Step Right Up, Ladies And Gentlemen

Spectacular circus!

Excruciating portrait of pain,

drawn in shades of rage and shame.

Bold brushstrokes of righteous indignation,

thin, tawdry, whitewash

applied with a heavy hand

covering the abraded grain

of ancient, weathered timbers;

old raw bones baring charred scars,

tangible reminders of distant burning fires

fueled by youthful indiscretions.

Will grueling wheat paste,

splash of monochrome graffiti

enhance the value of this dark alley?

Or, rather the contrary,

highlight deeper dank decay;

cracked and tattered signs

of long repressed neglect

of thoughtless disregard

so callously concealed

beneath fresh wet glistening veils?

Usher in the blindfolded.

Let them breathe the fumes.

Imagine, with sightless might,

a glorious manse upon the hill.

Caution! Wet Paint!

Don’t breathe too deep!

Black mold lingers

hidden just beneath!

On The Borderline Again

His smarmy tongue waggles,
weaving glowing gossamers, clouding hearts and minds
with mists of glittering unreason.

His garbled glossolalia

explains inexplicable,

defends indefensible,

justifies vast injustices.

Before his words, miasmas
of fecund decay shift,
begins to resemble aromas
of lavender and roses.


crass caresses

of slimy snake oil

conceal cuts of serrated steel.

Hope and reason succumbs
to resignation and despair.
Luminous hope drowns struggling
in seas of gilded sludge.

As growing thick dark shrouds

envelop all, he pauses,

draws breath, smiles.

In that instant his spells shatter!

Plug your ears, Ulysses!
There are no second chances.

Neither Poetry Nor Prosaic

In the course of my professional day, I spend many hours talking with, and more importantly, listening to people describe strongly held beliefs that are not rooted in any objective reality. Frequently, these people feel that they are superior to others, like myself, and therefore can not be understood by someone who is not equally superior. I hear people describe feelings of persecution that are not supported by observable facts. Sometimes they describe vast networks of conspirators who are struggling heroically to do them harm. I often find myself wracking my brain trying to follow a lengthy string of words looking for some thread of logic that holds together an incoherent collection of free flowing ideas; desperately looking for that one unifying idea that binds together an otherwise unrelated whirlwind of mental flotsam. I often feel profound sorrow when I reach the conclusion that no such thread or idea exists. Such is the nature of my day as a mental health clinician. Tonight I read the transcript of an interview what held many of these same characteristics.

To say that I am concerned would be an understatement of unimaginable proportions. May God have mercy on us all.