Half Life

Waking up in the morning with your mind already spinning.

 

                         The windows

                       still, quiet, black

                   before morning breaks

                 before sunlight shrieks through glass

                onto the scuffed-up hardwood floors

                            of my life.

            Wind outside rasping grains of snow and ice

                                salt

             through the empty rafters of my soul.

            Somewhere inside, my mind stirs

            My hand prickles through dumb thick skin

                               NUMB

                 little pinpricks through a heavy palm

                   scored, blistered, and calloused

                 from handling frozen boards, plywood, and cold nails

                     NUMB elephant hand NUMB

                 from cradling the weight of my head.

       feeling a cold alkaline cell

                 Somewhere deep down in my Center

                  once a warm copper slug

                  that charged my mornings.

                        feeling my heart

                         )))))contract(((((

                       (((a slimy muscle)))

                 the meat of a red grapefruit

       feeling muted dreams recede through the pitch black

                 outside my bedroom window.

       feeling

                 The stalk of stiff skin below my sheets subside,

                 disappointed by an Apocalypse of cold and empty,

                          white and wrinkled

                                 sheets

       feeling

                 Methadone saturated blood, saturated receptor sites honeycomb within my head,

                                  saturated! the gel of my eyes. saturated! sweat-matted hair

                                  saturated! the big monsters that crawl through the back of my dreams.

                                  saturated! the netting of pores across the whole of my skin.

                                  saturated! somewhere out there, you are being baptized

                                       in the clean waters of love.

                     and I am saturated! saturated! saturated!

              I rise

        my blood drains

             back down to my fingertips

                           down to my toes

             prickling, tickling

Neurons in little electric trickles rivulet through the channels of my head

I feel my cold, bony legs together

   (your legs are too skinny, your kneecaps too knobby, you shouldn't wake up alone

    past 30 my Uncle told me once, or else there's something flawed in U )

The alarm continues blinking

its thick green meaningless numbers

cackling static, now and again a voice cuts in

               and condemns.

The cell phone vibrates on my nightstand

The dull glow of the television against polished living room floor

    (heaven is a spare lazy hour propped against a couch, without thoughts,

     watching faces float across the screen)

          and its afterglow aura bathes my living room.

The coffee pot is stuck saluting me with its broken top

   from the corner table

   venting frustration through its gurgling throat.

The appliances too will drain their juice some day

The bathroom faucet sputters and chokes

ice-cold water

revives my hand some

but doesn't free the dirt

stuck between the lines of flesh.

My soul goes clattering up a staircase in my forehead

   while I peer through the mirror

   that shields my medicine cabinet.

My reflection is imprisoned in that mirror all day

   while I'm away at work, while I'm in the car, while I'm at play.

I can't be expected to keep going and going and going

                       and going

                       away from that reflection.

Author's Note

Half life, like the type that a battery has, like the type that a narcotic has in the body, like how you feel when half your life is probably over and none of that Big Fat Equation in your soul has been solved. Hope the formatting carried over.

Reviews

[Zahra]

Very nice

[James William Dyer]

thanx so much.

[AmongSavages]

Your poetry is BEYOND amazing. The imagery you use is so vivid that I can see every single line of the poem as if they were pictures instead of words. You have a way with words my friend.

[James William Dyer]

thx so much

[spiritwind]

You are definitely not the half life of talent
yours is the beginning overflowing of the poet soul
look at these words you write:
"My soul goes clattering up a staircase in my forehead
while I peer through the mirror"
While I wouldn't go so far as to murder for talent like that, I gnaw on my soul and tell it to wake up and write like that
Been here but I didn't see you there so how did you know?
"The bathroom faucet sputters and chokes

ice-cold water

revives my hand some

but doesn't free the dirt

stuck between the lines of flesh."

Amazing work, astounding way of stringing thoughts together,
I am in awe

[James William Dyer]

I read this praise I get from time to time to save me from giving up after checking my email and watching the emails full of rejection build up. Still, I don't expect these collections of poetics to fail.

