Whiz Bang

 

Holy humming and

whizzing in my head,

whirring and clanging,

as the magnets did

what they do

around my brain.

 

An MRI,

two of them actually,

over two days,

to see what it is,

that is causing what it

is.

 

In a small tube,

like a packed cigarette,

huffed and puffed on

for a medical diagnosis

for the hemispheric facial

spasms I’ve had for a while.

 

It’s like a facial tic,

comes and goes,

it's often annoying,

sometimes it’s hardly

there at all,

but I notice it.

 

A twitch in my left cheek,

around my left eye,

across my left upper lip,

a hiccup of a motion,

making me blink,

making me annoyed.

 

I’m just trying to find out

what it might be,

it’s likely nothing but the artery

being too close to the nerve in my cheek,

and with every heartbeat,

the blood pulsing through my arteries,

triggers the nerve and viola,

a twitch.

 

There’s treatment for it

of course, nothing I like,

but a treatment, nonetheless.

Unfortunately the treatment isn’t

wine, women, and song.

But multiple injections

to the face, with Botox,

so yeah.

 

Wine,

Women,

and song,

haven’t really cured

much of anything come to

think about it.

 

Although it certainly beats

the humming and buzzing

and whirring of magnets,

electricity, and mechanics

of modern medicine.

 

At least I know where

to get a kiss.

When I need it.

 

 

 

Red Light

 

Red Light.

 

I like cardigan sweaters.

I just do.

They fit me for some reason,

I don’t know why I

identify with cardigan sweaters,

yet I get great

enjoyment from them.

 

Did I choose them based on

how I wished to be perceived as

the exemplar of my identity,

or did my pre-existing identity

choose cardigan sweaters?

 

Is our identity a product

of our choices,

or are our choices the

product of our identity?

 

Is how we wish to be seen in

the world just ego manifesting

or is it deeper, something that

simply makes us who we are

and what we like buried in our

DNA?

 

Is there some genetic memory

woven into what I presume is

my identity that has an affinity

for cardigan sweaters?

Was I always just a sweater guy?

Or is it simpler than that?

 

Maybe I just like being warm

on chilly afternoons.

But it’s Summertime, and

I shouldn’t worry about sweaters

so much.

 

The light turned green.

And I thought about something else.

Fire Dancing on a Pinhead

 

While Angles were

dancing on the head

of a pin, things

went and got a little

crazy down here.

 

It seems there’s only

so much punching at

the air I can do,

or so much keyboard

pounding I can muster.

 

The World put on

some insanity pants, a fruit headdress

and started an

apocalyptic cha-cha

to the rhythm of our own muttering.  

 

A haunting cadence of

voices, cold and muffled,

chanting some ancient gripes

in modern times, hoping

things will fix themselves.

 

We may have started this Fire

Mr. Billy Joel; we really may have,

been the bringers of our doom,

amidst our myopathy and self-involved

self-involvement.

 

So many fires,

so little rain,

so many opinions,

has so many people,

acting insane.

 

I’ll use this pin,

to post this message,

hoping not to disturb,

all the Angels Dancing,

to the same sad fiery beat.

 

 

Guilty as the Next

 

Junkies and pinheads,

roving the dirty, urine soaked

hallways of a shuttered

apartment buildings,

shouting and demanding

their needs be met.

 

Stealing and grifting

their way through the

night, to support their

habits, their lifestyle,

their unintended

consequences.

 

A policy of plague,

unleashed by other

policies of ignorance,

from policies of condemnation,

exclusion and inequity.

Shaking an empty cup,

looking for change.  

 

It’s very hard to care

for a society that doesn’t

care about itself.

Like an addict, bent on

self-destruction, regardless

of the help offered.

 

Another rung on the ladder

of society, needles still

sticking from dirty arms,

stepped on, in the climb

to be superior,

rather than be better.

 

I’m guilty as the next addict,

hooked on my comforts,

anxious without them,

irate when crossed-examined

about them. I offer nothing.

I leave a mess.

 

I am,

the junkie,

the pinhead,

and I am tired.

With needs to be met.

To Be Beautiful

 

To be Beautiful,

is relative,

to what is beauty.

 

A puddle in a

pothole,

a rainbow in oil.

 

A sad smile,

tears on a cheek,

laughing through pain.

 

A ticking clock,

in an abandoned house,

measuring time.

 

A meal that lingers,

heartburn,

but delicious.

 

The hint of nudity,

when not called for,

in casual moments.

 

An abundance of

subtlety,

in loud places.

 

The depth of emptiness,

in a crowd,

dancing to the band.

 

Stilted sunlight,

through blinds,

against a plain wall.

 

Their laughter,

standing out,

filling the heart.

 

The beholder,

smitten,

with wry intimacy.

 

Strange beauty,

abounds,

everywhere.

 

No Old Souls

 

Old Souls are not a thing.

It’s something I’ve self-referenced

and have been referred to as, by

others, but I’m coming to realize,

there’s no such thing.

 

If souls exist, they are neither

old or young, it’s a pretentious label

slapped on the prepackaged idea of

who you are; your self-identity

as described to you, by others.

 

“Young Mr. So-and-so, is very responsible

for his age,” doesn’t mean Young Mr. So-and-So,

has an Old Soul, it just means that they

might have a greater sense of responsibility

or have developed some empathy at an

early age and comport themselves as such.

 

The same applies to those we accuse

of having a Young Soul, some youthful

exuberance or Devil may care energy,

it’s not a real thing, but a crafty way

to classify and separate people.

 

We’re all just (if you believe in it) souls,

bumping into shit as we plod along

this pathway of life, tripping and stumbling,

learning and growing, breaking and healing

with each precarious step.

 

We do not need to be labeled,

we do not need or branded into some

codifying corral, we are who we are

the moment we reach that moment,

and whomever we are at that moment.

 

There’s wisdom in the soul, old or young,

(if you believe in that sort of thing)

I’d rather believe that people are capable of

great acts of good or of evil and hopefully

choose to be good.

 

For the betterment of their soul,

(if you, of course, believe in that sort of thing.)

 

Battle

 

How’s it going to be

when you won’t believe

a word I say?

 

How’s it going to be

when you won’t hear

the tone in my voice?

 

Will you stay?

Will you go?

Will you put away those

childish things?

 

If you hear me,

if you see me,

if you understand.

 

Will you pretend it

never happened?

Will you ignore the

things you said?

 

Will your legs still

ache after walking in

my shoes?

 

Words are the warriors,

in this ceaseless battle of

ideas and feelings.  

 

A battlefield cluttered

with ideas and theories,

clashing across ideological

landscapes.

 

Words, jabbing and stabbing,

slicing and cutting,

with vitriolic hate lashed

with ignorance.

 

Ideas, dead on the ground,

shields glinting in the noon Sun,

as smoke tendrils of fire linger.

 

Can you imagine?

Can you see?

The power in poetry.

Did any side win?