A Straight-jacket Built for Two
I once was bisected by a schizoid slip;
My manic was depressed; what a bum trip!
But now I’ve discovered something quite new
In a straight-jacket built for two.
Paranoia’s monsters were out for my head;
My chances seemed slim, as Sigmund is dead.
But, soft! security from out of the blue
In a straight-jacket built for two.
With reverse egoitis and a ruptured id,
I decided to do what my father once did,
To find some solace with one who was true
In a straight-jacket built for two.
I delved through my psyche to see what was there,
And found inhibitions forewarned by Molière.
I rejected them all; what else can one do
In a straight-jacket built for two?
I ran through the wards and infested the halls;
I went into frenzies and ran up the walls
Hunting the joy only one could imbue
In a straight-jacket built for two.
My thoughts were so gloomy that fun was morose;
My passionate nature was still comatose;
But now I’m ecstatic because I have you
In a straight-jacket built for two!
Amaurosis
Darkness
is slowly creeping
into my life:
my mind clouds in moments
of stress;
your face fades before me
as we talk;
vision narrowing as does
my world.
I grope for light
and am burned by candles
my eyes cannot perceive;
I reach for support
and trip
over obstacles
less tangible than pain.
Can I not see
because I am going blind?
Or am I going blind
because I do not want
to see…
BINOCULARMAN
sits on his senile bench
ex-raying
the luscious lovlies
as they swivel bye
but ton
a
s e
m l
i
on his concave chest
with
"dirtyoldmenneedlovetoo!"
scrawled in red crayon
on his brown bag feast
trembling hands
cup a butt
carefully,
sucking warmth and security
into blackened bellows,
pumping tortured gusts
through a scrawny, raw rusted pipe
and the girls on the
streetwalkby;
BINOCULARMAN aches to think
his days to buy are bye --
(children laugh and play,
lovers fail to see him)
and . . . somehow,
his eyes refuse to bleed
their liquid bile
as he sits
and the trees grow silently
and he watches
time go by
… and bye
Caught in the Current
I felt myself becoming caught in a current
That was too strong for my efforts to resist.
It had no color, not even that of the ever-deepening darkness
that gave it life and movement,
yet it had an odor and taste: the salt of tears and the bile of fear.
It pulled greedily at me, sucking me down into
its enervating coldness
as though it would have the marrow from my bones
to satisfy some perverted hunger, leaving the
insipid flesh behind to rot, or whatever it might do.
But why do they call it a rip tide?
It did not cut; it did not tear at my body.
Its actions are much more subtle than that.
Of course, I could try to swim against it and escape,
but one must be a very strong and determined swimmer
to best that relentless flow.
And I had trained for it all my life:
learned the proper strokes, set the proper goals,
practiced going the distance on so many, many occasions.
I had thought myself strong, prepared to battle against the tide
whenever the need arose.
But even strong swimmers sometimes drown.
And, sometimes, the current changes direction so suddenly
that one cannot, must not
fight against the inevitable, but merely allow one’s self to go
with the flow, to be guided along by the unseen forces
from which one cannot escape.
And it is so much easier to relax, to merely tread water
or even float until the channel of energy has become
as weak as yourself.
Yet it is also quite possible that,
even if you decide to go gently with the tide
without offering any sort of resistance whatsoever,
it may pull you so far out that you can never
reach the shore again.
mirror image
i once thought of myself as dancing gracefully through
life's eternal ballet,
but found a white cane man groping hesitantly
out of rhythm;
i was lean and hard, with a cassius countenance
of more hungers than can be named,
and found a gnome with a crooked leer
gaping back at me from the mirror --
his eyes wept evaporated tears,
his body cringed from imagined fears,
and his haggard face (lacking grace)
was a gargoyle grimace without warmth or wisdom.
am . . . I . . .
locked in the catatonic recesses
of an ego-manic mind?
or was that ephemeral image
the real Me…
Prisoner of Magic
He was a prisoner of magic,
a persona created from the images of others;
spells cast from minds steeped in ignorance and unconcern;
transmogrified from a boy into a victim.
Bound tightly by chemistry just a little out of balance,
patterns that ran contrary to the popular thread,
words and gestures from the theatre of the absurd
on a solid stage where the t-square rules.
