
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Caveat
I wanted to write a note to you, the audience: some of these poems are a work of fiction, names and places and events may have been altered… that’s what it says at the beginning of all my books of...
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The drought
Growing up my parents would order tubs of water— I would wait with my mother usually, when the truck barreled in the driveway, a man carrying two clear jugs of clean water, so heavy that precious...
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Titus
I read a really lovely essay this morning on wordpress — of a personal experience of someone with Bipolar disorder. It was beautifully written and very clear/easy and understandable to read. I fear...
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Book Review: “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”
“Why Sylvia Plath Haunts Us,” reads in the June issue of the Atlantic Monthly. On page thirty-four of the Atlantic Monthly by James Parker is like opening a sealed envelope, marked Confidential....
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reinstated
congested with pain— goes the stormy stomach-ache of anxiety, twisting headaches with depressed eyes— this is what I know of despair—the moon of depression— (face of the moon!) I too am pockmarked— a...
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Flowers in the Mail
he sent flowers with love, so it said— A yellow rose, and green like the flower shop just a block from my old apartment—when i was pregnant. The back bay—gleaming glamorous—and the contrast of love in...
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cactus plant
Why am I not perfect like all the others— and attempt to write when no one will publish me—why do I keep doing this— writing verse, etc., etc., it’s like my christmas cactus in my room, which...
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daily dose
My voice lost its edge— i used to be so bold but now I am boring and tidy, my voice coherent to most— that’s one of the perks of slipping into psychosis: everything is insensible, but completely...
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revoked
In the old world you had to have a poetic license to use a metaphor— (to the ego, the force of the voice is by nature spirit- less) nor do I ask you for approval any more—
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farming on funeral grounds
even the silk is tough the cotton not worn the farm is bountiful with a meadow of clean glass, shards of the cows and pig whiskers can no longer spell, and the old farmer is digging up the hill— the...
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Day Treatment #3
I will not self-destruct and one and one and one breath i’m a strong individual and unique, par don the missing love and two and breath and breath now breathe, I hate meditation be cause it makes me...
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The Witch Stone
The body tethered to the wheel of crank and notch, the stretched torso with sounds of slow spinal pop and hiss — go now — gather the wood. I am a tar baby with kettles to cover me, goose down let some...
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Roxbury, Massachusetts
Today is I have a dream — however close MLK’s birthday is, to us “today,” the calendars soar it is something of King’s Month—it’s a month dedicated to spirit—dignity —sitting at Dudley station, in...
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Purple in Dickinson
Poem by Emily Dickinson, painting by Kate Purple is fashionable twice— This season of the year, And when a soul perceives itself To be an Emperor.
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On Caesar’s watch
Time is of seconds— and seconds tick, to minutes, minutes until an hour— and hours to bla—bla—bla— but history doesn’t wait— and eras were once a day— where as dates are a lifetime—
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