I used to have this dream about white umbrellas with red dots and red umbrellas with white dots, and there was a beach with nice sand-- the soft kind that doesn’t feel scratchy on bare thighs.
Maybe a blue woven blanket and a transit radio with rusted edges. But there were never any people.
Except for me.
I was there walking along the too soft sand- barefoot and jubilant.
The waves crashed horizontally- you could see them, but came quickly to the realization that you would never feel them- they only traveled left and right.
And the sun and clouds and very much blue sky would be extremely beautiful-- until a sort of smoke like thought would enter your head. The thought
none of this is real.
I used to have a lot of dreams. But now I’m not so sure when I dream- when exactly I stop dreaming.
It’s like someone pushed a pause button on my ability to sense reality as it is.
It’s a terrible tribulation to attempt to hold focus- my head is a daydream.
Like I'm living in an upside down daydream where nothing is real, yet my actions do in fact have consequences.
Like I am nothing more than a person made up by another mind sent to play poker on the 50" flat screen you just had to buy.
My head is attached to my body but my mind is not. And this body-- my body- is not actually so.
Every memory is disfigured and foggy and seems to make no real connection.
Who am I?
I don’t know and I don’t think I’ll ever know again.
It’s too complex a thought.
Am I saying I like something because I like it- do I truly enjoy it?
Or am I just saying so-
I mean, what do I really like?
Who is this person behind my eyes?
I’m not sure anymore.
Is this actually a poem?
I need to write you a love poem.
No Maytime and flowers.
No June and moon.
But smoldering with passion
And heated desires
so much so
It will slow down time itself
to a motionless crawl
the seconds into hours
Until you return to my bed.
Filling your thoughts with
Desire and lust.
as the surging rapids
of the mountain rivers
after the winter snow melts.
it burns away propriety
And we will feast
on its wild ancient flavors.
upon reading its words.
You will unfasten your hair
as you drop everything else
and run to me.
And when we meet
Let's not waste
our breath on words.
I think a nice cup of tea
is in order
Back in my teenage college years
I was told about “Autistic kids”
Who lived in worlds of their own,
Seeing things through weird and wonderful specs
In social isolation,
Frightening in its completeness.
At sixty six I since have learned about many
Of their “traits”:
Their obsessions, inflexible routines and
At all change.
Their inability to read
Emotions or social cues
I have worked with those with Aspergers,
Colleagues, friends and clients –
Indeed with people all over
The Autistic Spectrum.
And the main thing I have learned
In all these years
Is that in my own way…
I am one of them.
© PB 1\10\2018.
There, I'm Out.
you promised to build me a house of roses
well my dear
roses eventually wilt and die
and so bound was our love
It's like this strange wiry sensation that taps the nerves just below my skin
Starting in the awkward curve of my temples, running down my spine, settling in my toes
like a sudden burst of uncontrollable rage that plays dormite in my head
And for a second, just a mire second, I completely lose my mind.
My nails dig deep into the frail flesh of my palms.
It’s called anger management I suppose.
You like to draw.
To make art.
I could be your paper.
Make me into art.
Sketch your every feeling,
Into my blue hands,
and rose cheeks.
I wouldn’t mind.
I strive to be your
nobody ever “got it”
they didn’t seem to understand
that it was never about the drugs
they saw a waste of space
a low life teen
surfing on neon hallucinations
they saw angry decisions
blackened by ash
and a years destruction of a
pill bottle’s attach
said we should have listened
harder to those programs
the cunningham family ones
they show at school
the ones that showed us
drugs were “bad”
but those **** things
failed to inform us on the “noise”
the “noise” that would soon fill
the space of every broken
dream, promise, or heart.
the “noise” that weighed
down on us kids
that didn't end once it had
they failed to mention
the pain and the stress
they lied and never told us how
life, school, parents, everything
was forever one big unsolved mess.
like a knife it slit into our souls
bleeding tears and dignity
we leaned over bridges to try and catch
our childhood memories
but we kept bleeding
losing ourselves in a void of darkness
deeper into a blackened abist
and so we kept falling,
trying desperately to cling on to any branch
until our shaky blue fingertips kissed
softly against an ecstasy.
and finally for the first time sense as
long as we could remember,
the noise was no more.
My teardrops don't flow from bloodshot eyes
down angry red cheeks
staining yellowed pillowcases
black with sorrow.
Collected in a leaky pen
with rusty metal cap,
they form words on
crumpled notebook paper.
build T’s that don't cross
and from the womb of weeping winds
come forth Y’s that curve at their tail.
bleeding heart, whose
tears dissipate with that of a child's day time fury.
But bleeding scripture,
is quick to injure
as it weeps its words
forever and eternity.
It started in the seventh grade.
You were young and I was young and I think
we can both completely agree that we were
pretty dumb and ignorant.
It was your voice I think,
that really brought me in.
Sweeping me up until
I was hopelessly and mindlessly
wrapped around your finger.
It wasn’t like honey.
and it most definitely wasn't like
“Sunshine on a cloudy day.”
It was dark.
Dark like midnight skies twinkling with starlight
and warm cinnamon that stings pale
It was quiet like mysterious city alleys littered with
brazen homeless people,
sleeping in fetal positions on the streets.
Like hurt and joy and youth and indifference from the rest of our peers.
But that's the catch.
You were different.
You were beautiful in all your youthful glory and wildness.
Adrenaline spilling from your presence; sweeping everyone up along the way.
Taking them with you.
Smiling and laughing and dark eyes twinkling
Like that of the stars nestled deep in your voice.
And then there was I.
The shy, extremely indifferent, and mostly awkward
middle school girl with too many freckles
and too big glasses that filled her face full.
Your name passed the coven that was my lips
like a sacred secret
too many times to be sane yet,
did mine ever pass yours?
I aspired for you.
Yet you never did for me.
Unrequited love, my Dear.
Aesthetic cigarette smoke weaves through and through the air
Sinking into the threads of jean jackets
That already smell like night time chills and rain.
I hate smoking.
It looks pretty cool.