religious iconography isn’t my thing.
When my impatience with people, cats, machinery et cetera come on – I know it is time to take myself out of the mixture for awhile, all in attempt to avoid the medications, the ward, having to make the excuses – I am lucky in that my wife is somehow able to calm me and distract until she can get me to a safer place. I live not only with bi-polar spectrum disorder with psychosis but chronic pain as well, and when the pain peaks it causes all the effort of control to spin wildly and quickly down – I need my pain meds, today crying a bit while trying to nap after snow blowing the drive I could only think that I wanted to vanish into Hawaii or the mountains to live as a crazy monk.
anyway
I’ve never met the man who isn’t torn between
clean, sober, right,
shame, bottle and heartbreak.
who isn’t sliding toward the selfish decision;
who isn’t the man he wanted to be.
prescription drugs, narcotics
bad poetry, tense moments
of quietude and longing.
leaning against rail fences
sun shining on his face.
– Hoc Scripsi
image from Magpie #45
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blurred vision
two dimensional –
beginning existence.
the child looks to it’s mother
and is forgotten by
most of the world.
this is your child,
contemplate their sacrifice
to the rivers of working men
and think not of the blood
shed during
birth
from your body
in painful throes.
Mary was saved the
embarrassment of virginity
and graphic detail
in thanks to stain glass legends
and some Pope high on
power and opium
the platitudes of willful resemblance 