So he battles himself as much as his bindings,
like a seed struggling through rock to see the light of the sun,
wishing to grow into a flower -- perhaps even an oak! --
with about the same nourishment, and perhaps even less hope.
He cries out, but even he cannot hear his voice,
for it is the sound of brain tissue being torn,
of a spirit being tossed into societal purgatory,
of a sweet personality being squashed by mockery and disdain.
Is there no secret potion, no magic pill he can take
to transform him back into a boy?
Or is he shaped too firmly in their smug, satisfied minds
as a little monster?
Odyssey of Soul
On my Odyssey of soul
I have maintained control
of my thoughts and feelings,
my actions and intents,
all without revealing
exactly what I meant.
I have kept the silence
that passes for penance,
and sometimes for wisdom,
although its real meaning
was quite often boredom --
perhaps I was dreaming.
What was really quite strange
was trying to arrange
my life to fit patterns
designed by the mundane
for the drunks and slatterns,
the dull and the insane.
And I have felt the same
longings, desires and shame
as all of the others;
foreigners and neighbors,
my sisters and brothers;
have shared the same labors.
Have I found what I seek?
Or have I passed my peak…
For when the time is spent,
with Prufrock still I call:
"That isn't what I meant;
not what I meant at all!"
recipe for a well-done robot
assemble with cheapest available mettle,
wind up every morning;
lubricate with processed Florida
liquid sunshine,
stimulate with Brazilian bean juice,
motivate with Fraudian love formula,
program with Daily Trivia
fresh off the tripewriter
in a separate mixer
supplement programming with
'daily office routine' stresses
and entirely avoidable external frustrations
in equal portions
add a pinch of variety,
a dash of spice; combine ingredients randomly.
baste liberally with assorted liquors,
stew sixty to seventy years at a perfectly normal temperature
place in coffin and allow to cool
The Tempest
This man huddles alone on the wharf,
grasping his solitude to him like a blanket for warmth,
a bundle for security,
a cloak to mask his features from casual glances.
What is it that he fears?
His worn stocking cap is pulled firmly about his ears,
stray hair tucked carefully beneath the edges,
and his ancient pea-coat
(now frayed at the bottom to match his height)
is pulled about him like a shroud.
From whom does he hide?
The pervading stench of the sea
serves warning of the unconquered fury,
dangerous in the most reassuring calm;
but, bound to its shores, he need only avoid to close a proximity
to be safe from its perils.
From what is it that he suffers?
The raging of the storm is his friend in disguise:
it envelopes him in darkness,
muffles his mewing,
and drives the happy people away
to the smugness of their homes.
The world can bend a man with work and travails;
only other people can break his heart
and remind him of his loneliness.
Ask not from whom this man hides;
he hides from thee.
White Horse
He rode the white horse
once too often,
but the racing blood madness
and the free-flying ecstasy
were too much to ignore
and to painful to do without
and, when escape is
so sweet,
is any price for permanence
too much to pay?
withdrawal syndrome
ich bin mir:
i have my music,
my art
and my books,
austere and enlightened—
a temple for refuge
so i barricade the portal,
fill the moat
so dank and dreary;
cardiac tremors
never rock the ground
beneath my feet
and i never … weep
alleine, nicht
einsam
Tears in my beer
I sit in the movies,
free to laugh or cry
as I might please;
buttered popcorn by my side,
mourning for the one who died.
Or on a bar stool,
tall drink in my hand
while others play pool;
seeing gaiety all around,
but not hearing a sound.
Walking through the park
amid trees and flowers
‘til it grows dark;
the lovers stroll hand-in-hand…
and still I can’t understand.
To hear a girl sweetly
speak in dulcet tones
meant just for me;
I’d like to call the operator,
but don’t want to irritate her.
What’s left
You ignored my pleas;
words are useless.
You ridiculed my tears;
pain is wasted.
You went from my life;
love is forsaken.
What then is left?
identity problem
being one of hoi polloi (oi!)
am I just another goy?
Sung to the tune of…
Sing a song of cut-throats,
pockets full of shivs;
cut the fellow’s neck
and see how long he lives.
Make a soup of arsenic,
spice with hemlock leaves;
serve it to a neighbor
to see if someone grieves.
Does the business world lack
much propriety?
What fun it is to work and play
in our society!
