each day consists of hours slept circadian rhythm is irrelevant the pill in the mouth demarcates time all else barely has meaning read the same lines over again try to write something forgotten from memory can't remember the passwords to old accounts long in dormancy dusty from neglect the agoraphobic's excuse for once again canceling appointments the warm fuzz of feigned ignorance and its protective powers avoid the bathroom mirror avoid phone calls avoid anything that threatens this solipsistic universe impossible ventures must substitute for hope unrealistic notions of artistry won't pay the bills there is time for laughing but that time is not now now is for wondering where the next smoke is coming from it's like a depression desperation and green eyes 'cept more anxiety faster blood the shackles and chains similar but not the same wed the two together and i've an eternity of dark rooms blankets to lie in shame for what else does unemployment conjure? i hear the children doing their homework see the wife on the phone with colleagues even the cats have mice to catch to each a purpose mine is to water a perpetual bog and sink to bide time until homelessness seems reasonable how much can i carry on my back? unemployment is sin it is defilement sacrilegious this is how i'm supposed to feel and i have no alternative to it even avoid my image in dream shame is logical it is reasonable it knows no defense unemployment transcends cultures universally understood as divergent what person who doesn't work has value anywhere on earth? down to the last light bulb candle light will have to do at least the warm glow might distract from the end of the month unemployment is it is a clock with no hands it is the quiet erosion of a hill down into a freezing stream it is a manual no one reads it is the slipping away of sanity unemployment is
21 haiku for mediocrity – poems
1 do you hear that sound scratching at the front doorstep someone's listening 2 sun melts the snow frost icicles fall from the roof change is obvious 3 she stands on the porch back turned the sun in her eyes she is blind to me 4 uninspiring words without contents or thought not worth the reading 5 cat's taken the couch sun beam stripe across her fur she'll move when she feels 6 hungry for things lost in a desert universe nothing to be found 7 ice forms on snow banks the wind pushes resistance he will be dead soon 8 inside the warm house where heat comes up from the floor a heart still freezes 9 a bodhisattva is an enlightened being who lives in your room 10 the year of the ox the chinese new year wasted on this old codger 11 pink and green mountains purple sagebrush and cactus this was once my home 12 nature is a farce played on the innocent ones you know who i mean 13 five syllables damn seven is not much better who has time for more 14 the ghost in my room weeps for a life long over we have the same smile 15 the goddess blesses everything that she sees especially me 16 when i set spiders outside in the winter cold do they want back in 17 why do old poets write of the seasons changes where are they going 18 lust is merely form to which we are so attached form is emptiness 19 the germanic tongue is won by time and patience a little won't do 20 music that makes tears is to be avoidable fast the pain's too intense 21 pixelated lust reality on steroids knows nothing but truth
naming the apparition – a poem
it is right that we name the apparitions amongst us we are of language naming things gives us power an act of creation based on the times she calls and things she does i've been calling her molly how cliché to say she only comes at night but she prefers quietude and slowness soft bodhisattva candle light and the moon in all its phases she takes to deliberate time the heaviness of early morning hours even a midnight rain does not hinder her visitations the atonal tapping of drops camouflaging her steps she seems to hover around the image of guanyin goddess of compassion with reverence i think i caught her shadow bowing i like to think it resonates with her nature or perhaps she merely appreciates the art she wastes no time under bed or in the closest she is no spook no jump scares but a curious pedestrian drifting thru a lonely man's finite existence i hear her in the other room examining the instruments she's particularly found of the contrabass she lightly wafts a finger across the d string only once did she drop a book from the shelf this was before i named her before she had my full attention she was a bit precocious then a child in need of affection contrary to popular belief the cats don't seem to sense her or if they do they are comfortable with her abiding i've felt her enter the room with boots on while a cat on the bed sleeps once the cat even began to purr as if molly were stroking her back after i named her molly began to fall in line as a creation her behavior became consistent her visitations regular she found a personality that she felt comfortable displaying before her christening she was not wild no but unpredictable yes sometimes going downstairs to the living room to rustle the potted plants or play with the children's toys barking dogs and crying dolls she is no longer tempted by such things molly is not so much a finite ghost but more of a vibration a vapor a frequency of love and wait