I.
Life in light beams projected
on blank boards and empty screens.
Instant replays of disappointments,
fumbled opportunities and bad hits.
On blank boards and empty screens,
the blood shows such a contrast on paper-white tile.
It’s like dried and dripped polka dots of red wine
on the dress of a depressed giant.
The blood shows such a contrast on paper-white tile.
The outline of a better life,
in chalk by black numbers
on yellow plastic.
The outline of a better life,
on display in old wall engravings.
Asbestos incentives, get in the attic.
Take a deep fiberglass breath,
and fetch my skeletons.
II.
On display in old wall engravings,
Stories of better times,
yet the writers never lived them.
Stories of better times,
I’ll get you a canvas,
paint me a paradise.
Make it worth a damn.
Freeze.
I’ll get you a canvas,
just let me be your brush.
The happiness is in the strokes.
Happiness is ice.
Freeze.
Just let me be your brush,
the sword or the dagger or the spear,
stop the world right here.
The sword or the dagger or the spear,
let the ink bleed through.
Nothing will happen,
but the pain will meet paper.
III.
Let the ink bleed through,
“psychiatric stigma follows you,”
onto the next page,
“everywhere,”
when you’re twenty-nine,
“for the rest of your life,”
onto your resume.
“Psychiatric stigma follows you,”
At least we can mark your baggage.
Dress up, grab a scarf.
It’s a cold night,
and you can’t stay cooped up inside.
At least we can mark your baggage,
there is an awful lot.
Get your keys,
your little poem book,
lucky charms,
iPod full of happy songs.
There is an awful lot,
you’re not coming back for a while.
You’ll still be in the atmosphere,
but never back down to Earth.
You’re not coming back for a while,
you’re a dot in the sky,
you’re wings with no body.
Your words are of a flyspeck dialect.
IV.
You’re a dot in the sky,
growing, as you aim to splatter back.
You were so low,
we just needed to get you a little high.
Growing, as you aim to splatter back.
you will become a shirt with a stain.
And that stain will keep you out,
forever, like a tool of repulsion.
You are the end of a magnet,
being pressed to the wrong pole.
You will become a shirt with a stain,
it will not yield to bleach nor soap nor scrubbing.
You are bound to it.
It is Jesus, and you are the cross.
It will not yield to bleach nor soap nor scrubbing,
no,
it does not make a difference.
You will wear that clothing sewn to your body.
No,
you are not allowed to be anything.
The planets won’t align,
you can’t expect the universe to be that kind.
You are not allowed to be anything.
You are not allowed to have a future if you have a past.
