waking up

I’m not doing great, but I’ll be okay. I felt like I should post something, but my heart’s not in it. I could post a poem instead, but I couldn’t decide whether it should be dark and dreary, or something more light-hearted. Lucky you, I chose an odd little thing about the moment after you wake up.

—–

alarm clock, 6:01

a dream had just begun
odds of waking 10 to 1
sandman chased by the sun
no time for sexy fun
I’ll shower when you’re done
the lights are set for ‘stun’
warm water starts to run
garbage truck wheels spun
eyelids weigh a ton
interest in today is none.
I’ll bet Atilla the Hun
was never woke by anyone

alarm clock, 6:02

(2007)

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pants on fire

I lie to my family, I lie to my friends
I lie to my co-workers, I lie without end

I lie to my doctor, and say I’ve been good
I tell him I exercise and eat better food

I lie to my wife if I say where I’ve been
she doesn’t need to know who, where, or when

I lie to my mom when I tell her I’ll call
sometime soon, maybe next fall

I lied to the bank; the check’s not in the mail
I lied to my shrink; another tall tale.
I lied to the waitress; my food wasn’t good
I lied to my boss; I’d punch him if I could

so many stories, so many lies
they’ll follow me ‘til I’m dead
eventually those lies will catch up to me
like ol’ Fat Albert said

I lie, I fib, I equivocate the same
I prevaricate, I misrepresent
with no sense of impunity or shame
maybe I could be the president

[I wrote this in about an hour, but then again, maybe I’m lying. 2019.]

stained

another rainy day in the city
cascading down walls and window panes
no need to wash the walk today
as feelings trickle down the drain

well-heeled patrons crowd the cafes and delis
it’s much too wet to sit outside except a man in a slicker,
soaking, smoking, reading the Times as he sips his tea
to which he’s added a touch of liquor

his cigarette crumbles, the ember extinguished
the paper disintegrates as he reads,
unaware of the ink staining his hands
like in some film noir when a lover bleeds

standing in a window on the seventh floor,
watching your taxi silently motor through the rain
the last of your things packed away,
regrets and harsh words flowing to the drain

my hands are stained as well

(2010)

deleted [TW]

[This poem was written in the middle of the night when things were pretty dark and I was very unstable in February this year. I don’t feel the same way now, at least not in the stark and unflinching way as when I wrote this. I always think about death, no matter how light my mood is, but I rarely have concrete plans.]

If you are feeling hopeless and suicidal, please reach out to people or to a hotline. Depression lies to you. You are worth something to someone, and you will be missed forever.

TRIGGER WARNING – suicidal thoughts, death, hopelessness

 

 

 

 

memories I’ve deleted
wisps of smoke in the wind
disappearing vapor trails
something that was but is no more

people I’ve discarded
empty shells of flesh
devoid of substance and spirit
their essence is gone

places I’ve deserted
vistas left unseen
towns without a name
the spaces left behind

delusions I’ve denied
blind faith in gods
belief in myself
things that no longer matter

deleted
discarded
deserted
deluded

nothing to forget
no one to care for
nowhere to call home
nothing to believe in

maybe someday
I’ll delete myself