La voix qui m’exprime la sentiment,

– Personne n’comprend l’ile d’une ame seul.

I.

On the island where no one will meet you.

You stand alone. Imagining

Dust bowls in ghost towns,

Tin toys in dark, cobwebbed attics.

You play out the battles of minor heros

erased by history’s collective unconsciousness.

No anxious separation for dour, fractured men

who only think about conquering the latest imaginary land,

who don’t care if there are women laughing.

II.

Closed curtains stage permanent midnights.

And magic markers blot out the world if you want them to.

You smear grubby oil pastels onto a white canvas and stain the carpet for artistic effect.

You fall into your own inkwells of despair, where

the pen barely lifts from the paper, and there you have it,

Your secrets crushed to a close.

You will never publish the books locked deep within.

III.

rip up your n a m e,

no trace

no trace of your footsteps upon Planet Earth….

IV.

Your frozen tears crackling in a cascade of sparkles,

Leaking out slowly, like crystal spikes popping out of your

battered, deadened heart.

Beat beat beat

But just barely, enough so that no one sees the blood trickle,

The holes patched up in desperation,

Not to be found out,

For fear that the Others will know

how you really feel about your mother, your boyfriend, your senator,

your boss, your friends.

Hide yourself until you disappear.

V.

Why hasn’t anyone ventured your way, stepped beyond the threshold, into that little sitting room?

You are so ALIVE. I can FEEL your mind. You are pulsing, carrying through, vibrating,

glowing like thunder, throbbing, thrashing unapologetically in total abandon,

Penetrating through matter like it doesn’t exist.

I can feel you screaming inside yourself, screaming like a signal on a higher frequency,

Waiting to get out!

VI. Dr. Seuss Meet Mr. Reality

@#$% OFF, world!

(Oh Dear! Oh My!)

And then there are those people unlike you, so very unlike you.

Who shout to hear themselves above all others, who don’t look down

before they step in dog doo and then walk onto your brand new carpet.

They just don’t look down, do they?

They don’t see their bodies, they don’t see their own faces.

They don’t look up, and they don’t look inside either.

They just don’t look, period.

They trample upon flowers, they walk into walls.

And they are just no darned fun at all.

VII.

Like the Creator,

You don’t want to believe in stupidity and vice.

You try so hard to give the idiots a second chance.

But for you, hope is a balloon waiting to pop.

You are the kind of nice, decent person who finds it hard to say “@#$% OFF”

and really, really mean it. OK, maybe you mean it for thirty minutes of ranting,

but then after the heat and the smoke subside, you begin to regret what you said, feel badly for overreacting.

And then, right about NOW, you blush hotly, and suddenly your untelevised life begins to feel a bit too public.

You know if you speak the truth, someone is waiting in the wings with a hatchet.

But this is no surprise to a person who reads the end of a book first.

VIII.

None of your private energy reaches them. But they don’t even think about you.

They don’t even see you, not the real you. Why do they IGNORE you like that!

NO ONE IGNORES YOU, D@#& IT!

Just take an eraser and finish the job already!

At eight o-five, a forensic scientist examines your body and find word fossils lying on your tongue.