I wish I was David,
David Duchovny -
not the characters he plays
but the man capable of playing them.

I want you to believe that I want to believe.

I want you to believe.
That, I want to believe.

I want you to believe that.

I want to believe.

Watching the monsters sleep and slumber
A masked owl whispers and wanders
Tree bark yawns with the break of twilight
Flames cackle casting embers of amber and seething whites
A cauldron of fireflies crash amongst the leaves
With the winter breeze hurling them throughout the sky
A mouse hurries late for it's meeting in the old shed
Where the spider lies back stretching in her web
The stars roll around laughing about something bright that was said
The moon sighs overhead while clouds encircle the lunar light
Puddles shiver and grasses bloom with frost bite
The aching orchard hums a tune of summer nights

Standing, soaked, out in a storm, gusts of wind whipping my hair around wildly
Unruly strands sway with the song of chaos, pulling at my scalp, snapping, lashing at my face
My existence is all reality as this whirlwind tempest frantically thrashes about my flesh
In the complex puzzles and foolish games, a simple madness lives, and therein lies my freedom

My tongue and lips sometimes flap boisterously from their spot on my face
And the noises risen up from my throat, and passed through my mouth are meaningless blubberings
Involuntarily, I grin, tasting the nonsense's unique sweetness, and I swallow
My laughter rings out, a vociferous and untameable sound; humor, the voice of a crazy woman

And I spin! Oh, I spin and spin and spin, savagely, in ellipses, ovals, and circle shapes
I've no shame, and this dance is all mine, so I maniacally fling my arms through the air
And as my body makes its revolutions, a fierce smile curves the shape of my lips, wrinkles the corners of my eyes
Inside my mind, wandering - wondering if there's any real difference between elated insanity and that which I crave...

Most people use words such as eccentric, strange, whimsical, and peculiar for what they cannot understand
So very often I hear these such words being used from those who speak of me
But it is them whom I perceive as being rather off, so habitual and boring, living like routine enslaved, joyless zombies
So unfathomable to me, why most everyone seems to desire nothing beyond a passionless, hollow schedule to, every day, just repeat

Me... I'll race barefoot down a gravel path, through lightning, thunder, and rain, only to feel my hair being twisted and tangled up in the wind
I'll jabber absurdities, laugh like a loon, all while I spin contentedly around and around, until, stupidly dizzy, I crash and fall
Madness pays little mind, stands without worries or concerns, because it believes - it knows, most nothing matters
This is my freedom, freedom that cannot be shared, for what it is, is something that's only freeing for me...

               ~A. D. Smithson   MARCH 2013

It's cold and it's empty, this
hollowed out feeling of pleasure...
I focus on the rush of desire -
desire for the sensations alone...
The sweet friction in my center,
the pounding force of what is
you, merely a tool for my cravings'
fulfillment; an object for nothing
but my physical satisfaction;
a satiating of my burning lust...
You're worthless to me outside
this externally needful task...
Not my heart, neither my soul,
have even the smallest holding
pocket, cradling some sort
of love or care for you...
Tell me, please, why we do
this to ourselves, over and
over, again and again...?
Are we honestly contented by
the passionless movements of
our graceless pieces and parts?
Is this animalistic ritual
the solution for what we so
desperately search for; that for
which we agonizingly struggle,
crawling down confused, tangled
paths, looking without knowing
exactly what we seek,
despairing, sickly, exhausted, and
so pathetic; so pitifully weak??
Are we satisfied with *******?
Just *******: could that be
the answer to the question
that, from existence becoming,
the human being has been,
from the depths of the soul,
constantly, repetitively screaming?
I cannot bring myself to
believe such a notion could hold
a sand grain's worth of truth, but
you seem to have accepted
this joyless, hope-crushing idea,
and as for myself, I know
I'll only continue ignoring that
which my heart keeps urgently
speaking with a driving,
whispering voice, from my
inner-most recesses, and
continue on with the oblivious
dance of this pretending; this
charades game all the world
eagerly strives to play...
I will bottle the juices of
my self-deceiving, self-depriving
fruits, borne of my guilt, my
denial birthed shame...
Yes, of course! I'm absolutely
satisfied with the act of
mere *******! Feelings of
wholeness sweep and flutter,
butterflying the insides
of my body's unseen puzzle pieces,
and I'm simply overflowing
with this ever so peaceful calm...
Lies, fiction, deception, robed
by willfully grasped ignorance,
keeps us marching, two-by-two,
silently miserable husks, just
living until it's time to lay
in another void-like place, this
one our grave, lonely and cold...
And now it doesn't seem like
there's anything left, for
any one of us, to say...

