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Fragments April 2, 2016

Posted by The Typist in poem, Poetry, The Narrative, The Spectrum, The Typist, Toulouse Street.

It is the fragment of a song
the  symptomatic single verse
which best represents
mania stuck in its groove,
free from the ADD-inspired
pinball wizardry
of random light & bells
the silver balls of thought
ricocheting from bumper
to target & I bet you thought
it was all about needing
a chess timer for conversation.

in such a quiet moment,
alone with the tumbling
[what-the-fuck?] tumbleweed
one might enumerate
the reasons for staying,
not unplugging the machine
run amok:
                      first the children
(who frankly could use
the insurance for school)
and your lover, who says
she lives through
her fibromyalgia pain
only for you; & then
you are left wondering
if counting up why not
constitutes suicidal ideation?

This latter is the part
Jimi Hendrix’s mad guitar
doesn’t slow down to capture
in “Manic Depression,”
although “1983
(A merman I should turn to be)”
gets the morbid rumination part
rather nicely and the sea,
the sea is straight ahead, straight up ahead

the beautiful moonlight highway
into the motherly shushing of the waves
but remember the children and &tc.,
so many bright, shining worries
left to worry as the manic burning sun
breaks the spell in a palette of beauty
& leaves you with a moment
of poetic clarity & a pencil
and the suddenly welcome
frenzy of energy &
the day begins again,
just you, your thoughts
& the tumbling tumbleweed.


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