Not_Trapped
11-17-2005, 09:26 PM
This is what it is. If you like that, then cool...if not, then, I'm sorry.
The sun, cut by a broken wall of Autumn-infested tree branches,
falls onto the naked skin on the unclothed parts of my body.
Compartmentalized portions of life and death - the unpainted picket fence.
Simultaneously, my body, in on inch slivers, feels optimistic and pessimistic.
The flow, and lack, of blood, much like the slats of the bench
on which I sit, is magnified by the warmth of this solar eye.
These are staggered day and night just as they come in reality.
Or, maybe, day to day, like the pulse of the cyclothymic mind.
One up and one down and we haven't yet went under the clothes.
Today, it's a black Ramones' presidential seal shirt with faded,
tight, holes in the knees jeans...to let it breathe - to get it out.
I am neither the meditating Lakota Sioux nor the Zen hopeful, with
downcast eyes, pondering the absence of clarity - static strewn.
Now, the cluttered noise of preoccupation overtakes the moment.
The sun has fallen long ago but I was in it - I was lost.
It's a peck on the shoulder and a jerk around to a cup
rattling with change and a place for, "Help me, just this once, please?"
Somehow, in the face of reality, the lattus-work life and death
seems quite miniscule. I dig in my pocket and drop
in what I have as I walk away - still alive another day.
The sun, cut by a broken wall of Autumn-infested tree branches,
falls onto the naked skin on the unclothed parts of my body.
Compartmentalized portions of life and death - the unpainted picket fence.
Simultaneously, my body, in on inch slivers, feels optimistic and pessimistic.
The flow, and lack, of blood, much like the slats of the bench
on which I sit, is magnified by the warmth of this solar eye.
These are staggered day and night just as they come in reality.
Or, maybe, day to day, like the pulse of the cyclothymic mind.
One up and one down and we haven't yet went under the clothes.
Today, it's a black Ramones' presidential seal shirt with faded,
tight, holes in the knees jeans...to let it breathe - to get it out.
I am neither the meditating Lakota Sioux nor the Zen hopeful, with
downcast eyes, pondering the absence of clarity - static strewn.
Now, the cluttered noise of preoccupation overtakes the moment.
The sun has fallen long ago but I was in it - I was lost.
It's a peck on the shoulder and a jerk around to a cup
rattling with change and a place for, "Help me, just this once, please?"
Somehow, in the face of reality, the lattus-work life and death
seems quite miniscule. I dig in my pocket and drop
in what I have as I walk away - still alive another day.