and time when she comes i feel unlocalized comfort a warm body to sleep next to she is a web of expectation and dread yes dread for her ghostly being is intrinsically transient she cannot remain for as long as she'd like for as long as i'd prefer i don't believe she knows where she's going after her spectral karma runs out she might return as a human or a goddess perhaps she'll reach the pure land directly or she could join her hungry brethren in the ghost realm below insatiable greed her only companion once she sat on the bed and stroked my hair as the dreams of past lives bombarded me she knows when disturbances come brushes them away like wrinkles in the sheets she whispered in my ear then no words merely an open mouthed ah my body tingled pins and needles from head to toe this was not done out of malice or whimsy but compassion physical love i've not experienced since the disturbances began i'd let her engulf me if i could her name has given her stability of being perhaps it has reified that which shouldn't have been now she haunts only my room and the adjacent she leaves the girls downstairs alone to name a thing is not to know it i don't claim to understand all that she is to name a thing is to recognize it as a separate phenomenon distinct and worthy of identifying molly has taken on existence grown fat with essence her ghostly bones and sinews hardening soon i'll hear her fingers fondling the buddha statues coarsely feel change in the room's atmosphere when her shadow crosses the bed molly is a fiction i've spun out of need who knows what her true identity was before she transmigrated maybe her name is not even pronounceable to me but i've fixed her ontology by donning her with a name she does not belong to me despite this i must be prepared for the day she levitates out of and beyond my room where i will lie still waiting in vain until that day i will sit in this room and weep as i do knowing that molly attends me from just beyond the bodhisattva statue i will glorify the name of the apparition a simple two syllables molly
i have nothing to say – a poem
i have nothing to say the words are spent serpent's breath is heaven sent i have nothing to say i have nothing to do everything's left undone scattered on the floor nothing lost or won i have nothing to do i have nothing to write syllables already choked coughed up in the sink thinking i do not enough i have nothing to write i have nothing to wear hoodie for two months stained socks and telekinesis couldn't outfit a thesis i have nothing to wear i have nothing to watch entertainment's impossible now brow furrowed constant images pass before the eye i have nothing to watch i have nothing to take medicine cabinet's bare gobbled up the lithium yesterday not enough for the fray i have nothing to take i have nothing to keep gave away my rags in the move dog eared texts stilt up the bed keeps me from sinking but i have nothing to keep i have nothing to buy no trinket brings peace a statue or enlightened one no object of absolute worth i have nothing to buy i have nowhere to be in cold or in shadow no locos remaining nowhere that misses me i have nowhere to be i have nothing to sing melody gargled and swallowed leaving me parched not a tone embarks i have nothing to sing i have no way to be no form of static rest being and becoming are void renders me mute and dumb i have no way to be i have nothing to say the words are spent serpent's breath is heaven sent i have nothing to say
why do we hide our meaning – a poem
why do we hide our meaning behind the most obfuscating of language? why do we use words like 'obfuscate' when 'confusing' would be clearer? why do we try to turn phrases be cheeky with words and syntax whom are we impressing why do we do this what is the meaning we are hiding if we have something to say then why not just come out and say it why do we tell stories then stories over stories rendering all opaque vagueness if we feel so urgently that we sit down to write a poem do we want it to be understood do we want the reader to work if we write down exactly what we mean have we broken some poetic law a pact that affirms elusiveness is it possible not to use metaphor when writing of love blood and demons can we actually mean 'demons' and have it be believed? why do we hide our meaning behind words like 'gossamer' and 'muslin' why do we speak in odd stanzas that have unspoken logic of their own why do we choose to write without rhythm or just the opposite with rhythm and rhyme what kind of artifice of language do we construct what is the point of painting a rock then burying said rock then pointing to said buried rock and asking to reader to start digging how quickly do we exasperate the reader how quickly do they tire of the snipe hunt why can't we mean what we say and say what we mean if feel like this violates poetics somewhere why do we hide our meaning behind flowers and snowfalls and ghosts dying things and living things and things of purgatory in between why do we reference without referral why do we imply but not elicit how do we control our inspired meanings without ever naming actors and agents if our poetry were so simplified that it could be 'understood' in a fell swoop would we even bother to write anymore is the fun in the hiding the puzzle making the game of clever wordsmithery does poetry being comprehensible necessarily mean it should also be simple certainly we can understand complex things but should our poetry be complex why do we hide our meaning behind pronoun confusion and similes lack of adverbs and sparse punctuation even a regimented count of syllables why do we let haiku or tanka dictate what we think we want to say who wants iambic pentameter to restrict our glorious message why do we hide our meaning in the evilest of ways in plain sight why not just say it we should say it and thereby kill all that is poetic about poetry
