Before you know it,
or perhaps after you know it, but too soon,
too soon all the same--
growing old--
the men are scarce.

He took my hand in his,
his hand in mine we walked beside the water--
the moon reflects in the choppy waves
but light pollution dims the stars
and fogs his eyes.

Sometimes you still get it from a bullet
imagining fishnets around your
ankles and your dress
on
the floor--

He sings and
it is a beautiful thing when I think about
the past--
everything has led up to this
but this will soon be over, and over again--

--pick up the pieces--
the lamp lies on the floor
and shards, the remains of an ******
still lingers in your pupils
but ******* never liked it that way, anyway.

He tells me I'm scatterbrained.
I tell him I'm planning

Why are you bleeding why are you bleeding why
are you
bleeding?

something to write but there's no

It's over, it's over, and over again.*

tension.

he leans in towards you
you wonder
            is the chair creaking
            or is he?
he peers into your mind
you wonder
            is he looking for his
            or has he forgotten to?
“Ah. She got to you, too.”
he leans back
something creaks.
you
            pausing
let him explain
“The woman”
            she laid him down
brought a slender brush to his eye
and painted his pupils
            blacker than forgetting
“She got me, too.
Look,”
lean
creak
peer
it has been years since he has seen the eye doctor
you thought he was over that story
but you lean into his confusion
            again.
you swear
            you can see
                        between the cataracts
                        through the glaze
            the neurons shorting out
                        one by one
                        little stars dying
                        swallowed by the black dots of paint.
a fist rises in your throat
scrabbling to choke the painter
to blot her eyes
black as catharsis
but instead
it chokes you
he nods
affirmed
you sit
stifled
both scatterbrained.

Violent pangs
Reflective of the depth
And meaning of this living
It's not that I can control
It's that I can't
And here, I won't ever
It's a place where anything goes
But anything is judged before it goes
And then it never goes
Just rests in a grave with the rest of anything
A place where high spirits lay sordid
And broken
Pieces
Scattered
Amongst
Other
Brok-
En
Souls
I never was meant for this life
This obedience to the physical
Faith and captivity
Love and let go
You don't know me
The stories I've told
The stories I've been in
Look through these wide eyes
Break
The
Mold
And wonder
And wonder
And become
Anew

I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,  
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.

I still listen to music with words
When I am writing words

Sunlight streams through the window
Trees sway outside, with branches scratching the glass window
-
I smell fresh coffee beans
Starbucks, from the Philippines

A piece of paper flutters down
I look at it with a frown.
-
And one thing I suddenly recall,
It gives me an idea, a reason to stall

From what I am doing, (hummingbird mind, my friend.)
And I went into an imaginary glen.

With only my pen and my notes
For company, then my mind began to float.


He wrote in the most perfect handwriting
Compared to my scatterbrained black scribbling

He strummed a chord on my heartstrings
Without him even knowing


His name sounded like
the gold-tipped wings
of angels.
While mine sat on the
brown earth,
dreaming to the skies.


Though, once we'd meet once a week
And I would smile in the hallways
looking like a freak

There was always something idiotic
the way his teeth stuck out like a bunny's
He reminded me of Ishaan from Taare Zameen Par
A dyslexic student, great artist, had a smile so sunny.


I'm playing Owl City on my mp3
That's our secret anthem

Tears were there
The melody from the speakers
I wished I could've sat beside you
When your fingers waltzed over the black-and-white keys
Now I'm sitting all alone by myself
Tapping on black-and-white letters on the Mac


Even though I play the violin
I can't accompany you
My bow screeching against the strings
Just doesn't do your mesmerising piano justice

What I can only do is write
And draw with a cheap ballpen from a meeting hall
I will draw your eyes and your crooked grin.
And my dreams of you that remain unfulfilled.

I finish the poem
Rip the page out of my notebook
And tape it to the wall with my other works
and newspaper clippings, oh just look.

