I love the sterile validity
The wavering insecurity
The disparity
of all its complexity

I love the strings
that make fingers bleed
Conductors
who slobber down to their knees
Epic chords that slander like a gentle breeze

What's not to love like the ghost of Mac and Beth
The accumulated end funds
that go not to the bereft
The music like vampires that have no death

Thank God for my joy
that classical dispelleth
My light it distinguisheth
The catch breath as clear as crystal ****

I step inside. The weight of past encounters shrinks the corridor. I brain-search for a safety behaviour to assuage the impending sense of doom. As if on a plane (‘count the seats between you, and your nearest exit’), I count the doorways between the entrance and my office as I walk forward.

Door one. Used all my leave days. Gone four weeks. Feels like much longer. Door two. Window ledges look unfamiliar. Doorhandles are strange. Door three. Was the carpet always this colour? Door four. The tight-wound wool ball in my chest clenches, the stretching yarn groaning like sailboat ropes in a north-westerly. Door five. I say chest, but to be specific, it’s the top of my sternum, bordering the jugular notch. Door six. The squeeze-groans are petulant reminders of why I went on leave. My omniscient manubrium warning call. Door seven. For the love of all that lives on God’s green earth, why are we back here?    

Why indeed. Door seven. Home base.

I sit at the desk and my mind crouches and crawls along the lonely, dark path. Back to the last time I was here. The last time I was hunted. Sludgy mud memories thickly bubble, burst, and liquefy before my eyes. So very thick and so very brown. Each pop a muted wet slap.

Then, another sound. From my computer. Just in front of me. I have an email.

My inner mud-bubble memory show responds. Now it scrolls through a parade of minor monsters. Possible email senders. My space and mind invaded by their correspondence. So very desperate and so very flawed in their attempts at functional adult interaction.

So very tantrum-primed, slander-keen, and gaslight-geared.

Mean-spilling, rage-channelling, drama-divers.
Breakdown one-uppers.
Accountability dodgers.
Monopolising guilt-trippers.

Lesser daemons.
Energy vampires.
Always thirsty.

This is where they hunt me. Door seven. My office. In emails, texts, calls, voicemails, and physical presence. High quality rendered. Dream reproduction ready. Technicolor.

To be fair, I’m top-grade prey. All squishy and caring. Softest-of-soft targets. The quintessential good listener. Ears for days. Psych-trained, chair-arranging, body language monitoring, tone-of-voice sensitive, feelings generator. Generous-portioned, silver-service dining. Tastes like sweet intentions, candied optimism, and bitter disappointment. Fear garnish for colour and crunch.

Now, I sit behind door seven. Waiting. Vibrating emotion...
I can feel them closing in…  

Please send instructions for establishing clear boundaries, guidelines for maintaining a mental distance, and chocolate.

Happy Halloween.

Another lunatic trip to
the hospital.
Nine days, this
go around.
For the first two
days, I just pulled
the covers over my
head and pretended I
was back in the womb.
It was warm and safe.
As much as I
wanted to stay,
I knew it was time to
be reborn into this
strange world of
sick streets, and
broken dreams.

word on the street
is you’ve been looking
for my heart
truth be told
it’s not that hard to find
in fact
I wear it on my sleeve
most Monday afternoons
Tuesday evenings
yes, those too.

I will leave your love here
in the graveyard of regret
because I cannot take it with me
the burden
the memory
the joy
the pain
the  love
the almost
the lovely
too heavy
for my already
heartbroken
weakened heart.

Searching for Galileo,
    the race to be first home,

In a sea of patients
    we climb the probability tree,
    walk upon the shore collecting
      memory shells,

We win the little wars,
     lose the big fight,

These windows are breathing apparatus,
     this ceiling, a blur of tungsten sky,
     rain, tears, weep,

To rest near to you,
     the technicolor sleep,
     and I died with you,

All farewells are sudden.

adrift, will the sky at last explode, or will this hate
continue pointlessly, for  thousand thousands years.
numbers that cannot describe each particle of pain.

so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe

There is no excusing what I did
Loss of remaining trust
Answer me one question
Is it too late for us?

Since that day you stare at me differently
In eyes is a hint of resentment
Every time I'm interrogated by you
Feel on trial and I'm the defendant

I need no bible to be truthful
I'm atheist anyways
Have no problem owning up
To my wicked ways

Whether being honest or not
Going to believe what you want
"Guilty" verdict already cast
Don't even put on a front

If we are partners
Will be able to move past
Want to gain your faith back in me
The only way to make this last