pushing, pulling
stretching, contracting
so back and forth
almost as if
our relationship is
made of rubber bands

so I am trying
training myself
to be more flexible
but there's something
I can't seem to
accept; I can't
just let go and not
dwell on with
such unproductive
worry, worrying...

how long do I possess?
just how long until
this rubber band grows
brittle and snaps?
how long until
we're devoid of our
elasticity
and left with
only scrap bits
of ugly little pieces
repulsive grey shreds
scattered about randomly
- mere garbage, serving
as nothing more
than so much *******
littering our floors?

maybe I should
just ask this -
how much time
are you capable
of giving to me
without your being
within my presence
a forced effort?
and not a
personally desired
behavior of choice?

because, you see
although I will hold out
until the last
moment possible
I want to have
at the least, a
meager pathetic hint
warning me and
giving me time
to prepare
my mind and
my scar-riddled heart
for another lashing
so I won't be
entirely broken and
worthless when you
go and break it
break and shatter
chip another chunk away
from what little
I have left
that deformed glob
of an *****
pumping my blood
throughout my veins
and keeping me
a lost ******
I loathe this that
I am already
a weak, ugly
prisoner of my
own malicious
and traitorous
****** beating heart

tall pines
birch trees
lining the trail

high cliffs
running streams

waterfalls
spilling over rock

smashing into
pools below

ears attuned
to forest creatures

dusk
fast approaching

a full grown doe
meanders

a young buck
follows

I wonder
who it is

that feels
more fear

in that moment
we are one

I didn't choose to be son of a scared Jew
and angry Irishman

who never laid a hand on her, even when
she turned the butcher knife on him

when he tried to stop her from slashing
her red wrung wrists

this spectacle in plain view of 5 children for whom "woe is the world" was daily refrain

I recall Father's blood trail on the concrete between our house and the neighbor's, a surgeon not expecting a bleeding Sunday guest,

but my mother's madness didn't rest on the Christian Sabbath, nor on her own

after that, the shrinks did their magic: Mom did the Mellaril march, the Haldol hop, the Stellazine stomp, and the less alliterative Thorazine shuffle

none of those chemically induced dances did a thing to increase the chances for my mother's salvation

soon she was behind the locked doors of "Ward 30," where I visited and Mom told me she had found Jesus

a befuddled revelation since I didn't know she was looking for him--her kin had hung him from a cross and taken the heat ever since

the doctors released her to the street, where she made misty retreat to the hills of Saint Francisco's bay

though she found faint solace in Pacific waters, she would never again see her sons or daughters

half a lifetime later, I found a long lost cousin my mother agreed to see, though not with me, for I was too much a reminder of scars which never heal

she sat with Mother near the end of days, sharing silence, the scent of Salisbury steak, and a view of the distant shore

as my patient cousin rose to leave, my mother finally spoke of a sea she watched turn from cerulean to indigo dusk

childhood beaches my mother did recall: the castles she did craft, the crawling ***** she did follow, the sun bathed sand where she made her bed

far from the one where she now lay, the one in which she would go smoothly into the night, perchance returning to blue waters, where hot blood trails cannot follow