Daily Archives: November 23, 2015

Phantom Limb

Standard

in bed, i was

sick
sick
sick
sick
helath
sick

I thought I was immersed in health-that’s wrong-i was immersed in

sick
sick
sick
sick
sick

and I CRIED OUT! I WAS IMMERSED IN

five different blankets of sick, each the different stages of
obsessive illness:
attention,
classification,
concentration,
delirium,
insanity.

“you know what?”i smile,
“it’s not so bad.”
im licking my lips
and i notice the obvious
pounding chest, a bit accelerating
that lasts for minutes and comes back several times for several hours
and i think about the way i always end up seeing the world
through your eyes,¬†pretending you’re observing me
like a comforting  spy.
and anyhow-
sick, getting better, it’s all the same
it’s vital and i need it.
it’s like a pulse:
it’s running high
they say
get her to a doctor they say
there is no doctor for this disease they say,
you go to psychiatrists for that.
no for that they go out into the world
and they see that no one is really like the
people they make up in their minds
and then they get sick again
trying to forget the fact.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

For A and B

Standard

then I stand behind it all
stepping from the ficus tree, I am clad in silver
midieval delicate

one of you help me down the tree
so friendly, big brotherly,
the both of you talk to me about life,
what it’s like being
just barely grown
and you caution me
not to fall,
as we conquor the tree limbs.

I like it
and wish i could encounter
people like them more often
sitting in trees.
I could center my life in a big tree.
there I could wait out my childhood
put off adulthood
and hibernate without remorse or chance
of either begining or ending.

I’d find company with
the theater company,
the singer and thespian guilds,
bright red and gold tapestry curtains
theaters carved out of
waxy resin oaks and
sequoias, creaking with age
and the footsteps from
decades of blocking
done by decades of feet.

retarded growth,
slothful patterns of sleep
and a good dose of the company love:
better than rye bread
I’d rather die that pass up being the lead.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry