Inanimate objects are not out to get me,
A corner, a cabinet, a clock.
They do not jump out and they do not play games,
But they certainly bug me a lot.
I have learned to stay silent and not to react,
I continue my chores as I ought.
Still, those quaint little pieces fake mischief,
And, “Damn you!” still flings from my thoughts.
Steaming, stinking, piles of crap
On my carpet and in the courtroom
My GOD how could this happen again?!
I desperately want to ignore them both
But find my attention drawn in their direction
While my stomach quietly lurches, wretches toward my throat
The longer they sit there, immovable
Their outer layer darkens and hardens
Bacteria seeping down and infecting once clean fibers
To spite myself and my well-trained demeanor
I want to run sobbing, screaming, willing to sell my soul to end it.
Instead I use my will, swallow my reaction, fall to my knees
Steadily go about cleaning the small reachable areas that lie directly in front of me…
One must have a mind of summer
To regard the haze and the rain showers
That cascade from the clouds with rumbling;
And have been hot a long time
To behold the flitting of insects on the job,
The tickling and matting of perspiration
From the mid-August sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sting of mosquitoes,
In the feel of your own breath lingering.
Which is the feeling of all breath
That lingers during all seasons
Arising from the same living place
For the observer, who observes in the heat
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and nothing that is.
— April Resnick
(In the style of Wallace Stevens)
(For Alan and my Grandfather)
Overreacting and heavy metal
Deeply rooted parts of my personality
That meditation may never solve
A deep drumbeat rising to a scream
Shaking specks of stagnation from my soul
Leaving me lighter, liberated, and alive
I like it, and that is that…and yet still I sit.
My daughter seems to find the ways,
To set my meditative fruits ablaze.
Out the window leaps my dignity,
Taking with it equanimity.
It takes just one more “mommy please,”
To bring this non-self to her knees.
I have no peace or patience left,
Oh shit! I could just take a breath.
Running around in circles
A tall thin chaotic woman
Underground at Penn Station
Her body leaning forward
Arms and legs flailing to catch up
Slightly like a toddler
While we wait drink chat listen watch
A dark navy gingham blouse
Probably purchased with care
Spots of sweat expanding to pools
With each roundabout
She continues ignored by vendors
A phrase loud and incomprehensible
Except for “fuck” and “her” and “bitch”
I find myself equally curious, scared, and envious of her madness, bravery, and stamina.
I am Jaded! What are you?
Are you—jaded, judgmental—too?
Then there are more of us!
Don’t tell! They’d never sit– you know!
How boring—to be—equanimity!
How tedious—like a Slog—
To trudge all through—the slop of shit—
Like to the kill—a hog!
(In the style of Emily Dickinson)
Every time I find myself at your threshold
An image from a movie climbs out of a neuronal connection made 30 years ago
Your smooth white walls seem to supernaturally stretch out before me
The door at the end of you, with light haloed behind it
Bends and breathes with illusory incentive
Beckoning me to walk, then jog, then run
Through you, down, down, down the middle of you
Reaching out to grab, wrap my sweaty spindled fingers
Around the cool, smooth, metallic, magnetic doorknob
I am convinced that there is really something worth saving at the end of you
That I am the only one capable of doing it
Maternal, Mammalian, Make-Believe movie magic
I stand in the doorway willing to push myself
Through a jellied membrane
Into the unknown
Has set me grudgingly grinding through my morning.
Grinding coffee,
Grinding bodily gears,
Grinding shards of psyche.
Earthy elixir bubbles and steams but provides little hope. I wish the steam was some final poof of a magic trick, which might set me upright and smiling outside of this tired box.
Instead my body is weighed down by leaded eyelids, shrugged shoulders, and a malfunctioning self propulsion mechanism, a melted circuitry that I have no energy to attempt to repair.
Dogma has shattered my psyche and set this entire day into (non)motion. See-through systems in which I tried to exist yesterday, lay in pointy pieces around me. I cannot move without certain slicing.
So I will
Sip,
Stop,
Sit.
There is no other role I can play today.
Too close to home to deploy my umbrella
Too far from the door to avoid getting wet
The timing’s not right so I find myself pelted
By droplets of things that I haven’t done yet…
sometimesihatemycat 