Muscle Poems

RECOVERY OF MANIA—STAGE ONE

 

I.

Let the feeling of dread and blockade pass through me. It is better to feel the stinging heat of confrontation than to hold in the cold what I need to say.

 

II.

Look at the progress, the small steps of smartness and sharpness, your clarity lit up, the energy of your mouth and eyes infused with joy and tiny epiphany, in small leaps. In tiny accomplishment, please relish your polish and splendor, innate as it showed then, now shining through the emergence from shy debilitation. If you cannot yet revel, know the knight of faith that accompanies you is charging ahead of you to make new room.

 

III.

What is seeking authorship anything but externally releasing ownership of the senses, of what is in the mind and what effort the eyes and fingers took?

 

IV.

A schedule of recovery that is like window dressing. A well oiled apparatus guiding a juggling act. Balancing on a pin cushion with tiny holes and their subtle exhale, with expert feet and taught supple muscles all through my trunk. Thoughts rolodexing elegant defenses, thoughts honed into mysterious acuity, independence stealthily reemerging by my newly discovered tactics, freedom now needing to be earned, yet its true nature never having been destroyed, just ignored.

 

V.

The electric impulse, important like a plan. Inundated with society, and in demand. Implications stand for justice, and we are happy.! Invisibles, less than beings, sway with the chainsaws of a peace from beating. Insulated huts house a distant insensitivity, instinct like a hamster wheel, still repeating.

 

 

 

VI.

Electric impulse not completed. Society is untamed! The harbingers who head it do not change, most not understanding the root of their own pain. Yet their pain is mine, and I sleep to convict, so, children that I love, I will commit.

 

VII.

The romantic we need, how to receive the forearms and hands of God—yes, by all means permissible, surely needed, hiding inside our regal rare hearts. He only warns of time’s passing. He will start a fire, over and over, before you decide when you die. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A Sarcastic has only a Disappointed Heart”

Quivering hearts that beat to the beat of jealousy lose sweet blood. Blue veins do nothing but pump themselves ragged. A sarcastic venom insidiously flows, awash in the steam of plasmic pollution.

Love, however, is a study, you are that doctor’s patient and the child of chance, again.

 

 

Tremble and spill at me, heartbreaker. Leave a furtive glance printed on my memory’s fated reel. Fear me and run away.

 

 

 

 

Stop. Stop the killing of my nerve as you walk toward me, not allowing me to sidestep and look down . Stop. I am afraid to lose control of the comfy burden of responsibility. To the wild abandon I instead replace with word play. The nervous laughter, the fists balled in front of my chest, your warm intentional gait and frame doing what is right.

 

 

The drive by kisses, the tussled hair, the spaced out look. Yes, the unexpected defeat by a drive by kiss.

 

 

 

Stop the shakes, the suspecting rudeness, the excuses, the rage for the phony. the first company only is on my way home, I take privileges, to say anything I want because I’m loved and supported. I’m sorry still half the time. I have to stop thinking of that too.

 

 

 

When an adult is seen playing, there is always someone telling them to stop.

 

 

 

—–Miss, how have you never been famous?

——-I was like this as a teacher.

 

 

 

I express how deeply sorry I am for what you, my loved one, has been through.

 

You don’t know me either. I change everyday. You missed it while I showed you.

 

 When we are sitting across from each other, one is always writing in her journal about the other. It has to be, since we are sitting on an elephant and we are love. We are not alone in the silent distance, this gulf that waits for the future, for death, but for now, in every moment, the elephant in the room, sitting larger on the other’s lap of course, is welcomed, for the blessed bypassing of guilt and the overgrown conscience that stifles the voice.

 

Sometimes people say things that don’t reflect who they really are. That’s the only thing that’s a little off key.

 

The music is even more meaningful than the words. Evoking moods, corralling the distant subconscious, citing empathy in a wordless pitch and tone, starting, swelling in the tempo of your life, then dying as all things eventually do.

 

I’ve gotten pretty religious from the dawning of new love’s approach. Even if stubbornly I do not retain or listen to the promise of the day that will come, I can pray with the tiny seed I have for my faith, because I have seen before in my own life, that all prayers are answered. Time, “delays,” time does not exist, and yet it means everything to us.

 

The glass ceiling:

Of porous protection.

The plugs in the plumbing,

The days spent at home in the hallways

Dusty mirrors of inaccuracies

The preservation of a limited existence,

Its missed opportunities, that fly past

From slow hesitance.

The blocking blackout after desperation.

The black crows on the roof,

Waiting for the decay of entropy.

The dark night devouring the light,

Past the glass of the shut-in windows

The locked doors,

The glass shattered by stones,

By my true heroes.

 

 

 

 

Yes! Lifting the austerity in my thinking. Happiness for no reason. No adamant defense in naming my identity. No identity in my thinking. Myself. Some say God is what is happening inside us. I rather believe that I am only a limited being who cannot accept that God is too.

 

Be in the present moment. That’s what they tell girls to do.

 

You don’t know me either. I change everyday. You missed it while I showed you.

 

 

 

Your heart’s desire is guaranteed, even if in someone else’s country there is a shortage of milk and honey.

 

The question of suffering hangs in the back room of our minds, where the children’s bedroom is.

 

 

Unrequited Love

 

I am not using the law of attraction. I am praying to God.

 

The promise of happiness with a person who is easy, easy to love, is mine.

I told the other one he was easy to love just by the plain fact that I had loved him, but maybe no one else felt the same way. While loving you, it turned out that my  self-conscious pain body winced liquid electric shocks and made me hot and unworthy, feeling underneath with the conviction of my sabotaging mind what you would say or think about everything,

              And worse, keep to yourself.

 

This is how shame comes upon you. I loved the wrong person. In our hearts, or our brains, people fade but first cascade their shiny pleasures in the imagination. I did not realize how damaging a lack of communication is, how a cat and mouse game ends up defeated on both ends, how full transparency devastates then liberates.

 

If you marry the right person, no matter how you look to yourself, you will look good on each other’s arms.

 

 

 

 

The following stuff is supposed to be funny.

 

 

I look like a cat that got in a fight last night and had to sleep outside.

 

I’m so heavily drugged and in love, sounds are milky and drowned out. I rather hear a guffaw than something silky and drawn out.

 

There is no drama in this writing, in what I as a writer might look like writing, but it must be done!

 

 

The Mother Wound, our unrequited loves. They’re taking up space that nobody wants.

 

The Averys. I see why blame comes to us so easily. My grandmother, to me, held the only answer.

 

Why don’t you have more murderous rage? I’m made more mature from abuses. Think of this.  How many times does a slave get whipped before he gets smart?

Why don’t you have a husband yet? Because from all that whippin’ I’m not fixed up yet.

My children? My siblings. My parents.