Stationary Unicycle

As part of my ongoing homage to Kenneth Koch, here are a couple of little poems, odes if you will. To Life, If Life were a Gift  I didn't ask for this it's the wrong size I don't like the material it's not as advertised I would have been perfectly nothing without you the spaces between people air without breathing To Life if Life were a Fairy Tale rarely if ever Goldilocks' just right spilled farina a broken chair rumpled bed clothes an ungrateful child lost in the woods waiting for bears

I mentioned I was going to borrow from Kenneth Koch's New Addresses: Poems . Every poem in his collection is an ode, a poem addressed to something.  I love that idea, and I've decided to write a series of odes myself, just as a writing exercise, not to steal but just to write something, I've hit a dry spell, and well, whatever. I've written a couple of poems. He wrote a poem called To Life, and I wrote a poem by the same name. It's very different in every way, starting with quality and ending with content.  As far as I know, Koch didn't write a poem to a housefly.  I have.  If he had, it would be better or course, but I beat him to it.  To the housefly buzzing and bouncing off the screen of the open window you are obviously unsatisfied with your surroundings It's clear you'd like to get the fuck out of here you can sense the outside world yet it's confounding illusive elusive  In a few d

As a long term depressed person, the most compelling material I have is not exactly compelling. I don't get out much and I don't do anything when I stay in. This lifestyle does not make for scintillating content. So I did a simple Google search for blog ideas, and I pilfered. Top 10 lists are big, beauty and fashion blogs are big, these are not my personal go-tos for material, but I found myself oddly inspired. Even when I'm feeling well, the topic of beauty and personal grooming doesn't come up. When people think of me, which, you know, is not exactly often, but if I do cross a mind, I'm pretty sure the first thought isn't, "My, that woman is well groomed and so well put together." Pretty sure. Pretty damn sure. Beauty secrets of the chronically depressed : There is no beauty going on here people, unless you call 16 hours of heavy mouth breathing drool sleep a day "beauty sleep", then there's that. Here's a tip: Shower someti

You know when life is sort of shitty and most things really aren't going your way, and I don't mean just the little things, but the big things, things having to do with keeping the roof over your head, things having to do with food on the table, those sorts of big things, when those things are shitty, you know, that's when I want to throw everything real aside and sink into my own personal fantasy land.  By personal fantasy land I mean sleep.  When everything has turned to shit, I want to go to bed.  I think that's what I'm trying to say.  I start to wonder, am I ever EVER going to get my shit together?  At this point I don't need a Magic Eight Ball to tell me, all signs point to NO.  And then I have to wonder, does it matter? I'm getting old people. 

To the white cat sleeping on the chair yellow eyed beauty your purpose in this world to be lovely you sleep on the chair spread across the seat, like you were poured there the dog, tiny thing I can pick up in one hand, but you I can barely lift with two as though you double your weight just to make the task more difficult the chair you occupy is mine overstuffed and tucked between the book shelves I scoop at you and push you and you move begrudgingly with palpable disdain as I lower myself into my seat with my book you jump back quicker than a creature of your luxury should be able you spread yourself thick and languid, as though you'd never moved you are certain the laws of gravity will bend to your will you are ready to take your chances certain I will catch myself before causing you harm I gyrate and scramble slapstick  to prevent my awkward bulk from crushing you I concede the chair to the sup

In his collection of poems, New Addresses: Poems,  Kenneth Koch has written poems in praise of everything from mundane objects to profound states of being:  To Life , To Some Buckets , To Old Age.  The reason I don't read more poetry is that I worry about copying voice or content from others. When I let go of that fear a little and I read some poetry, I realize other people's work can be pretty inspiring and I don't feel nearly as concerned about inadvertent theft. It just occurs to me that these poems are odes (which I keep trying to spell "oads"...because rhymes with toads) which is kind of nice, odes are kind of nice. Since it's a pretty common sort of poem, I thought maybe I'd write some odes myself. I won't steal from good old Kenneth but I will gladly help myself to the ode, because the world is full of things to praise. Poetry isn't for everybody, I get that, I mean, I actually don't get that. But I hear it and I try to accept it.