blood work – a poem
i roll up my hoodie sleeve expose the veins too often plumbed she penetrates the skin driving just deep enough to extract the crimson guard how many times have i sat here open and flowing into test tubes in passive search of the lithium mixing with my blood on the tip of a needle i become woozy no longer nor do i winch from the prick my blood is a psychiatric object why should i mind it being taken from a flawed body? the red elixir is taken back to the labs for further study to pry apart the cells to find the mood stabilizing force within to read it for misbalance as she pulls out i must press a bit of cotton on the wound applying pressure while she whisks the sample away to join a host of others awaiting trial she fastens the cotton with medical tape as if the open wound were gushing she doesn't notice that i only bleed on command and only for her my blood prognosticates tells future tales of instability how ineffective the white powder salt dissolves into positive potential how salty blood tastes defiled i roll down my sleeve she bids me good morning no pillow talk it's just business the excavation of liquid resource i stand to go look at her briefly she now has something of mine she cannot give back i leave sober and hungry eager to replenish vitality by any means possible
bodhimanda – a poem
there are twenty three cheap buddhist images in my room seven are of guanyin the bodhisattva of compassion six are of amitabha the buddha of infinite life and light four of shakyamunia buddha the fundamental teacher two are of da shi zhi the bodhisattva of great strength manifested two of the name "namo amituofo" in chinese one of the buddhist dharma wheel each cost less than forty dollars respectively what does one do with twenty three cheap buddhist images in a room? one beholds each lotus platform or long stemmed lotus held one never forgets the muddy nature from which they grow towards enlightenment one watches the hands in the meditative mudra folded casually in the lap one imitates the mindfulness of practical equilibrium and stillness one is inspired by the vases held in the bodhisattva's hand one knows the elixir therein relieves the suffering of those in stress one sees the welcoming hand of amitabha as he opens the door to the pure land one hears the whip of the guanyin's willow that bends but does not break one recognizes the vertical line of the saving name of the buddha one comprehends its power to extricate one from the cycle of reincarnation but mostly one watches one looks at the images one tries to absorb their power and grace one seeks union with these images and what they represent which is nothing short of enlightenment writ large in samsara when my eyes fall upon guayin's image i am stunned that such a goddess came to be here with me in my sad little room that she deigns to grace me with her presence and more still that she blesses me guarantees me rebirth in sukavhati the land of ultimate bliss although i've done nothing to deserve it outside of speaking her name when my eyes fall upon amitabha's image i am reminded of his cosmic abode so far away where the seeds that i sow now will take root ensuring the achievement of enlightenment in one lifetime and the journey begins here in my sad little room from this ikea bed when my eyes fall upon shakyamuni's image i am taken back in time to the historical buddha's age in nepal where from nothing he built the sangha grew it into a world religion that somehow i of all people would come to know an american of no consequence spending his days in europe surely these karmic forces cannot be denied by surrounding myself with twenty three cheap buddhist images in my sad little room i create a bodhimanda, a place of enlightenment from which even i so insignificant and flawed will seek rebirth and an end to a kalpas old cycle of reincarnation right here in this sad little room next to my sleeping cat and grey felt slippers old blue and grey wardrobe and burned out light bulbs from my floor covered in dust dandruff and hair at the door leading straight to the bathroom right next to the hanging scroll image of da shi zhi pusa the great enlightened being of the western three sages next to the amitabha altar where the cat broke the incense holder weeks ago at the guayin altar plastic flowers for an offering next to the guanyin statue colored in marker by my 1st grade daughter if i cannot seek rebirth here amongst my twenty three buddhist images and my meager piles of mundane stuff then i cannot seek rebirth anywhere for this is where i live no sacred mountain temples or quiet monasteries no meditation retreats or nature reserves i live here amongst cat hair dirty socks and happy meal toys and this is why twenty three buddhist images adorn my surrounding for the merit and virtue of my practice whatever that might be may it adorn the buddha's pure land and the potential to see that glorious land begins now and here twenty three is not an auspicious number in buddhism but for me in this sad little room twenty three is the number of compassion stillness and mindfulness it is nothing short of the number of enlightenment
