standing in line
at the homeless shelter downtown
get a stamp…or
that fill her hand she’s writing
to the FBI
writing to the CIA
perhaps the NSA
what she wrote?
of shadow people who plot
she hides from
and their attacks
they track her
inside a dream
or more accurately, constant nightmare.
she talks to people in the air
what are the words that are being said
no one knows those words
just Crazy Mary.
Crazy Mary is a composite of several homeless people I've gotten to know over the years. Untreated mental health problems are a huge issue that needs to be addressed in order to address general homelessness.
Hello little blueberry
I see you
I never thought I'd meet you
Yet here you are
There you go
To someone else's arms
My little blueberry
No longer mine
Custody I failed to take
I'll love you from afar
I know who you are
Just like everyone,
I have my
My clean shirt,
My clean mind.
Getting older now,
Build a future
I never thought I would see.
Don’t drift to decay,
In the room,
Patterns are like chains
I can’t break free
Or at least that’s the way
It seems to me
my therapist says, it's time you write about your psychosis
I show her a journal full of names, and some dreams
That I may or may not have had.
Inside my journal, there are pieces of my body and flowers,
There is a to-do list with nothing crossed off,
There is a hidden script for a medication I never got filled;
There are pictures over every word, disguised in a metaphor
I can't remember the language to describe.
Expression makes the most sense when you are
Expressing the bad.
This is eruption, compulsion that is combusting from my pencil and into black ink.
I point to the bugs that crawl over the page and say,
I don't have to. My psychosis is in every line.
It is in my eyes darting back and forth.
I write so much the page turns black and I have to erase it.
My psychosis is the shadow trail behind every letter.
It is the blood coming out of my mouth when I say I'll Do Better,
The scratches on my hands and feet are from holding on too tight
To demons that know how to fight back.
It is my teeth, and the holes inside of them, spit onto the page.
Spit onto the floor of my therapists wooden office.
I wince. I turn the page.
I try to say it so many times it becomes meaningless.
You wouldn't believe me if I told you.
I spit again.
My mind looks like a ******* minefield and these words are just the smoke.
I follow orders.
i insist on suffocating slowly
i refuse to die
imposing my will to weakness
avoiding applying the "why"
implications are closing in, oppressive
my mind is open, fluid
interposing meaning and form with
the spoken and written letter
the light source filtered through all this
the squeaking moving in, oppressive
regressive, the way my vantage remains
a disjointed unit-whole
you persist, and i suffocate quickly
you ask so nicely for me to die
deposing my God ****** will to power
why do i seem to avoid the "apply"?
THE SYMBOL ON MY HAND IS BURNING
into the flesh, and back out from inside
illuminates Prison, a chasm, a prism
dividing a spectrum of impossible light
we wholly refract the soma, the psyche
The Panic transforms into beauty inane
compulsion, obsession, redemption, addiction
we know we're alive
we perpetuate pain
Written by Justin Aptaker, 2006
When I was nine years old, my mother threw me into the shower.
Holding the removable shower facet in my face and proceeded to drown me.
This wasn’t a regular occurrence, fully clothed body and screaming for her to stop.
Choking, crying as this water cascaded into my open mouth while I struggled against the grasp of a plump body.
This scene, shattering protrusion of fear and betrayal.
A woman clawing out of flesh from the inside. “Don’t hurt her, she’s your daughter” one voice said but the urge was too strong.
I knew this woman, as she ripped me sleeping from my bedroom.
The smaller room in a two bedroom duplex adjacent to the bathroom and not very far.
“God wants me to do this”echoed repeatedly.
My brain registers the reality that she doesn’t intend to hurt me but I can’t breathe.
This only lasts a few minutes, she has done the lords work of cleansing the evil from me.
My mother apologizes profusely, but she is still my mother.
She holds me and dries me off.
The moment passes.
And everything is normal.
Sitting still inside of a cavernous house
As the dust tickles the nose of a whitened mouse
The windows need cleaning, my bed sheets a washing
’Tis a pity I’m filthy, too.
Vibratos of floor creaks ache their pains
Throughout the haze of the summer rains
And the creased paper that lies precariously on my desk
Trembles like the madman who set it there.
Shadows float like bubbles off the ground
And rumble collectively and make soft sound
Their silhouettes quiver; their souls give and shiver
As they mix and discombobulate the atmosphere.
And now, the sounds appear once more
Could it be that someone is at the door?
I dare not move nor attempt to exist
Inside my impenetrable defense of this.
Now, I feel my volcanoes beginning to erupt
As the foggy silence is suddenly made to disrupt
For a thousand voices and more are born
And create lives of their very own.
Hands that belong to exact-looking men
Demolish the foundation of my once safe den
However, when the dust settles, I look to myself
And realize that it was once again me.
torn at every seam
I guess it can’t be my heart feeling then
but my mind playing pretend
telling me the pain is right there
she doesn’t care
it’s blade cut me open
her blunt words
every hour spent in hurt
waiting for her