Tomorrow I take it down again
Slip it into an envelope
Wonder if I should buy a stamp.
Maybe mail it overseas with forlorn hope.

A month passes by,
The envelope gathers dust under my bed.
Oh my darling, oh my darling
The chances with you are hanging by a thread

We're going to fly back home once more
So I decide to get you a keepsake from here.
A wooden owl, carved by hand
I slip the poem inside, thinking what you'd think when it appears…

i don't understand it, but i get it
maybe its from lack of self respect.
am i another disposable?
you're the most complex, fascinating human
lots of layers, but i've barely seen the surface
i crave to know you past the flesh.

i can settle for company, false intimacy.
i know im boring and anxious always
but you do mean a lot.
we can go somewhere only we know
see new things together
or something.
i dont know.

The shackles of your evil never let me breathe

And so I drowned, I didn't fight the fire, because that very same pain was my pleasure
It was you

Nothing seemed more comforting than the horror you brought me and nothing could bring me back from the fire that burned inside me but your drunk arms
And those very same arms that held me, hurt me
And those very same lips that caressed me, spoke to me in different tongues
And we were in ruins and disastrous, ***** and tainted by the lies our bodies whispered

And there was something you did to me, and now I'm looking for the pieces you ruined to fit again
Because the worst thing I ever did was let you come in and sloppily hide in my heart

And there's times like these I think of you, and of the girl I was then and it amazes me that I once thought the devil was an angel
I once thought you were my savior when all you did was condemn me to this small hell

And even with you completely banned from my soul
You still linger
You still punish my heart from being pure
And know that I will never forget what you did
But the worst part of it all
Is now my future won't either

Words never set reality in stone.
and sometimes
people
places
and
things
pass and go.
Nothing can be captured
caught and possessed.
All the better
to learn the facts.
But today was a yesterday again.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

i am a woman who hasn't gotten over her girlhood strifes. i am alive in conflict & chaos; when storms still i tremble. i struggle with questions of my own importance. if i am your leaning post, why do i feel so alone? i am one ocean with many seas, rivers, harbours & waterfalls - each with their own names. i am not of this realm, yet my father calls me worldly. i struggle with questions of my own identity. if everyone sees me as one solid being, why do i feel so broken? i am a lover of opposites, of balanced scales, of reflections: black & white, girls & boys, sea & sky, everything & nothing, always & never. the sometimes, the somewhat, the earth, transvestites, grey zones: they don't sit well with me. & yet i am spokesperson for the exceptions (i before e, except after c. using drugs to have *** with people is assault, except for ******. i only like to write with black pens, except when I want to use a pencil. i only drink black coffee, except when I crave a double-double. i only **** girls, except when i need a ****). each girl has her own firm resolve, that is contradicted with another's opinions: my whole existence is self-hypocrisy. i struggle with questions of conflicts in my own interest. if i am decided, why do i peer with longing at the other options? i am a planner, an organizer, a sorter: i put my problems in piles. i am erratic, scatterbrained & impulsive. i use my abilities to try to outsmart my destructive tendencies; to try & balance the scales. my flighty adventures often win over my obsessive habits. i struggle with questions of my own intent. if i am scared of commitment, why do i keep promising?

As i'm trying to find the right path, i continue to get side tracked.
By helpful souls, and deceitful eyes.
How am i to tell truth from lies?
Everyone seems to be wearing a disguise.
And in a society so judgemental and two faced,
most of the time i'd rather be dreaming than awake.
But it's hard to dream when your mind is left in the dark.
These ******* demons are getting the best of my thoughts, and my heart.
A once vibrant rhythm is turning into cement.
I constantly find myself feeling malcontent.
Will my mind, heart and soul ever breathe as easily as it once did?
Maybe it's just my lack of innocence.
When did the world become so hateful, lonely and cold?
I find myself embracing more empty eyes for a chance to feel a little less alone.
With society so pre occupied with mindless ways, how are we ever going to make a change?

