Tripping The Light Psychosis

I’m going to start writing narrative poetry again because they say they don’t understand my poetry anymore, I’m not writing poems, I’m writing songs. People rarely get me because I’m always so off tune. I heard a few new stories about myself today, so many people telling stories. I wonder why so many stories are untrue and always unkind.

My neighbor said, “Hey let me share what people are saying about you. Many people living here say you’re very unstable, like Ms. Humble on two says this is true about you. I try to explain you’re just a little different, that your mind is very good and it’s not true you’re unstable. I tell them you worked hard all your life so you can collect a pension and how could they think someone unstable could think that one through. I know though, it took a lot of planning and calculation, but they don’t want to hear it.

Their minds are already made up, “Unstable,” you’re labeled. They say you’re really not very sane; you don’t do things the right way. I point out that you’ve been able to thrive, you calculate interventions, and you’re savvy to the system you survived. They see how colorful you are so they judge you by the colors you wear and are blind to your capability. They don’t see you know how to face adversity. They define you as flighty.

They judge you by their own veracity. They can’t see who you really are.

I am tired of this same old story. Well, better stop telling them then I say to my supposed friend. They can’t hear if they refuse to listen.

I’ll always be an outcast. What can I do? I keep making amends and trying to make new friends.

Leave me alone to sing my blues, tone deaf and off tune, alone, singing my blues.

Compression

We laugh and make jokes about the stockings and me.

I say, “They’re holding me together.”

He says, questioning me as if I’m not telling the truth or maybe I don’t know, “They’re holding you together?”

“Yes, holding me together literally,” I repeat.

We both laugh hysterically hardly able to catch our breaths

bursting as though about to explode

We act like this is the first time we laughed at this.

Our laughter is like a rhyme held together by glue and impending time.

 “They’re holding me together,” I repeat and again he repeats after me, “They’re holding you together, “ and again we laugh hysterically.

It is better to laugh than cry. Sometimes I cry and laugh at once because of the absurdity of life. Don’t try to anticipate the unexpected. It can’t work. It’s a joke on me just like my father before me. Tears stream and peals of laughter burst through at the same time. I laugh so hard I cry and cry so hard I laugh. Maintaining mirthfulness merriment helps me get by with a little help from my friends.

Life plays jokes while I dance through with songs in my head. The fatuity is not futility. I remain hopeful to a new cause. Each joke has its own device; No more criticizing –I pray that way – if I refrain so will they. One crazy white Jewish poet is one of the 99 percent – they’re moving everywhere, like a silent storm creating a new reality, I struggle to see the light, make wrongs right with the rest of the 99 percent.

I love how they squeeze me tight, expand my sight, I don’t fit it with the left or the right, helps me feel more strong & erect.

“They’re holding me together,” I tell my dentist.

My dentist replies, “It’s good for your circulation.”

Another friend asks, “Doesn’t it hinder your blood flow?”

“To the contrary,” I say, “They improve my blood flow.”

“The elastic band on the stocking’s top, I mean, doesn’t that cut off your blood flow?”

“I wear them all day – all night and they don’t bother me.

They’re keeping me together.”

 “Wouldn’t it be better if you wore pantyhose up to your waist?”

“No, my pelvis likes to breathe and be free,” I say, “I prefer these even if later in the day the elastic on top feels slightly tight but that’s only least ten hours at least. So soft tender cotton caresses my thigh.”

“Oh,” she replied, “If I had to wear them I’d wear the other kind.”

You have no idea I thought in my mind’s eye I didn’t say out loud.

“OK,” I say out loud, mind on overtime to report, create a retort resort to.

don high-quality blue workman’s gloves with smooth rubber fingertips and palms

I stretch and pull them, almost pure skintight up to my thighs.

My legs enjoy the ride. Umm… Umm.

Holding my craziness and me together forever whenever.

Compression…