it takes time to understand

It takes time to understand
That I cannot be like a man.
That most of my excursions
Include rude explosions
Erupting from the other cells
In the atmosphere.
I stare into space
Pretending to be another face.
Though I am still internally
Violated
Against
My
Will.
My neurons shall never be the same.
Never shall my anxiety be tame.
My wall-like face shall exude
“well-trained.”
Passivity
Symbolizes productivity?
Don’t you hate my up-speak?

I couldn't remember where my hand was

I couldn’t remember where my hand was
While I immersed myself into the words
The honest
And beautiful woman said.
Though most of it sounded like a shriek to my ears.
Recovering old fears.


Interruption:
“What are you talking about!’
Read the back,
You silly man.”

uh huh,
silly man
indeed.

my eyes will not make it alone

I like sleeping in my bed alone,
I stretch my body
make two new angles
warm
and cold at the same time

I flicker as I switch the bright
light bulb, brightening bed
and eyes.

I am so ready
to write
and yet I am so alone
supposedly trying to write a poem.
It is cold,
and bright
and my eyes will not make it alone.

I drift to different lands
I cringe at separate hands
and yet I am still perceived to be here

Am I really?
Am I really?

Who knows.

the orwellian man

The Orwellian man hooked his arm, and forced his face into
A serious box.
He sought out a pencil with his long dainty fingers
But felt none.
He couldn’t see,
For he was not wearing his thick spectacles.
“standard”
“manage”
“product”
He thought.
He clenched his teeth as he continued to search
For a pencil.
Still in the dark.
Still without his spectacles.
He thought,
“standard,”
“manage,”
“product.”
He whispered
And contorted his mouth into
The words
“manage”
“standard”
“product.”
Still in the dark.
Still without his spectacles.
Still without a pencil.
He clenched his teeth
And cursed pencils everywhere.
He found a pen
instead.

rubber gloves?

My body is a pretzel
because my mind is a stew.
I try to be careful
so I don't become a fool.

I suppose this could be stressful.
I suppose I could drool.
But I am only fearful
of those that are cruel.

The Fear

The Fear-
A poem

I am eating peanut-butter from the jar
and I don’t like it.
Actually,
I sort-of hate it.
Peanut-butter makes me want to gag,
especially in spoonfuls.
I feel the same way about bureaucracy.
The way our system has been unconsciously sculpted
innately self-destructs.
But who wants to pay attention?
Here we are, “A human alarm system” and many of the T.V. People in our world
Still
tap
snooze.
They sometimes awake groggily,
Wide-eyed
And whisper: “oh, shut-up!”
And return to their favorite program.
.
We stand
with our signs, silently crying,
sometimes
even chanting intentionally, potentially
inspiring mantras
and not denying.
The curtains close.
The handkerchiefs are passed around.
We don’t make a sound.
We whisper
frustrated,
yet compassionate and
empathetic secrets.
Passing them, (our thoughts and feelings)
from ear to ear.
And suddenly!
Roaring again!
In our “idealistic” (somewhat realistic) cheer!
Attempting to awaken all from
The Fear.
Roaring:
We are here!
We are here!
We are here!
For you
And me
And we.
See?

There was once a man who was made for the moon

There was once a man who was made for the moon,
who walked simply to a beat that was in itself his own "tune."
He had character,
he knew of despair,
he knew of everything
except the process of his own hair.

There was once a man who was made for the world,
who had the aura of travel in his mold.
He had freedom,
he knew of charm,
he knew of everything
except of people who choose to live on farms.

There was once a man who was made for the sun,
who experienced intense heat when he knew he was done.
He had passion,
he knew of hesitation,
he knew of everything
except the animation of his own great creation.

There was once a man who was made for himself,
who created everything and never asked for help.
He had knowledge,
he even had fact,
he knew of everything
except that it was all an act.