A Kopelesque Poem

Three A.M. and I'm next to nake, boxer shorts and long black socks pulled three quarters up my shins. I run down a dark street, its sides ever narrowing. A fear of what is and what is to be restricts me from certain spots, and I make myself content with running in the median. Sweat slicks my overweight body in the cool of the night, and I remember Her, that made me sweat like this. The sweat of fear and pleasure married. She's gone now, and I am here. I return home and find my way to a keyboard, trying to write a thought but hopelessly feeling it inadequate. My fingers fight me, unwilling to write the frankness my mind bares to an email. I labor on, and finally sign my name to the bottom and send it to Her. No doubt one of hundreds. I scold myself for my foolishness, and chasing the past, and lie down for a sleep. 3:20 A.M.

Friday 3: Job

Sunday, I sit on a park bench.
I drink a cup of tears, then laugh.
Sorrow escapes the saddest to knock on my door.
Slings and arrows!
Slings and arrows!

My name is Job, and I get by on time.
I push my way, day to day, to the next high.
God, why have you sent me Outrageous Fortune?
Slings and arrows!
Slings and arrows!

Friday 2: Drink

If life were a drink I'd gag on its sour-sweet brew.
If life were a man I'd slash him and be rid of him.
If I were a drink I'd be hot and hard coffee.
I am a man who's pushing against life.

If life left, who would miss it?
If life wept, who would kiss it?

Life is a drink that every man must imbibe.
Life is a man who rules my every waking hour.
If I were a drink I'd be cool, stale water.
If I were a man I'd have something to say....

Song Line

I have an idea for a line in song. Any suggestions for the rest?

I once fell into quicksand, and you were my rope.
When I fall into the pit of sorrow, you help me cope.
You're my joy, my light, and above all my hope.
I want you.

Friday 1: The Caged Bird Sings No More

Empty inside,
my sadness excited.
I jump up and cry.
Lying in my cell,
I hold myself captive,
Holding the key all the while.
Waiting for my chance to smile.

I missed the train today,
went back home and lied down.
I hadn't missed anything at all:
Nothing that I wanted.

I eat all day to fill my heart,
but it's never glutted.
My body drags from place to place,
Never knowing where it is.
The caged bird sings no more,
The iron of its bars is now its heart.


I'm in a room, cold and white.
I'm in a room, cold and white.
All I can think to do is cry.

This is part of a series I call Friday, because that's the day I had a depressive breakdown and wrote them. Enjoy.

The Dry Thing

I was driving the Mystery Machine in the rain through the woods when I got a rear flat tire, so I had to ride the rims for about five miles. I came to a little abandoned cabin, and it was rather desolate. I went inside for shelter and began to look around. Through a door's window, which is framed an pink curtains, I see The Dry Thing. Its skin was the color of charcoal, or burnt meat, and it was tight stretched and without texture over bone. Its head was slightly longer than a man's, and in its eye sockets were sunken little orbs, black and featureless. It had no expression, because its skin was so thin and wrapped so tightly. It awoke in me some primal fear. I awoke sweating, panting.

College

I had a dream that I went to Harvard, which looked just like HCHS but richer, and my best friend there was the Gingerbread Man. Well, we had become very good friends, so he asked me to come to his secret place. We went up on the roof and he showed me his flying disks, which looked like inflatable disks with thick plastic for their shell. I attatched the disks to my hips and flew at night, with clouds and fog. I took no joy in this. As I flew low, two Italian brothers with stereotypical moustaches stabbed the disks with forks and popped them. They were dressed like chefs. When I told Gingerbread Man this he swore we would take revenge on the Italians. The next day we entered a flying contest against them, and borrowed some disks from the judges. My turn was first. Before the judges gave me the disks I took off flying, dolphin swimming to go faster, do gigantic loops in the air, doing barrel-rolls, and all the while listening to people amazed and remarking about all the records I was breaking. This time I was elated. The Italians surrendered, and Gingerbread Man celebrated. We stood in the winners' circle proud when the love of Gingerbread Man's life, a chocolate lab, professed her love to him. They kissed with passion as I posed for the cover of a magazine. This is the first flying dream I've ever had.

Umbra

I stare into the sun;
Cornea and Umbra meet.
In it I see my father,
The sun I see in me.

He tells me that I've lost him,
and purpose I cannot find.
But the glow tells another story,
In the sun I lose my mind.

My present is contorted,
My past, it is contrived.
The sun devours my days,
taking that for which I've strived.

An old man am I now,
My eyes have long lost sight.
Life has faded to darkness,
I stare into my night.

Why Hopes and Dreams

I have always shared my poetry and dreams with a select few, but I feel it is time to let anyone who wishes to do so experience my inner workings. I regret that I am not more interesting, but I'm sure someone will be interested. I'll enter all of my poetry to date as soon as I can get my poetry book, and I'll post dreams as they occur. To clarify, these are literal dreams, and I remember one on almost all of my rare nights of sleep. I am a developing insomniac, and my dreams are fits of activity. My poetry tends to reflect a certain pessimism about the present, but optimism for the future, and I like to reflect that there are very few things I really care about. People, myself generally not included, are one of those things. Feel free to analyze either my dreams or my poems, but keep all comments peaceful and constructive if you can. I won't stifle your passion, and if you feel moved to flame me I'll understand your motivations. Post anonymously if you care to do so, although I cannot see a reason for you to fear my reaction. I never react in anger. Or spite. Or envy. Or retaliation.