Analog, anabasis… trip, short, burn the bug to carbon dust…

Seeking in my treasury of books, pared down to ones with personal attachments,
- I sought a Welsh-English pocket dictionary, gifted me
- by a taller and older, by experience, Overmeyer… Bob,
- but he was one of a few in the corp, band of brothers,
- who sang along with me, when he heard me humm,
- he knew the words, worth-ship fixing words, yes,
- we shall gather at the river that flows by the throne of truth. Mmmmhmm, so we shall see, so we shall see,
Oldman river, you know,
you wait, and wait, fishin' wishin' cogitations got from *** go,
known good, known evil, and evil comes for effect, not cause,
clean up, aisle five
hell, in a target store. And a Walmart, #26.
-- I recognized the anti particle, passing through either or,
becoming here, from there, your thinking my thinking,

wall of text, in your current context, this wall has hat

hooks to insights marked pertinent someday, in the wide ocean
at the end of any river mind me and error master,
as awareness, meandering as all fluids do.
Aligning in honed most saline crystaline form, as
current opinions shapened from dust and ash originally,
then spit the idea out as a word,
imagine
matter… mater, really, bottom first bit, was realized after
paterialization falled to manifest self reproduction…
patterned thought, fabrication, plane geometry… which we
as a team, a man and his tools, gunslinger, plus accoutrements.

Yep. Adam, did not work alone. The egg was first. He named eggs.
And chickens, full of eggs, no, hope, and chaos, nada mas…
- morals from old stories, we had lost all hold on those…
Stepmothers after The Hundred Years war, like as not was
first slave, with only obey believed enforce,
as far as
holy vows spoke allowed, but in a whisper…
hear us,
old folk, we scatterbrained old rockers by the fireplace
listen, this is living, right.
Pursue haps as haps occur, in thinking one thing or this other,

Our kind, fixed position ears perpindicularly augmenting per-
iferal vision, if, just, if. Immeasuarable meanings, justice, yes,

we settled at that point. All the Promises - in any living faith,
even dying proves life is a chance, we all go through it, and some leave marks, while others leave a heart felt
oxitocin, not cotin, red on yellow, **** a fellow, -tocin. Oxitocin,

Rush!- Kettle DRUM after a cello up run, or an old familiar rif,
Goin' up country, ' bought a map for a dime,
from a time lain aside in book, as I was seeking that Welsh word for these experience in side, feeling inside, but being mere, yes, not a limiting adjectival modification, on a word, intended to soothe,

NOT ******, soothe, as said of gentle rolling seas, calm as constant as Jupiter's ever near there, right there, red spot, there,
that is an anomoly, yet, there are those who claim clarity, that

Red spot, Ted-talk phaze, ease in, get a buzz, mmmm, slow, slow

slow
whoa, so slow, what difference can plain-people, just us,
can we ever just know, this is the way, no obstacles,
and we leave trails, and trails widen, and widen, and widen,

wide as the milky way as seen from North Korea.
What a blessing, right?
--- God made these chickens we are eating,

no, child we selected these big red hens, people, like us, we can
know how earthly goods grow and we can help, as gard'ners,
retired guardians and priests can, make soil richer,
by leaven from the native soil,
fresh after fire, sparks the bloom

Patience, paid close attention, over time,
pay is as interest always is, compounding…
complex knots
slipping infinite loops generation systems
spinning straw to gold, bricks to build a tower…

to grow mustard into brocolli and cauliflower, prosper-o

we can engineer squash blossuming
be.. not spelch-pstpst-offt-listen,
- laughing
in my home are children, aged 6 to 13, across a seven year gap…
in my home with complete 5G internal Wifi, with cable
- copper, ah
- the humm, copper wire interference, acceptible as soft
- sub-spectra sfumati self-edged,- cut from whole cloth
abrupt.
Con, is with, fuse, is
blown… but, click, we are past that, where I live, on a pension.
I survived an oath in a war. And in America, the we, as
represented in Congress after Korea, and UCMJ, reach, reach,
- remember the ears that read, need to know
right, MP talk, uniform, all the exact same alignment and weave… for forsake, forsooth, forgotten gains, -- un-fore-gotten
upright walking, living concept, Phoebe Zeitgeist
- she made a word nest in my mind, on March 16, 1968.
- On a Douglas Flying Tiger insertion mission,
Flying to a foreign land more foreign than any thus far, redux.

