THE EVIL MIRROR

November 27, 2009  :: 0 comments

I carry myself
in a quiet manner.
I don’t like watching
myself in the mirror.

I sense a kind of
falsehood in the way
the mirror reflects
the way I appear. I

grimace. If this was
a snapshot, I’d burn it.
The evil mirror
looks deeper inside
of me. It makes me
want to destroy myself.

MY MIND

November 27, 2009  :: 0 comments

My mind is high like the moon.
I wash my face with cold water.
My high mind does not come down.
I cannot clear my thoughts.
They are without restraint
and I apologize for my thoughts
to those who could read my mind.

LIFE AFTER THE PSYCHIATRIC WARD

September 18, 2009  :: 0 comments

My life after involuntary treatment
includes living somewhere where
everyone gets along with me.

I would also like to find an easy job,
where I won’t feel pressured, but
I’m not sure if such a job exists.

I would like to live with my family.
However, they don’t like it when I
hallucinate and talk to myself.

The city where I grew up seems very
good. I would like to live close
to my family so they can visit me.

I want to meet a woman to love
romantically, conversationally,
and sexually. However, I don’t

think my chances are good because
I hear and see things. I don’t see
why I can’t stay here forever.

THE WIFE I NEVER MET

September 18, 2009  :: 0 comments

All my sons have died.
My daughters too.
They were never born.
I haven’t met my wife.

Perhaps she is out
by the apple
tree, longing for the
husband of her dreams.

He likes apples and
women like her,
bronze like the land
and Spanish speaking.

She likes men who are
dreamers, who like
apples, who dream
of someone like her.

THE YELLOW GRASS

featured in the poetry forum September 18, 2009  :: 0 comments

Down by the grass
the wasps fly low.
Do they rest or
tie their small
invisible shoes?

Black ants take up
smoking from the
lit cigarette
butts lying
on the yellow grass.

Stretched out on the
dying grass the
cat worries me.
It’s getting
old and it won’t eat.

WHEN HE IS RIGHT

featured in the poetry forum July 29, 2009  :: 0 comments

When he is right
you could not have
a better son.
He helps me with
his father, who
is old and frail.
He helps me in
the kitchen, with
the dishes and
preparing meals.
With my age I
cannot do too
much anymore
and I rely
on him to help
with things around
the house.  I don’t
know what happened
to him.  He was
fine and then he
was not.  I think
he stopped taking
his medicine.
Someone he cared
about just died.
His girlfriend broke
up with him.  I
don’t know what caused
him to lose his
senses.  Since he
has been in the
hospital, he
seems much better.
He is the same
son that was kind
and helpful in
the house.  When do
you think I could
take him home?  If
he has to stay
longer, I will
abide by your
decision.  But
he wants to come
home and I have
no problem with
taking him home.

AT THE ROADSIDE

June 10, 2009  :: 0 comments

I met Death at the roadside.
Death was not as thin
as I imagined.
It wore a dark cloak.

When the wind blew and its
cloak blew as well
all the souls Death had
stolen could be seen

trapped inside its bones,
which was like a cage
imprisoning souls.
Death opened its mouth and tried

to take me inside. But it was
only a dream and
the fear I felt shook
me awake, screaming like a child.

I HAVE ISSUES

featured in the poetry forum June 10, 2009  :: 0 comments

What angels good or bad
hover over my shoulder?
Do they want my soul?

I have issues sometimes.
In my bedroom under
my bed are newspapers,

which I steal from news
racks because voices
command me to do it.

I hear angels with wings
and angels with horns,
who guide my actions.

They want me to save
the city from the bad news
printed in newspapers.

I bring a bag of quarters
to every newspaper rack
in town and steal every

issue of the city’s papers.
I am doing God’s will,
protecting the human race

from news about war, death,
and famine. I save them
from the frivolous lives

of celebrities. I take the
papers to my room and
edit out all the bad stuff.

A KIND OF CRY

May 1, 2009  :: 0 comments

On an empty road
a voice called to me.
Shadows followed me.

I felt stabbing pains.
In the branches I
heard a kind of cry.
It hardly mattered
that the sun rose for
the last time. Where the
cry came from I heard
my name called out. I
saw the branches shake
wildly. In the mud
I left footprints. And
I told the voice to
remain silent. The
branches were still. The
sun rose for the last time.

MADHOUSE ON THE MOON

featured in the poetry forum May 1, 2009  :: 0 comments

In my moon walks
I found a madhouse.
The stars would shine
on its doors at night.

The madhouse, built
far away from earth,
safe from the storms
and hot winds of hell.