i’m now a dispatched letter
bearing no postmark to speak of
floating in the winds of ether,
under an autumnal harvest moon
no destination or sender’s address either.

where?
when?
and how?
i get to land, only you
and the sand glasses of time will know.


© 2021

Come on, you say to me,
help to **** the soil dry of
deep, muddy clays made by
colonial lullabies and
forgo your selfish thoughts
of suicide in favor of a
dark grey summer salad coupled with
a nuclear fish fry.

Unleash a cosmic sigh, I
bleed to breed  my human seeds and
cultivate forests of ***** while
pulling up deliciously
edible weeds who sing
laughing limericks we
care not to listen to and
languishing warnings we
care not to heed.

Me and you, baby, let's
build a box made of
ticky-tacky in the back of
some skeletal, suburban
cul-de-sac, crafted over a
cesspool vat of human feces,
spicy DDT and industrial-grade
mercury.

Apathy towards the life source
breeds apathy towards corporate force
breeds disgust, killing the serpent and
reclaiming the horse, tossing the
apple, preparing for the worst.

Pile up pounds of gold and
crowns to assign money a meaning
and postmark letters filled with
plastics and post-its with
"PARADISE IN THE REACH OF ALL MEN"
scrawled in felt-tipped pen to
peoples perched on the edge
of the planet, to whom
time gave rhymes from learning to
lay their ears down in the
dirt and succumbing to the
the devil wearing a blood-stained,
starched, white shirt.

Dilute the base of me with
an acidic you, quick, pollute
the river so salmon scurry
downstream and the arduous algae
dries up, screaming.

I wonder if the taker can
become the giver.

I've folded so slowly into myself.
Tucked emotions into creases,
crinkled corners stained from ink.

Fingertips tingle from the need.
Yet my hands won't gather intent,
my heart just beats,
and I'm here....but I'm not.

I used to bleed through ink,
Now I linger on the edge of verses.
My clockwork heart on the tip of it all.

I buried myself so deeply,
sealed envelopes with no postmark.
Destination void.

I'm not the same person anymore,
sunshine no longer warms me.
Letters go unsent,
remain unopened.

I've folded so slowly into myself.
Tucked emotions into creases,
crinkled corners stained from ink. 

Fingertips tingle from the need.
Yet my hands won't gather intent,
my heart just beats,
and I'm here,
but I'm not.

I could bleed through ink,
drops settling into words on paper.
Yet now I linger.
My clockwork heart on the tip of it all.

I protect myself so deeply,
blank envelopes with no postmark.
Destination void.

Letters filled with shards of me.
written with hopes,
and invaded by exclamation points.
some letters go unsent,
to remain unopened.

Another cigarette slowly withers to ashes grasped between the bruised knuckles of my index and ******* just as another burning yellow sun begins to cascade down into the deep blue and pink horizon on another day built solely to bring everyone closer to death.

I take a long drag off the cigarette before taking an equally long sip from a tumbler of whiskey. When I pick up the glass there's a ring of sweat left on the table that reminds me of an eclipse I once saw in my younger years. This was a pointless memory that was soon replaced by the burn from the bright amber spirit.

I savor the taste in my mouth, how it mixes with the blend 27 smoke. I swirl it around and feel the way that it lingers on the tip of my tongue and the way it coats my gums with its warmth. It does nothing to dull the pain that has been building inside but I continue to drink, pouring more in the tumbler until the bottle is empty; never feeling any effects.

I've become numb to the world.

I take another cigarette out of the golden brown and white box, bring it to my lips and light it with a rusted zippo that I found lying on the side of some no-name road a few years back when I was hauling illegal chemicals across state lines. I inhale, letting the acrid smoke fill my mouth before settling deep in my lungs, and exhale the excess. A thick veil of smoke clouds up in front of me and for a moment I cannot see the letter I've nailed into the wall and for that smallest of moments I forget about my troubles, my growing pain, and feel the overwhelming joy of contentment. It is fleeting. The smoke parts, fading into the corners of the room; leaving me staring once again at the note.

My eyes scan the letter and settle on the words "...one month to live." The postmark on the envelope read September 25th. It was now almost Halloween. My chest ached and I felt it cave in under the news that I had read over a dozen times already. Each time felt like a new time, that it couldn't actually be happening. But it was.

It is happening I remind myself.

The pain in my head shot to a burning brightness and I squinted my eyes as if to shield myself from some external force though I knew it to be a useless gesture. The tumor had appeared quickly and spread even faster.

About two months ago I was rewiring outlets for a building that the previous contractor had butchered. It was a simple job and I did it mindlessly, going about the work as usual until there was a searing pain shooting thru my head and I collapsed. When I awoke I was in a hospital with nurses and a doctor standing over me. They were blurry outlines of human forms and their voices were muffled. I slipped back into sleep.

When I woke up again there was only one doctor and he was staring down at a medical chart. My medical chart. He noticed my eyes open and asked questions. I did my best to answer. He told me about the tumor that had spread across my brain, that it was inoperable and the outlook was not good. He said this with all the years of professionalism a doctor can utter. A few hours later I was released.

I stared at the empty bottle of whiskey. I stared at the empty pack of cigarettes. I stared at the letter nailed on the wall. I stared at nothing.

When I stood up a wave of nausea coursed its way thru my body and I caught myself on the kitchen banister before collapsing. I slowly regained my balance and walked over to one of the kitchen drawers. I slid it out and rummaged thru it until I found the smith and Wesson .45 and took it out. I sorted thru another drawer until I found the bullets for it and took them out. I went back to the chair I was sitting in and loaded the gun methodically. I took the barrel of the gun and rested it on the right temple of my head.

I stared at the empty bottle of whiskey. I stared at the empty pack of cigarettes. I stared at the letter nailed on the wall. I stared at nothing.

And then I pulled the trigger.

I might as well lie with the flowers,
my body their grand gesture.

they understand my grief.

I draw tick marks on the hours,
releasing each weighted breath.

aching only with relief.

even happiness induces showers,
postmark my heart and send it off.

words acting as a thief.

I’ll always lie along with flowers.

body no more concrete.

I've folded so slowly into myself.
Tucked emotions into creases,
crinkled corners stained from ink.

Fingertips tingle from the need.
Yet my hands won't gather intent,
my heart just beats,
and I'm here....but I'm not.

I used to bleed through ink,
Now I linger on the edge of verses.
My clockwork heart on the tip of it all.

I buried myself so deeply,
sealed envelopes with no postmark.
Destination void.

I'm not the same person anymore,
sunshine no longer warms me.
Letters go unsent,
remain unopened.

Limited Vocabulary

With my limited vocabulary,
Back pain, tendency to sloth and other frailties,
I still have much to say
And say it,
It arriving daily
As a post from nowhere, sender
Totally unknown,
No stamp or postmark on it.
Limit:
One can only work within it,
Trust that what’s within
Is valid, potent and convincing.

Limited Vocabulary 6.6.2016
The Processes: Creative, thinking Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin

I am born into this body which
is neither here nor there or
anywhere really and this creation
of skin and bone which wraps around
a skeleton, a tone of skin which lets me
in through the door and who is there?
who is here? am I there waiting for you
to wait here for me for me to exit or enter
or rent a space here in this place?

What is this creation of woman?
a man?
can it be free?
am I me or you tapping into and is there a clue
in the postmark?