He started feeling sorry for himself
long before he had seen his reflection
in shimmery linoleum tiles
that stretched into blind corners

before the snap of magnetic doors
woke melancholy macaroni people
strapped to rolling recliners
staring past Plexiglas TV's

He wore yesterday on his shirt
a step at a time...

one two, one two

felt breaths collectively stop
when he walked the halls...

one two, one two

like watching a one legged cricket
with your hand over your mouth

As cold as this place was
his head had been on fire

slammed into paper cups
filled with pastel colored
blues and pinks and
why pills
rattled at him like a baby

He fell face first into tomorrows

slobbered on wooden spoons
for vanilla ice cream
that he said tasted like Wednesday

He would get animated
when they ran out of Wednesday
and had many rattle cup nights
****** up through a syringe

hands and thumps
pressed him up against
heavy beds of oak bolted to the floor

gloves pulled his hair
when he smelled like yelling
into plastic mattresses
the same color as his *****

and no one wants him *******
while their eyes are closed

they want to see it

they want to say things like
"we'll talk about this later"

wrap his wrists in sheep's wool, in skin
from his *******, clasped by buckles, pulled
tight enough to close his eyes

He should have **** his pants

because chocolate doesn't have a taste
and neither did feeling sorry for himself

We sit together on low whipping cream white plastic chairs,
opposite over a fake fiber board table
covered with cheap and flavorful fair.
The aroma of chili, coconut milk, tea, and greasy noodles fills my mouth and nose
and above us the deafening pattering and smacking
of heavy rain drops landing hard
against the Plexiglas roof  fills my vacant ears.
The night set's in as cold and comfortable
as a fattened fish
at the bottom of an icy lake
and with the sun fully gone now
and the square or street outside empty
the Asian owner opens the garage style glass door,
its metal tracks holding milky white paper orbs full of light above our heads
and he tells us we can smoke a single cigarette in here
safe from the cold and biting rain.
Your eyes watch thousands of minuscule silver streams flow
between the network of cobble stones
like tiny rivers raging mercilessly,
violently,
into the darkened abyss of the storm drain
falling hopelessly over its silent brink.
But my eyes only watch you
with the constant sound of the downpour
sedating my sickly mind
I watch your slender hand
lead up finger tips
to the cold white rolling paper
watch it settle comfortably
between the rosy red of your plump and postured lips
they let back out curved and milky clouds
reminiscent of the sweet swaying of your hips.
I crack a sincere but tired smile,
and put the price and tip under my plate.
We both stand and stretch
and head off slowly, huddled warmly
knowing its been a good night
and finally i feel happy
and i can tell you do too
as a smile spreads slowly across your face
like a tired cat stretching for a long days rest.

I remember the setting Carolina sun,
Fluorescent fuchsia medallion  
Sitting on the landing strips at RDU, like an observant child
Making sense of our tamed world,
And counting the aluminum birds as they flee to altitudes that
Offer an illusion of freedom.

Fast forward an hour,
Zoom in on seat F, in row 18 on an ascending Boeing 747,
Almost perpendicular to Earth
And my thighs are clenched instinctively, the nervous muscle quivering,
Trying to make its own rhythm against the quaking of the craft.
Irrational fears are countered by irrational ticks.
Will you falter o’ mighty mechanical fowl?
I prayed to the wings that kept me afloat.

Not too high, Icarus, or we’ll all go down –
The pull of hubris becoming a failing harness.

The great bird began its passive decent,
A feather in the breeze.
And my worries were left at
Higher levels,
And the glittering skyline that I had been dreaming of for half of my life
Suddenly becomes near.
I consider reaching my hand through the double-pane Plexiglas oval,
To caress the jagged silhouette as it wears the sun’s dying rays like a stolen diamond ring,
To pinch with the tips of my fingers
An unsuspecting toy car and place it on a highway leading to
Somewhere else.

But time is an avalanche,
Gaining momentum quicker and quicker --
The toy cars become real,
Life-size.
And the people in them are not dolls,
But engineers, junkies, biologists, tourists,
And (soon) me.

And sometimes (only when this town gets tedious
Or the sun is lounging on the horizon,
Taking a hazy summer bath)
I (can’t help but) remember.

My private username  is in the Public Domain

I guess I'm too headstrong for all the bubble bursters

Placate my phosphorous soul
I'm sorry for my outburst
I'm an oddball

Inconceivable
What am I to do with these overdone and overdue Blockbuster tapes I have just finished over viewing?

I contrive white elephants for all those who tip the scales
Whose guesses are as good as mine as to how some make time to fold a thousand origami cranes

I've been beaten with broomsticks and Plexiglas riot shields
Because I was looking for the middle way between indulgence and denial

But rest assured, the glum lobbyist is going to counter balance the dumbwaiter
As the elevator operator takes the escalator because he's all about time management

When I was young I could see people's guardian angels and auras
But now the angels are gone and only the auras remain

"I hate my life and all the choices I'v mad that have brought me here"

Christmas this year felt wrong
different from its typical way,
no, it’s not the plastic joy
or the Plexiglas spirit,
it’s something deeper
a hollowness pervades it
the celebrations look like mirages

it all doesn’t seem real anymore
like there’s nothing in there
not even greed or fear
or the hunger at the heart
of the human spirit

everything feels like Styrofoam packaging
covering everything until it floats away
and until it comes down as garbage
it can hardly even be said to have existed
at all.

going on inside
my head. And the only thing
people wear is their
suffering. It’s made of Plexiglas
so the windows don’t get
smashed. The only thing
people carry is a whip for their
chariot. And they’ll race inside my mind
until the bell rings it’s supper time. That’s when
they take a break to eat a wedge of
pound cake. Then those babies fledge –
because I drive them off the edge. Until
the next one’s born.

I dreamed European airport tellers stole from me
five crisp new hundred dollar bills
smug old white men with smoke stained fingers and
invincible plexiglas protection
my mother appeared
brief and sympathetic
I appreciated her show of support

Ten-thirty AM in the campground,
Mourning Doves coo their sad sound,
People air their damp sleeping bags
Children swarm on electric scooters.
(In my day, it was roller skates)
Then, the diesels rumble to life.
Wives with cell phones direct the backouts,
Don’t run over the scooters!
Speed limit: five miles per hour,
(When are we going to go metric?)
Yet the earth trembles
As they pass by, single file.
Above, old white men look down
From their Plexiglas canopies,
The last one towing a smart car.
(To save gas, I presume)
The rumble moves down the county road,
The electric scooters swarm again,
And the Mourning Doves resume their laments

I’m a glass girl
And you can see right through
I’m transparent to you
Please don’t take advantage of it.

You can see my soul
Do you think it’s as beautiful
As yours is?
I wish I had your soul.

I was clear
But life made me stained.
But if you ask anyone who has ever seen stained glass,
They’d tell you it was the most
Magnificent thing
That they’d ever seen.

It’s okay to be stained
Color makes us
Alive.
Plexiglas
Is still and lifeless
Stained glass
Tells a story.

Be a storyteller.
Be stained.
Be beautiful.