Honest Question Why is poetry monopolized by academic fuckers who make their poems mercury elusive or slick like a noodle you can't pierce with your fork? Reading Koch and Kenyon in the past, I was  afraid to read other poets for fear of inadvertent thievery and lately lately not an idea in my head just my bland life,  And then to read of the bland lives of others, buckets, full and empty,  insects crawling in a book I remember  the big secret everything  every fucking thing is a poem Critique I wander the house  foul bored dissatisfied there is nothing to say I have  nothing  to say "My mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing..." ee cummings wandering my barren internal landscape,  with that lamment "My mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing..." but the shadow of my  arrogant self hiding behind  a tree of charcoal and soot says  Why "Big" mr cummings? I t

I wrote personal essays, I really enjoyed writing them, too. I mean, I still do write personal essays, but it doesn't give me the same pleasure to write them, and frankly, I find myself at a loss for material or bored as fuck. I wonder who really wants to know about what I find funny, frustrating, or sad? I know I personally have a hell of a time reading personal essays. There are people I love to read and I could read their stories every day, David Sedaris comes to mind first and shows like This American Life beguile me. I almost didn't use the word beguile...it was the first word that came to mind and then I was like, "nah, beguile? Really? Isn't that a bit much?" and I realized, no. These stories beguile me. Then there are the personal stories of people I love, and I love to read those too. But then I'll read some other stuff, and I'm bored shitless, and I think to myself, why the fuck should I care? For example, I'll be looking for a

I have written about mental health issues in this post and if you're feeling low, you may not want to read any further.  If you are considering suicide or if you are in any kind of mental health crisis, please call the Suicide Prevention Hotline:  1-800-273-8255 or head to your local emergency room. Please reach out and get help. I've been sick for months, too sick to work, too sick to do much of anything.  I've slept a lot like one does when one is ill.  It's embarrassing, because when I say I've been ill what I mean is, I've been depressed. As far as I'm concerned, mental illness is a real thing, and those suffering are actually ill, but there are still folks around who don't think depression is a life threatening disease, or a disease at all, and that those of us afflicted are merely lazy whiny "snowflakes" who'd rather lie around and do nothing than make an honest living.  I am certain I internalized that negative appraisa

Haven't had a compelling thought or written anything interesting in a very long time. On the other hand, my spelling seems to be improving. Not much solace in that though, not a fair trade.

When the kids were younger it was easier to write about stuff. It was easier to write about them because frankly, they didn't care, and it was easier to divulge personal stuff about myself, because frankly, they didn't care. None of it showed up on their radar. But now everybody is older, and I feel there is more at stake. They deserve privacy and their lives are their own, not mine to mine at will, to bend and fashion into something that serves or pleases me or makes a point that I've chosen. That's not fair. And as they get older I feel my public behavior has more of an impact on them. I mean, I'm friends with some of their friends, and if I share some big deep secret or trauma with the world, they are going to know about it, and their friends may know about it, and then I'm just a little too uncovered to feel comfortable. Then there is the very real possibility of being "cringy" which is something to be avoided at all costs. I know I cros

look my pals, I risk alienating you all, over sharing and generally coming off as an attention seeking pathetic loser, but here's the deal: I've been depressed on and off for the last 42 years and I'm really tired of it. I mean really tired, really really tired. Not to worry. I'm just going to go back to bed and hope tomorrow is a better day, but Jesus Christ, this sucks so hard I can hardly stand it.

Some, I'd venture to say, most people have happy memories of summer.  Childhoods spent at the family camp on the edge of the pine woods  on the shore of some small cool pond. Or maybe weeks spent away at a summer camp with other kids  learning to sail or build camp fires, pitch a tent, singing songs around the fire at night, roasting marshmallows.   Summer might have meant day trips to the coast, trips to the local pool,  pool parties with friends, BBQs.  But for me summer was just riding my bike around the block while my mother was at work, or riding my bike around the block while my mother reclined in her plastic lounge chair, greasy with sweat, in a tube top and shorts with her black coffee and cigarettes in the back yard.  I spent a couple of summers with my dad in New York. That was fraught as well. He worked nights and slept days. Summer to me means being alone and lonely. It means being too hot all the time because I was so ashamed of my body I r