Poems, Part 1

On the Razor Edge of Schizophrenia

There is a place where I go
Where the real is becomes wrong
And my dreams become all
On the razor-edge of schizophrenia

There the night falls like a stone
Where the world turns on my whim
And time tears like tissue
On the razor-edge of schizophrenia

There the grass glows like fire
Where the fire burns like ice
And the winds moan with pleasure
On the razor-edge of schizophrenia

There the sky weeps for joy
Where the earth sings of sadness
And the days last a lifetime
On the razor-edge of schizophrenia

There love knows no bounds
Where loss is harsh but fleeting
And the world is shaped of lessons
On the razor-edge of schizophrenia

There you will find me waiting
Where the poets dream of fire
And the writers dream sweet nothings
On the razor-edge of schizophrenia

An Opiate Ode

The bottles clang and crash across the floor.
I lose myself in each and every room.
Don't cry for me, that sentimental chore
Will only bring you pain and grief and gloom
Take heart, my friend, we'll be together soon
In sweet iambs I scrawled across the wall,
In sickly heat, in rancid summer noon,
In nightmares deep I found before the fall.

Discussion wanes between myself and God
The needle fills the silence 'tween my screams.
Another prick, another nap; I'll nod
Until I've fled those ceaseless dying dreams.
My veins collapsed, my eyelids locked in sleep
Mourn for me not; no longer will I weep.
 

Why, you ask?

I wrote this poem
Because it's morning
Because the sun looks just right
Agianst the snow atop my car
Because my coffee sends wisps
Of pluming steam into the wind
Because the muse reared her head
As I lay in bed this morning
Because it was a class assignment
That needed to be done eventually
Because my computer was on
And I felt rather bored
Because boredom is a luxury
And a terrible thing to go to waste
Because I'm putting off writing
My novel another five minutes
Because I learned how to write
When I was a young child
Because it feels like everything
Is coming to an end
Because it feels like everything
Is just ready to begin
Because I love my fingers
For changing thought into word
Because I'm alive another day
For better or for worse
Because of the most important reason:
Just because

In the Evening

Today I saw the Sphinx
that celestial minx, jinx
the woman across the road.
Why did the Sphinx cross
the road? What did those lynx-like
eyes see on the other side?

Astride the imlacable turtle
of fate, late in the hour it rode
towards the woman it did raom
towards her home in all its splendor.
Yet to mend or destroy or to simply
annoy? Helen of Troy could tell,
know well the Sphinx's labor
armed with saber, or sickle, or teet.

Like the forging of steel
I could feel the beast's claws,
jaws like the sickly breath
of death, of despair
of air thick with sirens.

Sirens that sing, undulate
meditate in the evening glow,
a show for the street
their feet barely bare
unkempt hair, all rushing

and shushing each other

"Brother, did you hear?"

Fear masked by gossiping tongues.

In the end, all retreat,

defeat lingers, and a lost boy

to his joy watches the night

right itself, regain its steady hum,

that level thrum of silence

that is heaven for some.
But oh, I know it watches still
waiting with ill intent, to watch

the spill of blood and life

an ethereal knife left sharp,

harp distributor extraordinaire.

It impairs, that sate, makes the hair

on one's arms rise up in alarm.

Oh yes, no need to guess...

It watches still.