Surreal stepped up to real, realms of preception, Metaverse/
uniform code under it all, we wished for this, can we, can we,

please, walk back in and watch the shadows morph to home sized I-max with true-fi dolby optimized to your very own, humanity
verified self--
- eyes up, look where we were when ever, then be come you now known as dear reader, responsibility free, cookie or no?
Be any mind you find you can wear with no wish to lie,
the wrong mind set with the ears and eyes, and we cannot lie…
you lose.
The whole ritual of prayer and supersites, tics, ****. We glow…

once illegal exposure
confidential, super-secret, super-positioned tyrannical systems,

whole cloth leprosy, black mold to dust time sequence…
-- such minds as fed us Elliot and Thorough Error-prone Poses,

as seen from the repressed mind of an unassimulated inate-ifity,
We are none of us, Adam sons, his model had nor repro circuits.

Hey, once there had to be something akin to ****** birth,
really, mitochondria developed virally, just fine, so, so fine,

imagine, we got the cell, a wall, with enzyme will efforts on the doors, we open to need, and useful matter is accepted,
as in another phase we open to expel the uselesshit, which then fills the red corpuscles, which use iron to hold the load.

Flushing blushing bride, Mito-mom, her daughters, imagine…

trackless wasteland, aftermath of minor miscalculation
in the dancing cosmos, whirling
whiling, smiling
inside…

I made it. 2022, Everest Pax, is the real name
of my youngest grand son, who randomly
reassures me he loves me, as though he wishes me
to not let that slip, naturally, his version of me is fragile,

what he imagines I am can disappear, in a day,
like Uncle Mike, and Uncle Dennis, and Uncle Richard,
and Uncle Remus…
none of whom were alive, when Everest Pax was named,
by his mother, with no input from me, save
the covenant aspect in the who gives this wombed man…
common pagan ritual adapted to post-Jesus Christ-sanity.

X-mas, nada mas. Agree, and take the cookie,
or risk another death,
on the real wrong battlefield… Well, what the hell… hero
or legend in my mind, thinking, what would any who do?

Wishing washy whimsy,
Hoping dreams aren't flimsy.
In cloud moons so ditzy.
Magic and creative,
Scatterbrained and native,
Impulsive, evasive.
Chasing rainbows always
Airhead bubbles. You stray
Light and fickle to play.


©Jacqui Slade

stains on my heart
from profanity

blasphemy or
obscene language
or actions that took place
intangibly

actions that leave me
panicky
this insanity equals
pure calamity

but isn't that
formally called
bedlamity?

i have reheated my tea 20 times today
I have misplaced my pencil 58 times
I've written approximately 8,000 words
In the past 3 hours
I've bitten the nails on 4 fingers and
It's currently 11:35
I will probably get 1 hour of sleep
Before the alarm screams at 7:00

Full-time job
As a part-time lover
A fool fueled
By the feuds
That burns like the passion
Of a manic mad man
That manages to unmask
Conspiracies
Of secrecy
All the while
Spiraling
In delusion
Self-persecution
Trading sanity
For a truth
With no proof
Spewing his views
Over youtube
While you tune in
To a frequency
That frequently
Misses the point

The bigger picture
Is hard to see
When nit-pickers
Like I
Scrutinize the details
Then tell whats missing
With the audacity
Of a man with the capacity
To think critically
I mimic cynic critics
Then complain
When my views
Are challenged
Im challenged
Mentally
My retardation
Will eventually
Get the best of me
Hopefully
Before the worst of me
Becomes
The norm

