no matter the severity of the drama,
the severity of the fall, be dignified, as a buen maestro
walk with dignity through the film of your own drama,

for that sort of entertainment, you will need to give up on something
  
lie down on the floor and respiro,  respiro,  respiro …
more respiro,
rest, rest, rest,
float, float,

floating awareness,
detaching and letting go of everything,
let it flow ... for your own soul to be reborn

-


oh, considerate
counselors~

i fear the scars of your instruction
will never erode, even after i
melt down your mental
tarbabies
with a solution
that i hope will make
them chemically dissolve away,

leaving nothing but your staples.

what was it really ?
hyperactivity, autism,
anomalies of perception,
social detachment,
maybe—

a Gift ?

well, i guess it would not have
made a difference, everybody
knew of this but
                                  me-

patching up my gray matter mistakes
with remedies permanently cemented
between impressionable foldings

i feel this cure like masonry damming
where free-flowing thoughts that ride
upon streams into oceans were supposed
to have discharged naturally,

stopping me from causing my
summers to mix with everybody
else's winters (or vise versa).

you see, my natural configuration
would have sated for me what
would —in turn— infuriate others,

thus the picket around me was built
sufficiently lofty so i would never
grow tall enough to oversee it.

these days i often mistaken this perimeter
for bricks that line the inside of a well,
complete with a leaky bucket
swinging overhead,
beyond my
reach—

of all things an adult child could ever
want for Christmas, the removal of
what now prohibits true potential

these things they instilled into me
so i could not violate the principals
of conventional wisdom in their day—

but this is
My Day
now !

and dead counselors need
not protect their world
from Me anymore !

and this Gift ?

it continues drifting
conspicuously aloft
in my gray ocean—

a Divine Gratuity that remains
—to this day— unsuitable
for redemption...


s jones
© 2020


.

my inability to feel
plagues me
defective

the endless lies i live
the conversations in my head
they encircle me

please don't take it personally
i grow colder with each passing day

as quickly as love turns to hate
as quickly as hunter turns to prey

meaningless, empty words
meaningless, empty eyes
crying void
trying to expel

someone else to give me meaning?
no, i'd rather not
i'd rather die inside a hollow life

n if you have a clue
pork who watches you move
will be taking notes
this ***** knows how it goes

n if you have a plan
pork who watches you move
will catch it, understand
this ***** is stealing souls

keep it under the knife
surgeon and patient
simultaneously
ship and astronaut
in E.V.A.

i stole the man in the moon
and now i keep him in my room

i hop into my portable radio at night
and i switch the channels
when I get a fright

outside the schools of silver coin fish,
outside, the turtle, who
for a shell, stole a gold dish

yes, you may touch me
but that doesn't make me real

this wavering water glass
is between us
in panes i cannot feel

a glint of gold smoke,
flash of a crystal cigarette

shimmered right out of the spot she stood in,
with one sparkling pirouette