Melancholia

Clever culinary sanity and I
add events slowly to balance
chemicals
and soul,
seasoning my thoughts
with lithium salts,
wondering how much is me
and how much is added
when stirring the mixture
and how much of it taste can tell.

I race against madness
through
the woods
of doubt,
unsure which
victor would be the most worthy,
wondering if there is a difference,
and afraid
that the man-made me
wins over the natural me
everytime or
that I like it that way.

Need

I need you, my Christ,
Not for the stillness you breath into me,
Great Lion of Judah
Who infuses senseless sand with Meaning.
I need you because

The schoolmaster has met with me,
Has held me after school,
Has tutored me,
And has shown me that I am failing.

I bow at your feet, King of All,
Not for the beauty of You
Who walked across Jerusalem and my soul.
I need you because

I am feasting
On transgression that I would love to call original,
But, truth be told, that is owned
And savored,
The rotting morsels of last week's banquet,
Torn gristle and meat.

More primitive than any manger blessed by your sacred head,
Is the home I offer you now within me.

I need you, Christ of All,
Because I want
Because I
Because no matter
How hard I try
The poem always begins with I.

Dion's Therapy Appointment

Somewhere down underneath the cushions of the couch of existence
are the tiny coins of happiness,
the left over tissues of abandoned grief.

Somewhere, lying on that divan of introspection,
Dionysus, the only god with a drinking problem,
has his therapy.

"When did you first feel the expectations of pleasure

[the Merrythanksgivingrockwelllexus
inthedrivewaywhitepicketfenceofitall]

were too much?"
Apollo asks, sitting with his steno pad.
The patient shrugs the answer.
This is the Olympian Court Mandated therapy.

The unfairness of it all--
death of mother at father's hand,
father's attempts to mother him,
subsequent abandonment by father--
"I wanted life to be simpler.
It's not fair that this is all there is.
Why can't it be more comfortable?"
He sips a martini.


"Patient level of entitlement increased,"
jots the Counselor
as he checks the time on the sundial.

The Deepest

She wanted to shake inside,
A separation of soul and body,
The carbon paper slipping under the original.

As she sat on the bathroom floor,
Water running in the tub,
She missed hurt the most.

She wanted the juice back in the rind.
She wanted Pain, Terror, Agony
Something.

They say black is the combination of all colors when drawn,
But the absence of all colors in light.
Maybe it's just perspective.

Have you ever wished for something so badly
and gotten it?
And hated it?

Release
Valve
Open


She wanted to capture sanguinity.
She wanted a vampire to kiss her and extract
The chaotic void and create
A garden of newness.

And this is why she cuts herself.

Open

Sometimes he feels that if an autopsy were done on him now,
If he were cut open like a package left at the door,
He would be all packing peanuts, and strips of old newspapers
And a tiny little globe of the Holy Ghost,
As if the Father packed the gift in a too big package.

The expanse of his emptiness demands to be filled,
And his prayer is that Enough would eliminate the Clutter
Of Nothing, that the manna collected in advance would not be missed.