(Loosely translated from a Sikh fable)

The disciple asked the Guru: O Wise One, how do I enjoy life to the fullest?

The Guru opened his eyes and smiled: Let me ask you a question. How long do you believe you have before you die?

The disciple, a young man in his early twenties, replied: Two, or three, decades at least.

The Guru offered: Try something shorter.

Then the Guru closed his eyes. The disciple pondered the Guru's suggestion, and said: A few years, at least.

The Guru repeated: Try something shorter.

A few months?

Shorter.

Days?

Shorter.

The disciple was worried. Did the Guru know his fate?

Hours?

Shorter.

Minutes, perhaps?

The Guru opened his eyes and said: My child, there is no guarantee that we may exhale the last breath just inhaled. We all hang by a thread.

This made the disciple sad and he asked, almost in a whisper: Does this mean there is no meaning to life? How can one enjoy Life if we're always in the shadow of Death.

The Guru laughed for the first time and replied: On the contrary, this should make you always be present in the moment, and enjoy every breath to its fullest.

I heard it.

Dew, from the tip of a needle, leaf...

A whistle down, as I inhale the green

of your sighs, squeezed so elementally

condensed and reassembled, a piece of sky

feeding the stand of all our Originality.

Off the

beaten path.

No street lights,

nature has

embraced you.

Solitude has

been found.

Suddenly,

feeling as if

you’re not alone.

The darkness

becomes palpable.

Shadows embody

subtle movements.

Heart rate increases,

breath quickens.

You begin

walking faster.

Trying not

to panic.

It feels like

something is

following you.

Now what?

Dread sets in,

anxiety starts.

Your eyes

say you’re alone.

Yet your mind

says otherwise.

Footsteps echo

in the growing

silence of the night.

As phantoms dance

in and out

of sight.

Each one becomes

more terrifying

than the last.

The mania

of the mind

begins to manifest

in your vision.

Shaping fantasies,

promoting nightmares.

Your mind is

fatally infected

with the delusion

of paranoia.

Now you begin

to question

your sanity.

It feels like

the entire forest

is watching you.

Are those really

tortured souls

in the trees?

There is a whispering wood...

At a breakneck speed,

I am...

Weaving through stacks

Of trees, and tracking

An enigma that can

Not be seen...

...It's calling...

"Are you there?...O, can you hear?...

...For so long I felt your presence

From the back vaults

Of my eyes..."

Now on the hunt

I cannot seem

To upend or to capsize

The ponderous stone

That is

Your dwelling

In this hinterland

Of half-light...

Leave me with a chip or shred!...

Something I'll

Take home to bed...

Saturate me to the bone...

Heed my plea, so I can strive...

7/22/24

Bunny Villaire

Outward slovenly appearance bespeaks volumes

wordsworth their weight in gold

(exhumed from the pith

of these lovely bones -

beclothed with mottled skin)

presages afterlife of hellish horror

(think Dante's inferno),

nevertheless a respite from earthly torture

wracking mein kampf since conception.

I lived without great expectations

diploid on an impossible mission

set in motion courtesy

triggered pleasure zones,

when natural propensity toward mortality

yielded mutual intense

or paroxysmal excitement

after unbridled love making

between then young parents of mine

approximately circa early/mid April

nineteen hundred and fifty eight.

Begot upon initial cleavage of two gametes

genetic fate decreed upon yours truly,

when nine months later a scrawny boy

traversed thru the birth canal uneventfully

into the hands of waiting obstetrician.

Mother placed me near her bosom,

where I busted thru ample cleavage

nursed courtesy milk of human kindness

until she became high and dry

pacified scraggly baby,

who screamed at the top of his little lungs

possibly linked to submucous palate

split uvula - diagnosed years later

by specialist at Lancaster Cleft palate clinic.

Severe nasality as Aladdin in grade school

linkedin with extreme introvertedness

grist for the role as scapegoat

bully me pronounced

major inferiority complex prevailed.

Suicidal ideation throve

as unhealthy psychological bumper crop:

I cared not a whit for mine body, mind, and soul

negligent hygienic habits - unkempt appearance

abhorred cleanliness, greaseball outlier

videlicet witnessed infrequent visits

to bathing or showering facilities

let hair grow long and ratty, and shaggy

passive aggressive stance

toward family of origin members

sought refuge in mine bedroom

remained metaphorically hermetically sealed

until emerging adulthood

entrenched, fixated, and glued

to aforementioned behavioral traits.

Challenged, piqued, and

tested and tried patience of parents

passed their threshold of tolerance.

Overstayed welcome at 324 Level Road

at the receiving end of hollow ultimatums

browbeaten courtesy damning epithets

fueled glowering hatred, issuing kickass

brickbats, out the mouths of mommy dearest or

papa, silently internalized their vicious wrath.

