ManicDDaily

Surveillance

I wait
for relief.  Ache
clouds waking.

I take aim at stepping back–

As if one could be a stranger
to the weight upon
one’s back–
though the grey gravitates
to the frontal contours of core, cortex–
never, for some reason,
does it press down the flesh
of my rear end, my ample hips,
which could perhaps use
some tightening–

As if its ways might be learned;
as if, then, it might even
be put behind bars.

But it is so much better
at surveillance.

Sometimes, it takes the cover
of a cheap chopping block,
sits in my chest sheathing breaths
in shadowed slits,
skewed knives badgered
into use.

Other whiles, it’s a separate head
in mine, a horned scaled self,
stalking eyelids as stolidly as a dummy Komodo,
until anything tries flight–
then it flicks it in
quick enough–
(Who would have thought Depression
had such fine motor skills?)

I plot escape, but it’s difficult
when you’re watched
from the inside, when you’re wearing,
as it were,
your own wire.

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Here’s a poem not at all for Thanksgiving, but for Grapeling’s prompt on With Real Toads, “Get Listed.”  

Moving on, however, to the subject of Thanksgiving, I want to extended deeply-felt thanks to all of you who read this blog, and to all those in the wonderful online poetry communities, particularly With Real Toads and dVerse Poets Pub, especially Kerry O’Connor, Brian Miller, Claudia Schoenfeld.

Also a very special thanks to all who have purchased either in paper or kindle, my book Nice, or any of my other books–thanks thanks thanks.