I need an outlet.
I feel so trapped,
like I’m wrapped up in one big
roll of Ace bandage.
Constricted. If only there was
something I could do to
release my self.
Some opening through which
I could tear away my shroud
and breathe.
Yes, I need an outlet.
Perhaps I’ll try poetry.

Flashes of red in the distance.
The pale, stretched-out Moon
hangs from unseen
marionette strings
forgotten by some
Great Puppeteer.
The red creeps closer.
By inches, it seems.
Apprehension racks my body with shivers,
though it is a hot, humid October night.
I hear screams in the distance of the red.
What’s the date?
What’s the time?
What’s the name of the current President?
I don’t know,
because I’m not near a calendar.
I don’t know,
because I don’t own a watch.
I don’t know,
because politics makes me sick.
I hear bells in the distance, from the direction of the red.
12.
I see a newspaper drift by in the wind:
"President Larson to address ebola pandemic..."
Oh, right, him.
As I turn away from the lamplight oasis,
I run into a small hard object at knee level.
Red felt hat.
Horns.
A devilish, childish grin.
Ah, that’s it.
Halloween.

Perspective

A giant monster,
bulbous and twitchy,
floats by on spindly oars.
Snowlakes of cloud-white swirl.
Leylines of Green
run criss-cross below.
Above, who knows?
Some cyclopean world,
too huge for even the hugest imagination.
To see it would be wonderous,
but sticky crystal barries
curve to cut off escape.
Closed in from all sides,
This world of tumultuous
turning.
No, this world is enough.
Plenty to explore here.
Space for every one.
The inside of a dewdrop
on a blade of grass.