Smoldering rage within me tamped down

as brilliant comeuppance

did not visit mother on her deathbed,

nevertheless wept profusely

while wailing "I love you" over the telephone,

and every May fourth -

since two thousand and five

crafted commemorative poems,

she always asked

for written acknowledgement

at the least remembering her birthday -

November thirteenth -

from second born and singular son.

No escape from

being called oppressive scatological names,

neither at home nor at school,

and including riding the bus

brutal, short and nasty invectives

assaulted my sensitive eardrums

of course with futility

impossible mission to deflect

blacked banal barbs,

whether besieging me

from so called wonderful,

albeit infuriated parents

continually wounding mine ego,

which pride of self never robust

subsequently such regular

(unleaded) cruelty outsourced to every ogre

witnessed an aggrieved boy

silently pained courtesy

whiplash of words accosting consciousness

submissively accepting battering

haranguing, poisoning, stinging

standing stockstill

forbearance vetting psyche,

the tragedy exhibited

by stoic facade and charade

generating absolute zero responsiveness

from an introverted

anxiety plagued youngster,

who grew up emotionally,

physically and spiritually stunted

scratching out pathetic poetry.

is deceptive

as that (by-my-self)

is inaccurate

the 'we,' dispossessed

and self, associative

at best ...

my mind's

so far gone

I cannot begin

to say how long

or how come,

save the distance

between my

and self

has become

protracted,

and when it

happened

well

I'd

also like to know

and that thought

will not leave me

(alone)

06.27.2024

Alone challenge @dctezcan

My heart performs a tune so few may hear,

A quiet violin whispering passionately in the ear.

The trees sing along but even they are distant,

Myself, alone, the only thing that’s consistent.

The piano keys quicken, giving way to the night,

As the stars lay dying, falling from light,

and darkness beckons me forward in fright.

The harp strikes harshly showing all that’s infected,

Harmonizing a tune of what’s self-neglected,

Myself, the cause for what self-abandoning affected.

As the silence falls, encapsulating my soul,

I collapse under the weight of my own black hole.

I try to see the shadows that make me whole,

But with each thump of the bass, my demons rush forward.

Left all alone, panicked, and cornered,

Myself, exposing how I feel tortured.

Deeper I dig into an eternal abyss,

Listening for the lessons of all that‘s amiss.

The symphony mellows, the thundering dismissed.

Myself, the conductor, of all I remiss.

With each epiphany that I unearth,

Alone is the place I learn my worth,

Accept myself, and with it rebirth.

"Did you know that someone wrote "Fuck you all" on that brick up there?"

The nurse followed my finger up to a shockingly high point on the brick pillar to our right, scanned the waxy scrawling, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Yeah, there's some crazy stuff up there." She pointed her pen toward the bulky brick pillars scattered through the common room. You'll see a lot of it around here. Some people even write their actual names and phone numbers."

"I did see a good joke over there." I pointed to the pillar on our left and read the words out loud. "What's the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants? One's a crusty bus station and the other's a busty crustacean."

The nurse and I shared a gentle laugh and reflected on creative, damaged minds, as if we were strangers making small talk. This was just another day at the office for her. I shared a similar sentiment. She opened up a red folder and slid it across the plastic table.

"This is a copy of everything that you've signed so far and just some general information about how we do things here. There are some personal items that you weren't allowed to keep, which you'll sign off on later. We have your valuables locked in a safe in the administrative office and if you need access to your personal items, you'll have to ask one of the nurses. You're not allowed to have your phone, but you are free to write down a few numbers out of it We did have to take your bra, because of the underwire, but you can have someone bring you clothes or anything else you need starting tomorrow. "

The nurse pointed to a highlighted four digit number on one of the sheets inside the folder.

"This is your code, okay? So anyone who wants to call you here and check on you has to have this code. This is the number for the nurse's station. The phones are shut off during group and mealtimes because we want to encourage you to go. They're turned off around 9:30 at night and are turned back on at 7:30 in the morning. "

She turned her attention to the smartwatch on her wrist and then peered over my shoulder at the plexiglass encased office in the middle of the open room.

"Looks like it's time shift change. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Do you guys have snacks or something? I haven't eaten since about 10." It was 7:30 at night. Now that I'd calmed down, my appetite had returned.

"We might actually have a plate leftover from dinner. Let me check with one of the girls and see if we've got something for you. Go ahead and have a seat over here." She gestured to a a grouping of tables and chairs nestled in front of a large flat-screen TV encased in a heavy-duty plastic shell.

I struggled to pull a chair from underneath the table. The nurse said all the chairs were weighted, so that they couldn't be thrown. The first of many reminders as to where I would be for the next four days. She said goodbye, and that I would probably see her again in a couple soon. She walked away, sneakers squeaking across the grungy tile and I shifted uncomfortably in the weighted chair, exhausted and vulnerable, my armor cracking further with each passing minute.

told my nonverbal daughter I crave meaningful conversations back & forth

a playful point at her

wish it were you we’d have

endless conversations

she smiles and bursts out laughing

my eyes full of water

enough to mend the ache of unhad conversations