POEM: Choices, Choices, or Not

arches echo ahead,
stretching to the end of time

left into the labyrinth,
right to the blinding sun

it's a land of stark contrasts
on one side, great adventure
but great peril

on the other, painful monotony
of well-lit spaces

then there's straight ahead:
a ceaseless repetition of today
throughout all your tomorrows

POEM: Pale Skies

bleached in bright sunshine --
thin, wispy white clouds
are barely seen 
amid the washed out skies

some summer day -- 
sending one running 
for sunglasses
to avoid a blinding headache

it seems the world 
might fade into a 
tabula rasa, or
blanch anemically

POEM: That Hazy Hamlet

a small town
a cluster of buildings, really

visible from the train

and everyone who passed it
must have surely wondered
whether it always sat
looking as they'd seen it

for me,
that was under gray & dismal skies

my logical mind suggests
that the village's 
situation changes daily

but, really,
it will never cease to be
that hazy hamlet
i viewed through running
rivulets of rain
that day
on the train.

POEM: View Killing Fog

Clouds roll over the low hills,
enshrouding the vast plantation,
crawling down into the valley,
filling it like a bowl,
until it drifts toward one 
like horror show death mist,
or like the mustard gas that sank
into the trenches,
once upon a time. 

But without the threat of death,
except for death of that view
of rolling acres of tea trees
that stretch out to the mountains.

POEM: Figment

I'm in a special 
mode of mind.
One in which nothing 
is ahead or behind.

Everything is shades
of a me that doesn't exist.

So, maybe I'm
a reflection 
of all that is --
in as much as 
there is an "I."

I don't know how
I slipped into this
anti-solipsist stance --
believing everything exists,
but I.

I'm a figment,
but since I can't be
a figment of my own imagination,
I'm not sure what 
flavor of figment
I might be. 

POEM: Nom de Guerre

They called him "the Emperor of Pain," 
the they who didn't know his real name,
 
a name that was comically disjointed to his reputation, 
a name that was to this man 
as that gentle lisping voice is to Mike Tyson,

and so they gave him that ridiculous name,
and he became both more and less 
than what he really was.

POEM: Mask of the Introvert [PoMo Day 28 – Confessional]

I vibrate wariness 
at the approach of strangers,

and have a face within my
Janus repertoire 
that is labeled: "off-putting."

An approaching stranger,
having passed by those cues,
will -- at some point --
realize something is off,
as if I'm holding my breath
'til the conversation's end -
but not that, precisely
At any rate, 
they will yield to whatever it is,
in due time.
[Maybe, I seem contagiously itchy.]

Remarkably, I went decades
without realizing any of this.

To be fair, I never get a good look
at myself
at the moment I'm meeting a stranger.
[And, if I did, I wouldn't have the
brainpan bandwidth 
to do anything with the information.]

Now, I'm training myself
to behave elsewise,
but the score is still
50 years to 1.

POEM: Floating in the Nowhere [PoMo Day 21 – Narrative]

In the lunatic asylum,
it's quiet after the meds round.

R's mind was in the madhouse,
but his body was in a lifeboat,
or maybe vice versa,
he couldn't tell for sure.

He only knew that he was floating,
and, sometimes, it was too choppy,
and if life got too happy,
he felt that it was fake.

The open sea 's a harsh place,
but no worse than the where he carried
everywhere he ventured
inside his dense brainpan.

A fatal, futile option
was selected with a button
that may -- or may not -- have resided
within his very soul.

So thirsty and so lonely --
side-effects of something.
It might have been the meds,
or, perhaps, the salty air.

He chose to think he wasn't
bounded by a nutshell;
though his brand of crazy
was quiet before the storm. 

One day his kidneys gave out.
Who could've ever imagined
that such a thing could happen
in such a place as that.