[James William Dyer]

PROBABLY THEY WILL FAIL. But know that the praise from those who do read it keeps my ego from falling apart, and it helps. I appreciate it, from the bottom of my heart. Tonight I am loaded on oxycodone, and am writing writing writing writing.......so little time, I know it. Not enough time,. Not enough time.

[spiritwind]

I am glad my appreciation of this gigantic talent of yours helps you---I tuly could not bear it if you quit on yourself and gave up writing---maybe I am looking at this with a selfish eye but if you quit and your talent is massive and awesome and real then I too should quit because I am nowhere near you in poetry [notice I didn't say writing novels because I will still write those even on my death bed] ...please, dear friend, never ever quit, you'd be defrauding this world we're all stuck on... how in the world do you stay awake on oxycodone? I fall asleep while drinking from a glass of water on that pain killer... hey, take care of you, okay?

[That_Girl]

At first I wondered if this was what a hangover was like for most people (constant drinking means VERY mild hangovers. Woo! lol) but then I saw Methadone and it all came together. I get it. Completely. A narcotic low is SO different from a hangover, wouldn't you say? For me at least.

Your imagery is beyond incredible. It's real though, not so out of this world that no one can relate because they just don't understand... it's really well done. The entire piece was constructed wonderfully.

"past 30 my Uncle told me once, or else there's something flawed in U )" Maybe I'm seeing things, or just unable to read today... but the numbers and "U" tripped me up. But that was IT. Love it.

[James William Dyer]

yeah, the inclusion of number and the spelling of U are superficial, too, and contribute nothing. I'll be changing those. I feel a narcotic low is much better than a hangover. It can be bad, but the upside is always worth it, to me, anyhow. It has been something I've managed now for over a decade and have done so successfully.

[James William Dyer]

thx

[Ees]

"before sunlight shrieks through glass"- God, love it. the word, "shrieks" because sometimes it truly does!

And oh god, I love your poetry. I read it out loud and I feel the way that my brain works echoed in ways that I could never write, but that you do oh so completely well. Your work is always impressive. And a little stressful. Fantastic job!

[James William Dyer]

thanx so much. My internet is back up and running, throw me some RRs, but throw me a private message when you do....I have 1,512 RRs that built up since my internet was shut off.

[Ees]

Hi!
Haha, now I have just gotten internet and returned to civilization.

[Coyote Poetry]

The poem is amazing. The honest and direct feel of the poem brought me in. I had to read again. I like poetry like this poem. Many reflections and situation came to life in your words. Always a pleasure to read your outstanding poetry.
Coyote

[James William Dyer]

thank you

[eglantine]

You have a very unique writing voice. I enjoyed this piece, although the first image of that sun breaking through seemed very harsh and loud to me compared to how it really is.

[James William Dyer]

to some sunlight through a window is a gentle and happy thing, to someone who is hiding from a raw and painful reality, who has inner dillemas they don't want exposed, the sunlight might shriek, might break the glass of their fragile world, the one they seem so comfortable in after midnight when the whole world goes black outside.

[James William Dyer]

thx

[KAOlmsted]

You know, James, every time I read one of your pieces I feel as though I am a voyeur, standing just outside your line of sight, spying on you; but of course the ironic part is you know I'm there, and yet you carry on and do all of the intimate things you do on a daily basis while you allow me to watch, never really giving me the full benefit of the satisfaction I might feel at being discovered. Thanks for opening those blinds just enough to give me a peek; sometimes it makes me cringe, but I always like what I see.

-kimmer

[James William Dyer]

thank you, these comments mean a lot to me. In a world where the Language Arts are crippled and dying, it means the world to me.

[KAOlmsted]

Always my pleasure. And...agreed.

[barton smock]

'the big monsters that crawl through the back of my dreams'

think the poem is in the above, and stays there as in a mirror. do like the madness, the honest getting at it.

[Baby Ricochet]

I like the metaphors here. Great work as always.