The way we rewrite
Our histories,

The way we polish
Our achievements

The way we conceal
Our all our flaws

I have to wonder
About memory

Was I ever that "me"
That I recall

I would write with letters bold
and stylish flare to break the mold.

Italics letters, I would like.
To make them seems a fright.

The very size of any font:
big or small is what I want.

Style settings won't transfer
Boring text makes me grrrrr!

Editorial control,
That is what I want to know!

Nine muses attend the burning
of creation. Sing they.
Songs of sadness. Flames
fill the night.
Smoke carries the knowledge of Ptolemy across the sky.
Fire
from Caesar’s burning fleet*
ignites the home of Euclid and Heron.

Words that knew the world reduced to embers.

Again
My pallet rejects
My somnaic advances

And
In the morning
I'll take it out against my coffee ***

I wake early in the day
to avoid judgement
in the eyes of people
who seldom look my way.

I go to bed at night
when they say I should.
“You’ll feel better.”—I don’t.
It stops the pestering.

I have to plan a busy day.
“You’re active that way
and won’t have time to mope.”
At least, that seems the plan.

I have no goals to reach in life.
At least, not of my own.
Any plans I think I hold
are simply held on loan.

standing in line
for mail
at the homeless shelter downtown
get a stamp…or
two?
letters
that fill her hand she’s writing
to the FBI
writing to the CIA
the DEA  
perhaps the NSA
wonder
what she wrote?

some days
she tells
of shadow people who plot
and scheme
she hides from
ghosts
and their attacks
they track her
she hides
inside a dream
or more accurately, constant nightmare.

she talks to people in the air
rambled words
furtive glances
she listens  
what are the words that are being said
but then
who cares
no one knows those words
just Crazy Mary.

She seemed to think my name
could be Clark Kent
and she knew my alter-ego.

But, my Kryptonite
is expectations.

...super.