Mornings

You wake up somewhere

Between a banquet of baby-blue constellations

In a nebular float parade

And the black purgatory that hangs

In stasis under the shower drain. 

Your narcolepsy has got you 

Into a New York pay phone booth at three A.M. 

You draw your clammy overcoat of denim tight around you

As to make the impression of a mother's arms

Whilst you lean heavily against the glass.

You're singing little seraph hymns into the receiver 

In soprano under damp street-lights of dull white

but there's a dead tone

and no one's listening.   

You wake up somewhere

And try to change your life,

But you've been comatosed 

For eighty-five years

And you've lost your sense of direction

To the blue and green imps that run round

And steal your polka-dotted socks.

You're flinging someones clothes across the room

And soaking the sweater their grandmother knitted them

In vomit and other unsightly forms of discharge

As to make a political statement

that you've momentarily, and forevermore, forgotten. 

You're standing on the ledge 

Of their infant's nursery window

With the soft blue pulsing of a clown nightlight behind you

You're looking six stories down. 

You wake up somewhere familiar

To nurses

And other patrons that just don't give a f**k anymore. 

You recollect a thought 

hammered deep into a nook by medication 

and remember the meadows of youth

that blossomed with your physical decline.

You try to stand and unhook the IV from your right arm,

But your legs are broken again.

You wake up somewhere

And try to change your life

But the only ledge for you to pull yourself up on

is the electrical outlet to your nutrient machine. 

You wake up for the final time

and haul open the hospital window with your fragile old fingers

to taste the night air and city streets

Before you die just like before, but nevermore.

Reviews

[Lawrence Parlier]

A wonderfully descriptive tour through a nightmare existence. The lines between reality/memory-illusion/delusion blur to great effect. The form itself serves the poem well as thoughts and images flow out creating their own shapes.
Another excellent job.

*In the fifth stanza-Is that supposed to be clothes-instead of cloths?*

[mariah]

wow.... nice job! i love how you set the destination and mood of the poem, like its a story plus it has good rythem which is always good, and makes the poem more eaiser to read, and understand.i really like yourwork and cant wait to hearmore from you! :D
- Mariah

[Hayley]

I am a huge fan of your writing. You make several extremely strong statements that kind of hit you in the face, for example: "You're flinging someones cloths across the room
And soaking the sweater their grandmother knitted them
In vomit and other unsightly forms of discharge
As to make a political statement
that you've momentarily, and forevermore, forgotten. "

I like especially in that stanza, the forevermore, forgotten, and then in the last stanza, the before, but nevermore. The play on words there is fantastic! The recurring descriptions and colors, like the baby blue, is interesting to me because that is a calming color, a symbol of rebirth if you will. That ties in nicely with the different wakings up.
This whole piece seems to me like a reflection on life, why we live, why we doubt that reason, as we're "looking six stories down".

Absolutely phenomenal.

[rose with love]

a great one; I love how you set the mood and I like how you told the story. This poem is deep in sorrow and loss and still you can gently feel a bit of hope emerging from the blackness. One very enjoyable read.

[Alskar]

Ah, I love the sense of hopelessness throughout. We get the sense at the beginning that the speaker's not going to make it through this life- but you hope, since you manage to generate sympathy for his plight. It was lines such as 'infant's nursery window' that really me engage with and feel for the speaker. You also darken stereotypically nice images, such as the grandmother's sweater, which to me just defines how lost and how hopeless he has become. It's like this guy has believed in something all his life, only to find out that it's a lie, and this is the emotional result. The second stanza is the best- it's almost prose-like, and your description of the jacket was just lovely. I also applaud using the medium of waking up in the mornings to move the story on, used before but you make it fresh again. I enjoyed this piece a lot.

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

the static existence~ gad you do know how to pull the soul's sinew through the eye of the demon's needle~ we're our own worst enemies I fear sometimes~ there are a dozen layers in pulse beating at the doors of consciousness~every stanza splinters that door and spits a splinter into the subconscious~ there is LIFE~ but how many truly live it~ I know I'm guilty of the repetitive cycles of unlife~ kicker is there is no death until we've schooled ourselves in life~ adore your mind and how it works through the imagery reel and the imaginary real~