This poem
Seems scatterbrained
Because my metaphors
Rarely connect
In the way
The reader
Is supposed to incept
I'd accept my defeat
In my attempt
TO prove my point
Except
I hate showing
What you'd expect

So as our     dwindles
To the sound
Of my favorite instrumental
As I write about
Myself
Hopefully
You'll see the bigger picture
Unlike me

... I just realized
I forgot to put love
Before the word dwindle
In the last stanza
And ****** up this constantly
Rhyming poem
To point out
The small details

And as a final
Desperate attempt
To redeem myself
I'll selfishly
Forget you again
And end
On a note
As a notice
That reconnects my first thought
Of how
Unbalanced my time is devoted

He wrote in the most perfect handwriting
Compared to my scatterbrained black scribbling

His name sounded like
the gold-tipped wings
of angels.
While mine sat on the
brown earth,
dreaming to the skies.

There was always something idiotic
the way his teeth stuck out like a bunny's
He reminded me of Ishaan from Taare Zameen Par
A dyslexic student, great artist, had a smile so sunny.

So many stars tonight,
No moon though.
What profound silence fills the December air.
I love it out here.
Just me and my thoughts.
With only the wind bearing judgment on my scatterbrained ideas.
Here I can run until my chest heaves with agony,
Here I can scream to the heavens with joy,
Here I can sing at the top of my lungs and wildly off tune,
Here I can cry on an old oak tree and ask God why.
This place is my everything.
My childhood, my memories, my comfort, my whole life.
This is the ground I run on barefoot all year,
The frozen rivers I learned to swim in,
The berries I pick every season,
The stars that made me wonder who I am.
Stars that will take me on adventures far from home,
Yet lead me back to those whom I love and to the place I call home,
The Adirondacks.

the way her eyes hypnotize and magnetize me, pulling me into otherworldly realms every time they meet mine and how intrigued I am to untwist the knots in her mind because no one ever bothered to listen to her beauty unwind or the story behind her necklace shaped like a tree or her affinity for abandoned houses and the treasures in the rubble she'd find

the way she looks at me and smirks and utters something sweet and then realizes she's a flirt so she looks at the road and tries to hide her cheeks blushing like roses and the sentimental sunset spots we found and the hours we spend staring at the stars and wandering around

the way he dreams of pink seashells in grayscale underwater libraries and how he inhales and leans his head back on the seat with his eyes closed as he takes in the indian summer and how he always wears autumn wear and rolls up his sleeves and how it makes me think just how ******* handsome a man can be

the way she comforts me with her optimism and laughs every time like its the last time she may ever get a chance to, how she lives life like she's never gonna dance to another persons beat and she sweeps her own self off her feet and carries me simultaneously

the way her hair flows in the wind out of the passenger side window like flames flicking, like fire burning, like youth glowing, like not knowing anything yet somehow knowing all the right things to say

the way he gets passionate about music and the shriek he does when he gets excited about something FOR ONCE IN HIS LIFE and his charm and wit that could persuade any girl to drop to her knees and feel weak and the way he goes weeks without washing his hair and wears the same hat every single time we meet

the way he giggles at every word one and thing and how his eyes squint shut when he smiles and how he dances with me to Led Zeppelin in Waffle House at 3 am and how he carries his backpack everywhere he goes and how easy it is to carry on a conversation and how his vibes just flow into mine and how he justifies his disobedience with the excuse that he is always down for an adventure and how happy he always seems to be in my passenger seat

