Eyes taking survey
of immediate surroundings.
At least not to anyone
lacking the neuroses which
with such resplendent ecology
were given perennial bloom
in the mental landscape
of this peculiar creature. . .
Dwelling, as he does
within plaster walls
upon concrete floors
beneath fluorescent lights, as they
quietly hum a low B flat and illuminate
filth and fur amassed in quantities
sufficient to reconstruct entire animals,
and perhaps even ecosystems...
Drugs in their various guises and dis-guises
paraphernalia indiscreetly proliferated
Musical implements, instructions, and instruments
supinely littered, almost as profusely
as the mountains of literature courting
avalanche from the rigid repose of
each supportive surface where they rest
Brooms weeping in neglect of their sweeping as
spiders nest betwixt the bristles, but
at least they keep the bugs out...
Records in crates and stacks with
no particular organization. Hmm.
That last line sums it succinctly.
"No particular organization."
Yet he still unaccountably knows
within this squalor where
the minutest of objects reside
His thoughts and actions
are sporadic, leaving linearity
in want of apt expression
For him, it seems the shortest
path between two points
is a frenetic scribble
Getting things done
in a timely manner? Possibly.
Getting sidetracked and forgetting
the original plan? Probab- HEY
"Whoever lives this way, cannot be well!"
Someone might say, or, perhaps even yell.
Erelong might this assertion be dispelled
With them and their opinion. . . . .
STRAIGHT TO HELL!
For now the music of Debussy fills the air,
and now this vagabond has found a locus
a flag and bond of jouissance and care
arresting him in implacable focus
Inhaling the aroma of the night
he raises up his quill with great delight
and sets the implement in fervent motion
and bathing in the passions it ignites
He yields to it in rapturous devotion
and as if under spell or magic potion
his brain and nerves and muscles all engage
in spilling forth the fury of an ocean
Society has trapped him in a cage
ensnared him in frivolity, it seems
but his ink abounds in freedom on its page
and guides him to tranquility from rage
As Luna pours her iridescent beams
into this weary poet's dreary head
his mind illuminates with fate's esteem
and ruminates through labyrinths of dream
As everything he's seen, done, heard, or said
becomes a tapestry of order, woven
with chaos as the impetus that's led
this blessed magnanimity has shed
A light to guide the way; a path to show him
to Athens' martyred sage whom he's beholden
who espoused the noble maxim he's now chosen:
"Look deeply in thyself and truly know him."
Look deeply in thyself, and truly know him!
"If a cluttered desk",
a man once asked,
"Is a sign of a cluttered mind?"
"Of what, then,"
"is an empty desk a sign?"
I have ADD or ADHD or whatever they're calling it these days. I was diagnosed as a child, and the condition has persisted with me into adulthood, presenting undeniable challenges and difficulties. This piece is an attempt to illustrate the manifestations, both outward and inward, of what it is like to live with this condition.