Sunday, April 8, 2012

A Personal Matter

Call it lonely.                                                                  
Call it bare hands and prison.
Call it cognitive liberty.
Call it a compulsion or,
call it a practice.
Call it three days on the road.
Call it hunger and housekeeping and healing.                  
Call it window shades pulled half way down.                                            

Call it the mind of God.
Call it how we believe.
Call it the dragon's gate or heaven's door.
Call it unspeakable.
Call it glory and memory and morality.
Call it genocide.
Call it how it is.

Call it unproductive.
Call it daydreaming.
Call it a long shelf life and a personal matter.
Call it masochism and making small talk.                  
Call it unlike anything you expected.
Call it resisting inertia.                                                            

Call it dark humor or,
call it joy every day.                                                          
Call it winter rain.
Call it legacy or the swirling night air.
Call it fucked-upedness or,
call it a sense of humor.
Call it reading Nietzche and talking about the divorce.
Call it stolen money or an occupied nation.
Call it a lot of time wondering.

Call it Help!
Call it oh yeah?
Call it abnormal psychology.
Call it Mastercard and fresh towels.
Call it seeking advice from a maniac.
Call it acute angles, or be safe and
call it birdsong and pinecones and fairies.

Call it sweaty sheets and a shallow immersion.
Call it hidden in a drawer.
Call it feathering a snare drum or winking at a joke.
Call it a full-length mirror.
Call it a morning bath or a strange disease, but
whatever you do
call it.

You make the call.


  1. wow. you called it all right. each line is alive with life, and hits you over the head to get on with it, hurry up and get to it. right on, monica.

  2. Felt like a herd of wild horses trying to break free; or something like a literary zentangle.
    Thanks for your company, m.