THE WAY HE ASKS FOR THE LAST HAIR TIE ON MY WRIST TO TIE HIS HAIR INTO A BUN AND THE FRECKLES ON HIS CHEEKS AND THE WAY HIS HAZEL EYES BURN INTO MINE BENEATH WEIGHTED LIDS AND THE WAY HE SPEAKS WITH HEAVY HANDS IN MORE WAYS THAN IMAGINABLE AND THE WAY HE HUGS ME TIGHT AND EVEN THOUGH HE'S GROWN TALLER SINCE I FIRST WRAPPED MY ARMS AROUND HIS TORSO MY HEAD STILL FITS PERFECTLY ON HIS CHEST AND THE WAY HE GENTLY SLIDES HIS FINGERS ACROSS MY SKIN WHEN I'M TUCKED INTO HIS SHEETS AND THE WORDS HE WRITES AND THE WAY HE READS AND HOW HE REMEMBERS TO CHECK ON THE PIZZA ROLLS IN THE OVEN AND HOW HE SLIPS INTO THIS FUNNY UNKNOWN ACCENT AND HE TAPS ON MY FOREHEAD AND I KNOW IT'S A SIGN OF AFFECTION AND HOW HE CAN'T FOCUS ON ONE SUBJECT WHEN HE TAKES LSD OR ECSTASY AND HIS FIXATION WITH WORLD WAR II AND HOW HE SOMEHOW BREAKS HIS PHONE MORE THAN I DO AND HOW YOUR KEYBOARD SEEMS TO BE STUCK IN CAPS LOCK AND HOW YOU PUT YOUR ARM AROUND MY WAIST WHILE YOU TEACH ME HOW TO PLAY YOUR FAVORITE VIDEO GAMES AND HOW YOU MAKE ME FEEL WANTED WHEN YOU CAN'T KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME AND HOW YOU ALWAYS COMMENT ON YOUR BREATH AFTER YOU SMOKE LIKE I'VE NEVER KISSED KUSH BEFORE AND HOW MUCH YOU LOVE THE BEACH AND THE CLOUDS AND THE WAY YOU TALK ABOUT PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPERIMENTS AND MONKEYS BEING DRENCHED WITH WATER AND HOW YOU'RE ALWAYS "BOUT WHATEVER" AND HOW YOU GET JEALOUS WHEN I SPEND TIME WITH OTHERS AND HOW SCATTERBRAINED YOU ARE AND HOW YOU'RE ALWAYS IN YOUR HEAD AND HOW TERRIBLE YOU ARE AT COMMUNICATION BUT YOU MANAGE TO PUT IT ALL ON PAPER AND TO BE HONEST I'D TAKE YOUR SILENCE OVER ANOTHER'S DULL MINDED NOISE ANY DAY

AND GOD I LOVE THE LITTLE THINGS ABOUT SO MANY PEOPLE
BUT I LOVE EVERY ******* THING ABOUT YOU AND NO ONE COULD EVER MAKE ME LOVE THE WAY MY HEART ACHES THE WAY IT DOES FOR YOU

i did a funny thing today:
i went right up to my shower
head, you know, one of those
reflective kinds where you can
see your face warping into the
funniest shapes (i didn't laugh),
i went right up to it and watched
as my mouth filled up with warm
water over and over again; and
spilled out over and over again too,
like pools and waterfalls or blood
and drowning (morbidity isn't
really my style, but i went with it),
for an hour, at least.
afterwards, i brushed my teeth
and noticed the hoodlum shadows
underneath my bright blues that
used to be so beloved by my
scatterbrained spanish teacher
and the sweet lady who helped
to surgically extract four pieces
of usurping bone from the corners
of my mouth.

i think one existential crisis is quite
enough for one day, thank you.

******* i forgot to shave.

I stay up late to think
and when I think, I feel sad
so I stay up late to feel sad.
I feel colder than the rain that enters through the holes in my shoes.
Tape won't even hold us.
Nightmares are more vivid the closer I am to leaving.
My dreams are ending
or will they begin again.
It's too late to be indecisive
and I am more scatterbrained than ever.
These are not real problems
and I'm sorry for complaining.

