dysphoric palm

On the 2nd day of july I woke up to the sound of my heart
it was:
something rather disjointed
somewhat off beat

'twas the way the rest of the universe
experiences my humanly being.

quite awkward
rarely in sync

It was 6am and I reached in the dark for two things:
my watch
a fur coat
the one with the grey lining.


to call this day a waste
this early in the morning
would come off rather
pessimistic of me

but i see these patterns
and i know there tendencies
to:
self induce the action of
REPEAT.



I stand outside
within' the boundaries
of my tiny stoop

looking down at all the cracks in this concrete
calculating the same old formulas inside my mind
stroking my fur jacket
upward
causing friction
with each strand

manipulated.



I look out to a wonderful excuse for a sky line
I begin
i begin
i begin
to shake
the sounds of the universe
are all against me.


janet. who has lived in this building
for over 3000 years
always apologizes when she opens a door
behind me

I stand there
blocking all of her:
morning routines
plans
future
movement


and she apologizes
and i say
"oh"
and shift my body to
the direction she is not
involved in.

(AVOIDING THE CENTER OF HER EYES)

I extended my pointer finger
and place it on the palm of my hand
which often is mistaken
for a piece of paper
or
a journal of some sort


i spell out the word
"TUMULTUOUS"

between the lines
only palm readers
and mothers
seem to be
fascinated by


I BEGIN
to shift my body weight to this left leg
of mine

and reflect on my dormancy
this listless state of being.

perhaps my wings are too broad
to ever extend past this morning?

mourn-ing

brings to life
dozens of blooms

opposed to:
the concept
of joy
and exuberant jest
my youth brought about

in most cases:

death

all of her inhabitants
are classified by
a similar hue


this jacket is a bit warm for july

i mutter


then shrug the thought off
my shoulders
due to lack of
caring

about weather or discomfort

my choice is to resist
the obvious

my choice as a human
to not overwork
vasopressin which
resides inside my brain.

it has already clocked in overtime

twice.



this mour-ning started out so grey
by mid afternoon i am still standing there
sweating
writing a new word inside my
palm
which is now drowning
inside
the lake
of sweat
& foggy sentences

GOOD MORNING OSWALD
they say.


i nod my head
pull my tongue in tightly
refusing to lose anymore breath

on the morning that was doomed.

oh how I welcome
new predictability's!