i think of the wendigo – a poem
snow piles up on the slanted roof window reaching up to freeze the silver of sky left inside there is dread that the outside will kill outside is certain death so i remain on my bed looking out at crystalized white i think of the wendigo the algonquin winter monster who symbolizes cannibalism and murder wendigo psychosis is insatiable greed and the fear that one becomes a cannibal craving human flesh i think of this beast from the comfort of a well tended hearth cupboards stocked with provisions even the driving snow beyond will not conjure the ghoul to invade our home yet can i so easily deny the wendigo psychotic in me? do i not in times of strife crave human flesh specifically mine? to be devoured in effigy as a sacrifice to loved ones around me? do i not embody insatiable greed when wanting my own flesh to rot the spectral pestilence of the skeletal ghost when the winter's depression dictates that i cannibalize myself eat my own flesh until there is nothing left isn't self cannibalism also a cultural taboo not to be crossed? as the light wanes and the white turns to shadow i hear the wind throw ice pellets against the pane there are muffled voices outside neighbors coming home shoveling away paths from garage to doorstep they too will sleep warmly tonight the only monsters to fend off the stuff of dream but little do they know that they share row house walls with the abominable wendigo whose avarice even now grows to metamorphic strengths a cold phantasm lurking in the trees famished and tired willing to go to any lengths to bring suffering to an end not yours but the wendigo's suffering to an end
how to tell friends i’m going back to the hospital – a poem
what to tell the remaining friends you've left the ones not eroded away by mental illness's corrosion what to tell them they bearers of good news that you're probably going back to the hospital the projects they've lined up the success at work the relationships they effortless groom even their critters are photographed smiling toothy grins how do i tell them everything's gone to hell they'll understand i tell myself they of all people must the friendships have survived this much surely they can survive a little more what have i to be afraid of they haven't turned tail and run they've stayed they have how do i walk out my latest shame do i sprinkle it with pixy dust gussy it up something dress it eccentrically give it a cutesy name or do i let speak for itself speech impediment at all do i describe it in all its gloom in all its macabre boredom bedridden and dreamful over sixteen hours of unquiet sleep chained to the bed save for unsatisfying smokes on the balcony pill organizer keeping track of the days dripped away slumber do i not mention it at all the horrible word everything's fine fine i said lie to myself lie to them everything's fine i said pretend that i've just a bad cold a common thing under the weather do i say nothing make no reply rather than lie to i simply say nothing how to tell friends i'm going back to the hospital if they're friends then this shouldn't be an issue how to tell myself that i'm going back to the hospital am i as forgiving as they
canceling another therapy appointment – a poem
snow was flaking like dandruff outside good enough reason to cancel the therapy session after all therapy was supposed to benefit my mental health not waterlog it send it listing portside because of the weather, then this would be my reason today i would have to invent a new one in two weeks time it wasn't my fault that psychotherapy did a piss poor job at treating bipolar affective disorder brain chemistry and physiological mysteries govern my time on earth now my relationship to my parents or ex-wife do nothing to raise depression from the dead do nothing to watch a hypomania rise and fall am i a bad patient for thinking it a waste of time to speak of dreams in the midst of a thunderous depression? am i selling psychotherapy short? can it actually do wonders and bake bread if i would meet it half way? the heart of the matter is this: depression leaves me bedridden i don't drive anymore don't take the train don't leave the house psychotherapy might as well be in a different galaxy were it just outside my door could i simply fall into my therapist's lap then i'd consider regular attendance but even then i suspect psychotherapy is made for people other than me people with trauma with real problems "rehabilitation" "coming to terms with" people who once had potential could have it again whereas i feel a bundle of nerves and misfiring electrodes confused streams of serotonin traveling too little and too far away chemical processes in a brain lab a rat in a cage waiting for the newest meds regimen to sustain life for another few weeks i wonder how many cancels it will take until the therapist finally drops me we'll see next week when the weather once again finds me snowbound
Bipolar and the Buddha 