In Ruins...

THIRTEEN hours laid flat with major storms drowning the outdoors and electrifying much of it. Every indent out there is overflowing.

And the Mailperson left my mailbox open just a crack & didn't shove back the mail, which made everything a mess. Not just junk mail either - Poets & Writers zine, a personal card, a Netflix, and a Wolf Calendar for next year. I think the wife is working the route with school out & her not needed on the yellow school bus. When school is in service, the husband does it & tends to careful.

Of course, the garbage boys also left the can open, thus I had to dump stinky, contaminated rainwater on the virgin soil.

Not good times for this Migraine Misfit. Thus for my sins, more is predicted. All through the day, I see the cells forming, growing towards the luscious yellow of foul weather.

I feel cursed, feel confined, with my noggin cut and popped open with a can opener, then some wooden spoons used to stir my senses into chaos. Do you hear chaos’ hounds? They need their breakfast. Tip me over and fill their bowls with my lousy, stewed gray matter.

I am weak, fragile to point of eclipse. Being all by thy self also clings to the rafters of depression, proving isolation isn’t all that one might think when reading of ascetics loose on mountain tops with barely anything to their identity. Ah, to be free… But why be free? I like these things. Enjoy their presence in my wakefulness.

My glasses are smudged with my oily fingerprints, giving me the perception of mist and double images…

And here we lean out to the north, using cans attached by string, to talk like kids used to in the olden days when treehouses were scattered often, not these horrid deer stands of the South. They actually feed the deer, build them gardens of their likes, then come & collect their trophies and meat. They shoot in the dark (like that Peter Sellers movie instigating the Pink Panther).

This is not how I would have created a world. But I still believe in compassion, no matter how much Hell the weather force-feeds me.

alas,
spent-boy

(Art © 2012 by j. m. Scoville)