sometimes i wonder
if the world i live in
is one i made up in my head
that exists only for me

and if that’s true
i don’t mind
because the world i’ve created
is filled with madness
but the best madness i’ve created for myself
is you

I'm the idiot...
I'm the Bard...
I'm the dreamer...
And all of them want you.

a series of notes, prose-poems
stories, bits of play & dialog
Aphorisms, epigrams, essays

Poems? Sure

She


is a beautiful
giantess

painted with
blushing
rose-colored hues like

peaches-
-and-
cream;

her
soft hair
coils and
coils
of gold
with colors of
wild wheat
and
honey
twisted
throughout it;

with eyes
the color of the fairest
skies
in the world,
like ice cubes
with little dark blue flecks
of a mysterious
azure
stone,
cool and penetrative
and frighteningly
intense.
Actually,
they’re more like a Caribbean
Sea,
like when the waters shift
from a tender cerulean
to an amazing aquamarine…
and in the sun,
to the side,
they're the slightest hint of green…

Her
cheeks
are
blooming,
rugged
peonies
and her eyebrows
full
and the color of
sand
and
straw;
her
lips
ruddy plums
in every season of the year;
her gorgeous teeth
hug each other closely,
and when
she
smiles,
it’s a little
gift
from heaven…
her laugh is
infectious,
a hiccup of
giggles…


her arms are
pure shades of
pale
pink
petals
and in the summer,
graciously tanned: the lightest,
most
beautiful
bronze, a color
all
her
own.

Her
hands are
large
and
rough
and
strong,
wrapping one's own and all else
in a manner most

complete

and

indestructibly;

her demeanor is thrilling
and irresistible
and

intense.

her
moods
are
unknown
and
ever-changing….

pry into her

feelings

long
enough
and you will
meet
an
abyss

and never return

and
never

learn

anything
at all.

Her
eyes
are

immense

innocent

expressive

,

pupils darting to

everything

happening

at

once;



when she
walks, she’s
proud
and direct
and
she’s
the

light

of the
world;
everywhere
she
goes,
she
illuminates the
paths she chooses to
grace;
she carries the
torch of strength and beauty and mischief

and

daunts, races

the

flames --

she’s as

spontaneous

as they
are.

Patient F
presents with a
special syndrome
of false masculinity and
dejection.

He is on the border of a
manic-depressive
diagnosis.

He asks, “Doesn’t your mother have a
lot of
problems?”

One is tempted to say
that he’s the one
with problems.

One settles for both. Both of you guys do.


He raises his voice to spark fear
and assume authority,
but when he’s at the other’s
mercy,
he lowers
his voice
— almost pleading,
nearly completely
complacent
and nearing
indifference —  
and wins the other’s
trust.

“The other” is his wife.

When he addresses his daughters, he is stern,
joking,
and sometimes completely
“away.” Not exactly
there.

One doesn’t completely know when to approach him.
Once a simple question turned into a threat.

Patient F is impatient.
He looks out the window,
he stares at his iPad,
he angrily rakes leaves
or toils under a car,
and he stays awake at night until five in the morning.

Community college is a blur.

He integrates his feelings into essays, but the
words
aren’t quite
spelt right.
You understand him, though, when you want to.

Going home on the train and getting a disappointed message from him was
hell.
One isn’t exactly sure where the intonation is, but you
fear for the anger awaiting you under the porch light.

Many things aren’t explained to him.
American parents have instilled values into him
that he
doesn’t really care about
anyway.

The other is a foil rather than a partner.

Pain and politics —
Another day in the life

Of Patient

F