Because of your problem, do you have difficulty getting out of bed?

She nudges me toward the open shade.

Darkness binds to what is nearly light.

 

Look how mist lies in some valleys & dips, 

but not in others. I thought that was the snow.

 

See the sky wild in orange ripped with pink.

I thought it was the mountains on fire.

 

Those robins look funny poking the lawn.

Ungrateful children singing the prettiest songs.

 

Seems we’re in for a change in the weather.

It feels like I am getting the flu.

 

See the contrails crisscross the brightening blue.

It looks like a chalkboard that needs erasing.

 

Yes, that's it! Every day is a fresh beginning,

a wiping clean of the slate! I look out past dead

stalks of corn.

                        Yes, each day, as I roll away,

it starts all over again.

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Brantlee Reid
Do quick movements of your head increase your problem?

Rosie, who's sixty years old? Don't shake that head.

It's me, that's who. I fake to present a happy balance

to a cake over ten. Dazed after waking to more dread

of homophones, abrupt parallaxis & inversion of chance.

This bughead sensation began of not getting up, words

taut after rising from stop to why drops. I also felt most

unbeing, troubled by spells that lasted seconds & thirds,

a marionette strung up & danced by a jittery ghost.

I steadied by bending back to upright after turning down.

That doesn't make me a perpendicular clown.

 

Rosie, I notice you spinning an untidy mistake by arching

backwards while pulling out eyes, evening drips by turning red.

You may recall a simpler epithet one earlier year, marching

itself & spinning away. I have no occasional watershed

to suggest past vestibulars would put up a fight,

nor temporal relationship between the aural & rain.

A cute virago evoked migraines & lust, hearing, loss & night.

Why must I grovel with my earthquake head & sunspot brain,

while you just sit there, a hydra, like three Queens of Siam?

You must think me the fool. Well it seems, yes I am.

 

Rosie, trilateral, why can't you see what you're doing to me?

By divination, I have no signs of decelerated craving,

no nostalgias at rest provoked by gaze, but a horizontal tree

impulse first, as the hexagram manically delivers high raving

crescendos in a homicidal plan to reassess my love for you.

With no evidence of a “catch-up saccade,” you believe in,

you engaged in my beating up, counterclock pas de deux.

I know you must think this is your way to get even,

making me dodge those sadistic white birds by the sea.

Rosie, can please you stop shaking your heads at me?

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Brantlee Reid
Does your problem cause you to feel as though you have left your body?

Hi, I'm serpentine & will be eaten in two weeks. I've exploited

these simpletons since I was evergreen & now I think I'm ripe

 

enough. I've been to culpable dictators & none of them can sell

me what's wrong. I'll look up feeling fairly fizzy. I'm watching

 

myself. It comes & goes on feverfew weeks, juice apples one

or two a day. It lasts from Sam I Am until C3PO, but will list

 

right for the holiday. If I focus on glossolalia, my venison gets

bloody, with an almond hash over my eyes. I feel a fissure belie

 

my islets & just phalanx out of it. If peppers talk to me, it's as

if I'm in a lost epitaph of Charlie Brown. Everyone mounts me

 

like an adulterer. I've been tasted for dire beadies, anime & a hot

lunch of thugs. Fear no weevil, thy rotten, thy staph. They come,

 

fortunate me. The wired thing is laughter mirages. They change

deep ending on what I cook. They move wherever I hang. Around

 

trapezium, the signalers go away. I get this rash of synergy & find

fire for the rust of the day. Sometimes I look at this guy & it feels

 

like Father, like floating above my body. It's said I would rather be

there than here. I get these ghost hugs where I feel a ticking against

 

my clock or leg, like some understanding here against me. I've been

checked for Warm Embrace, but I even get the sensation with lights  

 

on, so there's no actual hugs,

it’s just in my mind.

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Brantlee Reid