WANTED:
one poet!
garret trained,
impractical in many ways,
scatterbrained, dark, mysterious.
and lovelorn.
must be at the very least lovesick.
not adverse to occasional starving and bouts of woe.
even able to adapt to living
in a continual cycle of manic depressive flux.
able to overcome writer's block...
and worse!....word drought
able to converse in both, straight and rhymed verse.
desirable; an understanding of
freeflow and rap
must have ability to write,
day as night and night as
day
must work for minimal pay,
read: mostly zero $$.
just occasional compliments.
should be able to empathise.
and in a position to consider (as a carreer pathway)
attempted suicide.
applications by way of
verse
can be sent to the reader
via the internet eather
and will be read of course
but be warned the reader
is fickle and may not deign
to reply...

hallmark cardwriters need not
apply

If I'm itching inside my own skin,
If there's a bit of wild carrying on in,
around,
or perhaps behind
perhaps over, around, somewhere besides my eyes,
If I seem unseemingly unladylike today,
I'm sorry.
Scatterbrained? Surely, certainly, you've noticed.
If you know me, you know this.
I carry on, convincingly
all the while my mind careens away.
Dangerously, it careens away.
Away, attacking the menacingly mundane,
away to a place much more pleasant.
Plesently, myriad of melodrama unfold.
I tell myself stories untold.
I'm so sorry I'm scatterbrained, darling.
I do know.

I stood slumped into the corner
of two converging granite counter tops,
struggling to focus on what
he's remembering next—some bland anecdote
or an irrelevant detail: Larson,
I think, he says finally.

Between pauses—with small, contemplating eyes
set deep, split by his dark, Italian nose—
and dragged uhhh's and hmmm's,
a sowed adoration splits and grows,
a seed (a supernova now).
A man—half my connection
to this world, to existence,
to a trickling, patient bloodline.

He, I; a rambling, scatterbrained mess
of neurons and hard-wiring, sparks and electrical fires.
My father: plagued by anger and impatience,
a sitcom of clumsiness and a tied-tongue,
blessed by conviction, faith and reason.

I don't say any of this. He'll die first,
never knowing how easily I'm reminded
of what I am to become, 32 years from now,
unless he finds me drunk, perhaps after reciting vows,
now vulnerable to cheapening emotion into language.

You know I’ve been
far too scatterbrained
to write anything
reasonably coherent.
But frankly,
the word “coherence”
has no place
if I were to truthfully describe
anything that’s happened
between you and I.

I could sit here
and type fruitlessly
until I conceived
the perfect
soul-wrenching metaphor
to illustrate every
painful nuance
of our struggle.
But, unfortunately
there is nothing
terribly poetic
about absolute
*******.

I suppose
I could say that
we were “the dream
that eventually got
its rude awakening” but
that’s stupidly cliché,
and all I want to do
is fall back asleep.

Scatterbrained I stare outside my window pane.
Once clear with a yard fresh the falling rain.
The flowers bloomed as meadow gained.
Now the yard is due for fall leaf change,
As cold will come and snow will show.
The earth renewal in humane plow.
Once the budded seed's
Now dead as the ground.
Venturing into a new phase,
Embarking into another, where sister's and brother's meet on the holiday's. A gravy bowl on Christmas day, thanksgiving for the giving again and again. Grandchildren to dress up as Indian's and pilgrim's, tradition mixed with fiction. Wife in the kitchen. While at that time nothing could be sweeter then my family in my eyes.

I want to write, but can't think of something
I want to speak but the words don't come out right.
it ***** to live with my mind sometimes
my brain feels like static when something goes wrong.
I'm scatterbrained and can't think a lot
when I can think, I'm usually drowning in my thoughts.
I don't really like my brain most of the time
it tells me to do awful things and sometimes I listen.
I do horrible things to myself occasionally
I don't like to hurt myself but it feels good in a twisted way.
it ***** to live with my mind all the time
I'm just a puppet, and my brain, the puppeteer, is hellbent on my destruction.