When the depression hits
I suddenly become empty
It's like the world around me has stopped spinning
Life becomes dull
And at this point
I would do anything to feel something
Because the nothing is killing me
But then after awhile
When the nightmares start to fade
And my world resumes its rotation
All of the emotions start rushing back
And at this point
I would do anything to go back to feeling
Nothing

My body smells of ash
Because I one had this fire
That consumed me
And left nothing else
But ash

So much to say
Yet I can’t find the words

Or the will

Our premeditations are spontaneous happenings
           Expressing itself in tense repititions.
                     naggingly, seemingly stuck in ruttage
             but really a strategy of suggestedness
         In a select position.
                     Spinning ideas collected for comfort
    A platter of minute individualistics
               Not so plain to see
                    But relevant anyway

-

stripping off bark,
carefully neat
unbroken
strings,
and then
into the bone
of the branch

bigger chips follow suit
as the carving
continues

the knife peels, chunking
out rough pieces as
they litter the floor

later to be swept aside
into darkness

years pass in solitary
cutting as cars
go slowly by

looking where the front porch
is buried at one end with
the chips of his wilderness

displaying no
ornaments
to show
for the labor

no birds
no raccoons
no whistles
not even his cane

pare of nothing
but the pile—

all he is...


s jones
2020

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