Saturday, February 21, 2015

A poem from the vault of despair

Reading some of my poetry from a decade ago, it's clear I wasn't very happy—except when I was writing poetry about how unhappy I was.

My life is different now. I don't feel stuck. I don't feel exploited. I don't feel like I'm treading water in the shark tank. Becoming a van dweller has been exactly the right thing for my mental health.

But here's a peek at my former self.

Perception

gliding along upside down
looking through rose colored goggles
into backward binoculars 
at a rear view funhouse mirror
in the dark 
with one eye closed

rabbit’s foot crucifix mutant clover
in my unhip pocket
knowing the juju will see me through
get me over the lumps and bumps
and sudden detours over the precipice

solidly grounded in erroneous assumptions
founded upon other erroneous assumptions
about things that never really happened
and never really could

I am certain
I am true
I am safely wrapped 
in fluffy layers of 
non-reflective self-deception
and a wrinkle resistant blend
of delusion and denial
all the while watching
for the deus ex machina
created ex nihilo
and ex post facto
to stretch forth its mighty hand
and save my bacon
making a happily ever after 
ending to end all endings

but in the end
there is no man 
with an inscrutable plan
behind the curtain
pushing buttons flipping levers 
pulling strings on my behalf

in the end 
the pretty myths that keep me afloat
bloat and 
drag and 
drown

6 comments:

  1. Reading this I imagine you might have been a pilot working for Eastern Airlines.

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  2. I have not found anything this depressing since the Amy Winehouse 2003 album Frank.

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    Replies
    1. "in the light of her subsequent career, Frank comes off as the first chapter in the Romantic myth of the poet who feels too deeply and ends up killing herself for her audience's entertainment"

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    2. So I might have another career, huh?

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    3. As I give it another look it could be considered in the style of American Prayer.

      http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/An_American_Prayer

      But Amy and Jim do have one thing in common is that they both drank themselves to death at age 27, which would not be possible in you case do to your advanced years.

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