Too tired to try again today
So many ideas
I’m just repeating myself
Nobody’s listening anyway
No matter what name I use
They find me out
Silly me
For thinking I can start over
When the only things new
Are pretend
And exist only in my head
If only I could be the one
People tune in to hear
Or look to for oddly compelling beauty
But I’ve been the back-up
The last hurrah
Coming through in a pinch
To everyone’s surprise
Because they hadn’t known
Or they had forgotten
The depths I generally visited
Were my comfort zone
And I could speak the language of anguish
So I shouldn’t be so shocked
And put down
When they don’t turn to me
For fun and games
Even though
I’ve always liked to play.
Queen of Spades
Hail, queen of the idiots!
I am to be revered for all my quirks and foibles.
You must feel like bowing in the face of such incompetence.
Or at least feel like running away.
No truer words need be said besides touting all the times I’ve tripped and erred.
I’m not sure I’d recognize the right path no matter how well trimmed and lit;
I much prefer making things hard on myself.
Life may be difficult, but I only wallow in comfort when I’m in extreme discomfort.
Have things ever gone smoothly?
Of course but the times were fleeting at best.
Do we rise to our stupidity? Sink to our depravity?
What makes us keep trying?
Do connections really count or is all the time we spend an excuse and distraction from the torment we hold at bay, the fate that we know lurks around the corner.
Hope abandoned long ago, my heart has atrophied.
The only fluttering I feel is the moths flying out of the closet.
Panic
No matter she sat in a room full of people; she was as always alone in her thoughts. Listening to speeches and the crowd murmurings, she began to feel the familiar panic welling within. The voices started sounding like a Greek chorus speaking Pig Latin. The air felt thinner as if she were climbing towards a summit. In the rare instances she was addressed, she could nod and offer appropriate platitudes. But the rest of her time was spent trying to breathe and smile.
She glanced at the teeming hordes in their finery and felt like a snail: all slippery and delicate on the inside but housed in a society-approved shell. How long was long enough at this event before she could go home and strip her defenses? She’d rather give up the expensive filet and fancy dress here and eat cookies naked at home.
Picturing the falling cookie crumbs brought her heart back to an acceptable rhythm. She imagined her favorite detective on tv, unravelling mysteries while crumbs fell between her breasts. Realizing a stuffed shirt was addressing her, she nodded and laughed at his silly joke with her mind on the cookies she had baked that morning. The chandeliers seemed to highlight the egos of the room and she wondered if she could find and solve any mysteries here. People and their frippery were certainly a puzzle to her.
Were people really concerned about the so called “winners” of recent reality shows? Were they so delusional they thought a politician’s speech would make any difference? Were they so sure of their status they quoted only recent best selling novels? Where were the artists, the thinkers, the inventors?
She felt bile rising up as she started to fall into a chasm. She was alone again in a large room full of people. No one there knew her or could tell she was in trouble. She could drown in a sea of societal mores.
Then with a start she had a thought: what if there were others here just like her? What if they were hiding their uniqueness under cloaks of respectability? What if others were suffering like she was at that moment, sipping their drug of choice to maintain an almost even keel? How would she ever know? There were no signals. No way of telling what lurked beneath the drones.
Steeling herself with an outward calm, she knew it was almost over. Just a few more handshakes, nods, and empty smiles and she was home free. She felt the confines of her dress’ seams and knew she’d be comfortable in her own skin again soon. With no one but herself to please, she just had to let the clock run out and get home.
Light in a Jar
I wished on a star but came up empty
But my jar was still full of light.
When I tried to chase the music I fell down the hill
And landed in a verdant green valley
That tried to lull me into peace
But I didn’t buy it
And used the stones to step across
To the charred remains
Of someone else’s dreams.
But I understood this shell
This empty wreckage
Because it’s what I carry every day
Sometimes hidden sometimes so painfully aware
To anyone who is sucker enough to ask how am I.
But until I can answer honestly
I will keep wishing on stars
And chasing the music
And fill up on words and images that make sense and don’t hurt.
Midway Through
Just a little longer, he thought. I can wait. I can sit on this bench and watch the people walk by. He sat just left of center, not inviting company. The people moving through the midway looked like they were being herded and led to slaughter. Very few smiled. Most didn’t look at anyone, just blankly stared ahead. Not one of the cattle noticed him on the bench. How could they not see?
He was slowly losing all sense of time and feeling in his extremities; soon he’d possibly melt right on the ground. Were there no warning signs or were people just showing selective sight?
In a few hours, it would be done. The freak show would pack up and move on. The herds of patrons would look for something else to whet appetites of destruction. He would not be on that bench. He was going to go out with a bang. A whirl. At least he’d make them pause in their tracks.
He got up and walked the midway. Carnies cajoling kids to throw darts and rings. Food vendors flipping treats to quick eaters. Loud music. Bright lights. Smell of grease, smoke, sugar, and leather as he neared the tent with belts and wallets. Purchasing a belt, he walked with purpose toward the Ferris wheel.
He stood and watched cycle after cycle until the sky was dusky enough, all the lights were on. This was it. The time for his glorious end. To tumble from the top of a lit Ferris Wheel was his ideal end. He went to the ticket booth, noticed they had raised their prices for the weekend. He pulled his remaining money from his pocket. Not enough. He had spent too much on what he thought was his last meal of pizza, taffy, and a root beer.
Almost numb but with some disbelief, he turned away and headed home.
The Word Rummager 