I’m a barbarian in a woman’s shape.
I stomp into discourse with heavy steps.
Driven by impulse, twisting like switchbacks.

There are so many narratives...
With one hand, I hold a megaphone to my mouth.
With the other hand, from my heart, from my head,
I pull out jagged digressions and awkward arguments.

If I could weave just one logical thread
to see a common perspective,
to stop interpreting…

I would stand tall
on the pedestal of thorny incidents,
inept appointments, yet proud
that I would finally catch myself.

I know, I can only dream of
patiently knitting rushing words together.
I can’t stitch these threads into
a colored, beautiful patchwork,
that could give some warmth to the quandary,
or as a cover for chronic nostalgia.

Meanwhile,
within the conventions of social dreaming
I tilt my head from side to side
Asking myself with incredulity,
How is it possible that the voice
screaming inside me
sounds so weak and dull?

I've been to the
bitter, dark place
where dreams are
decorations in
dilapidated houses,
a building haunted by
the ghosts of spring.
I tasted the wine of
****** and convicts
there.

I've prayed with the
broken and wasted.
I spent
days and months,
almost forever with
the feral men and
women of America in
homes not fit for fleas.

Then one cosmic day,
while the wounded slept,
I chased a beautiful
moth that escaped the flame.
And that has made all
the difference.

Those silver cans of
government meat, set
on the table with a red
and white checkered
tablecloth.
An old yellow light hung
on a chain illuminating
the can of meat.
It tasted like flavorless
gum.
It seemed like a mish-mash
of byproducts that no one
else wanted.
Mom always tried to make
a casserole out of it, but no
amount of pasta or sauce
would fix that roadkill.

Mom hid the cans in the
trash.  Tried to bury it
beneath empty packages
of mushrooms and onion
skins.
I'd dig lightly, and there it
was.
That silver government can.
Shadows for dinner.

A silhouetted pig, cow, or
chicken, made a cameo
on the can.
They reminded me of those
horrid souvenirs from
Disneyland that hung
above the antique *****.
As a boy, I'd look up to see
one of my brothers or sisters
likeness splayed out on the
wall in a creepy silhouette of
horror.
Deathlike, dark, and final.

It was like they caught the animal
at the
last stand.
Death and then eaten.
I know that's why I'm
here.

Yes, no, I don’t know.
I have only this conviction.
Talking to myself,
something says:
Breathe, don’t look, just fly…

No, don’t go! Stay a while!
Just a second here
and there
it would be a couple of solar years!

Now, you’re not a fish,
You can’t dive into this seductive,
endless abyss. Watch out!

You are a little human
wanting to cross another line,
not to die!

Just one step,
don’t look down!
Your footing—
a necessity of evolution.

Brown buttons everywhere,
like micro decisions
denying free will.

Buzzing sounds from nowhere
imbue air and chords,
so many chords
without a clear solution.

What am I doing?
My assumptions collapse.
Another transformation?

Memory came back
as crumpled paper.
But now,
I have no questions.
I know who I am.
I knew it from the core of my bones.

My awareness
suspended on the tightrope,
it drags forward.

Everything that is born
is born with a piercing sound.
So, I accepted the invitation.

They come with lofty thoughts,
burning away caring hearts,
melting down steel in the forge of Hephaestus:
individuality, critical thinking.

Carving the stone with faint whispers,
then with audacious, arrogant songs.
Words offer a sinister image of meaning,
multiplied by lost hopes, by longing.

The green-eyed monster walks,
hand in hand with the vicious chants,
muddling the calm of deep waters,
vanishing beliefs of solidarity.

Saying goodbye to tender softness,
giving away our pieces to the abstract,
cutting and throwing into non-existence
what once felt stable, what was given.

With grudge and pain, setting up barbed wire
for what was done in the past.
Passing by, you can’t shout
still, you need to defend yourself.

Looking deeply into eyes, we could
touch the essence, written in the gaze,
to read between the words, hidden stories,
but it’s already forbidden.

How difficult it is to truly accept,
with an open mind, an open heart,
in this cloudy, dense air of misleading stories

Another Human.