Delusional.
Bipolar.
Schizophrenic.
Unable to provide for the basic necessities of life.
Condemned.

I sat just outside
The decrepit courtroom,
Staring at the middle aged children;
G-d's miracles.

A soft voice startled me from below.
I saw a broken man in front of me kneeling
On the floor.

"I am Methuselah"  he whispered.
"May I wash your feet?"

I think I recognized him.
Two weeks before in the crowded courtroom
He had bared
His soul before everyone,
Yet they would not let him leave.
I remember pieces of my conversation with the bailiff,
"Can you imagine living his permanent nightmare?
Can you imagine
Believing that your parents are dead,
Mourning for so many years?
Then hearing your sister testify
That they are still alive?
And knowing . . . she is lying,
So that they can lock you up again?"


"Excuse me, sir. I saw you from across
The room; there is a holiness about you.
May I wash your feet?"

I looked into his face,
His glassy eyes, his trembling lips.
I don't know why
But at that moment he reminded me of a boy.
I wanted to help him,
To cure him, to raise him up, to help him see.
I wanted to remind him of his name.

"No thank you."  I told him.
"Please sit down."

He gingerly took the seat beside me.
"A fate has befallen me.
I do not know . . . "

He seemed to struggle for command
Of his words,
I wanted to reach out to him, to make him feel necessary.
"Methuselah is a name in the Bible. . ."
But words failed me as well.

What right did I have; who permitted me to trespass
On his life?
If I was helping him, why did I feel so guilty?

"Something holy about you  
Drew me over here.
Who are you?
Can you tell me how to find love?"

We talked together then,
About his family, his marriage, love, and G-d.
He wrote down his address as they came to take him home
Then smiled as if for the first time.
A few minutes later, lost in thought
I looked at the wrinkled
Brown paper he had torn
From his bag and read his name.

It did not say Methuselah.

You are the night, embracing,
Whispering the sounds unheard in light.
You are this night.
And you are the night before,
Before the dreams,
Before the losses and the hopes began to grow.
And you are my night,
The periscope,
Tunneling through
Despair,
Shielding,
Yielding to a day, what day, someday
Not known.
And all answers to the questions
Of each night
All night, questions asked
And spooned out before us in rows,
Stacked in pill bottles
Teetering on the edge
of final night’s
control
are all my own.

Yes, I sit here softly screaming
As I lie,
bolt upright,
dreaming,
Of the sun, at night start rising
On a winter's day in June.

I had entered
while leaving
From a puzzle not deceiving,
That I argued compromising
'til the dawn of afternoon.

Can you grasp the open
meaning
Of the lines I've set here
Streaming,
Can you taste the words I'm writing,
Do you see their silent tune?
No:
I feel you,
softly, screaming
As you sit there,
sprawled
out,
dreaming,
Of the sun one morning
setting
On a winter's night in June.

Rise.

When choice is a lie,
And duty shuts its eyes
To all you've been.

Stand--

Back where you began,
Push hard against the hands
That bind you,
Remind you
Of the failures of your now.

Reach

Within your murky deep,
Reject the secrets that still keep
You
Steal you
Seal you
Hiding in a sleep,
Anesthetized.
Paralyzed.
Compromising all your dreams.

Shout,

Face
Embrace
Chase the doubt
Scream it out,
Confront dusk and dawn and all
Who come to call for your demise.

And rise.

Facing the wall,
On the edge of tears,
Only her shoulders speak.
Her right foot times the tension
Of the moment
In strained silence.

Across the way,
A friend, an adversary
Sits in shamed symmetry.
Her chin takes refuge
In her hand-
A hand that can’t contain the anger, the embarrassment, the fear.
A hand that hides the mouth that spoke too freely,
But now says nothing.

“What's wrong with you?” they say,
“Can't you calm down for just a moment,
Take a deep breath--
Slow down,
Get centered and
Relax.
Stop being so **** negative,
What's the worry,
What's the hurry?
You can't solve every problem,
Let it go--
Hey not so fast.
Maybe, yes just maybe
If you stopped being so **** frightened
Well then maybe for a moment
All those fears would dissipate,
If you just stopped your overthinking
Your hypotheticals,
Possibilities,
If you let life flow all around you
You'd have that peace you say you crave.”

But they are wrong.  

Anxiety isn't nervousness.
Anxiety isn't cowardice.
Anxiety is a call to those
Whose eyes are open to the fight.

It is a certain sensitivity
An alertness;
A war machine never idle
There’s a buzzing below the surface,
There is no calm before this storm.
It is the constant sentinel
Vigilant in clash with
Paralysis,
There is no honor,
No heroism in this struggle
Whose burden countermands reward.

It is not the soldier’s nature to relax.

It is an instinct,
It is concern for you, for me, for others,
It is a special steadfast mutiny
When
Psyche fights the soul.

You say it is a weakness.
You subject me to societal court martial,
Though you cavalierly create conflicts
You say I am afraid.
But those consummate in combat,
Introspective and insightful,
True veterans of life’s battles
Know,
It's fear defines the brave.