Cruddy smells flake off the house and I know I shouldn’t be here.
No one has in faithless year after faithless year.
Knock it off.
I see you filching my backup plans from my purse.
God I wear blue well.
My soul is transparent like the cleanest lake.
I am without my numbers and shapes,
sewn from cotton fields.
I’m a doll you can love, hate, dissipate.
Somber ideas finger my mind.
I always overcome them.
My mind is the zenith of razors,
My hair is the desire to die all of us want.
Glittering shrapnel claws deep in my mind,
embedding vicious thoughts caught in my hands
like a virus,
like a child leaping into my arms,
like a newspaper thrown against my door by a brat.
Why can’t I expel the mental graft and gristly slander
that permeates myself?
Does gold feel worthless when desperate divorcees toss
it in the sea
to forget?
To remember rage?
Uncompromising clocks are miserly with me.
Mondays are not miserable at all.
Monday is a week in infancy,
Filled with promise.
By Saturday there is so much regret.
I am chest deep in the wet of Wednesday,
My breath black smog.
The afternoon is another language.
I do not speak.
I was sewn for Sundays.
Quiet art history is just as dazzling as fireworks,
the artist’s eyes fluttering open in the morning an explosion of a bomb.
See the veracity of the paintbrush,
The verifiable anguish in colors prone to roam the white space,
the place where luck dies.
What arguments have painters had with invalid ideas,
high on their laudanum and making no sense to anyone but
the artist, a doctor for chartreuse concepts that long to be a lively lime.
What canonical cloudscapes inspired the Sistine chapel?
What childish memory provoked David?
Singing into the bush
a lilac on a lark.
A love like October,
orange and fast.
The lilac has a heated language,
a boiling pattern of speech.
Frost is mute,
Abused,
Sinful.
The lilac leans toward the Bush
A waxy, evergreen sun,
needing shelter.
Pumpkins fight with lilacs.
Frost is the winner who takes all.
The eleventh sky watches me.
Clouds are my enemy.
Hunger worms between my teeth.
My face is not finished with you.
Beyond the town the boys
cultivate storms.
A world of color is rich,
is all I need in this fog as heavy as maternal malevolence.
What I need is a glass of hot pink,
an elixir of glowing purple,
a tincture of pool blue,
languid and electric.
My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale
on my bedside table
while a documentary on contemporary
art stabs me in shades of black and white,
Sound muted.
Clamor clatter calamity
a huge purple spill
generous to an idea getting drunk in the corner.
I am an absence of air.
Paris writes me telling me not to come.
Many things have fallen
into the gaping O of love.
My sick senses stretch like a violin note over
a ghostly concert hall.
Halls are caverns.
I have a hall inside my city
And he waits there.
He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,
I the suction of quicksand.
I had a hard weekend. Saturday it was difficult to get and stay out of bed. Sunday was slightly better, as I was able to go out to lunch with my husband and daughter, but I still struggled with depression and anxiety all day. I haven’t been doing well since I was in the hospital, but the situation became more acute this weekend.
Now I am taking double doses of Prozac and waiting for my new antidepressant to arrive. This past summer I was on Prozac but asked to switch to something else because I felt like it was burning out. I wanted to switch to trintellix but initially balked at the price because it’s not fully covered by insurance, so I went on Zoloft instead. For me taking Zoloft is a lot like eating Skittles.
So when I realized last week that the Zoloft just wasn’t going to kick in and do anything I called my doctor back and requested a prescription for the trintellix. But to save money I’m getting it through Express Scripts Pharmacy and they are taking forever to fill it. They got the order last Wednesday and it is now Monday and they still haven’t filled my order so nothing’s even in the mail yet. So I’m just hanging out with my old Prozac, since it’s better than Zoloft, and waiting.
Everything feels like it takes so much energy when I am like this. Getting out of bed, brushing my teeth and my hair, driving, housework… The list goes on.
Miniature Moon 