--THE TREES ARE SO HUGE THAT THEY SHUT YOU UP

This Is My Depression Talking

I am having an

inkblot moment again,

that sloshing-swimming black

with not enough white,

not enough light,

the jerking-jolting weight

of the world making me seasick,

on the verge of vomiting,

the very act a vanity itself,

so right there that’s another reason

for repulsion and self-loathing.

Let’s face it, not everyone can

skip through rain puddles with wonder

hanging off their toddler face. 

Not everyone can smile

for the camera on request. 

Some of us have to

suck on barnacles for sustenance,

make love to husky poison ivy,

untangle monkeys from our hair

using rusted tweezers.

In these inkblot moments,

I am here and somewhere

else at the same time,

transmuted maybe,

but more transported,

aborted actually,

and life gets slick,

it does,

slippery, coppery,

like a bloody nose in summer,

but violent too, like a slap

out of nowhere, or eating

random bolts of lightning,

falling in a sink hole with its

garbage disposal teeth

working overtime,

grinding away until I’m

just pulp and mush.

I don’t expect you to understand. 

After all, this is

my depression talking,

taking charge, taking over,

an invading Hun with a hatchet,

a band of marauders more

hedonistic and perverse than

Caligula ever was.  

So sometimes, to self-preserve, I set myself

at Monet’s pond, figuratively of course.

(I’m depressed, not nuts.)

I make myself into colors,

soft and blurred ones.

Impressionism. 

Depressionism.

I look from pad to pad,

from moss green leaf to

butter yellow leaf.

to taupe and mauve leaf,

every slurry leaf. 

I think to myself, if I can

actually see the colors,

there is still hope,

there might possibly be hope.

I close my eyes and hold on

to whatever is closest,

and if there is nothing to grip,

I pretend there is,
squeezing tight as I can.