Spiral Slide

I.

I yell at myself and fight with a side that is me and is not me all in the same moment
I agonize over what could be a supposed death of that angel that sits on my shoulder
The devil thinks he has a new sand box
Filled with hot wheels, buckets, and plastic dinosaurs
But what he thinks is a play place is actually a sifter
And I catch all the weevils in the flour
I don't like extra protein in my bread

II.

I am placid and calm, directed and comfortably moving
I am irreverently seismic and as inconstant as the wind
I am angry and irritable, my eyes fill with red
I am happy and ambitious, success happens like a Midas touch
I do not want to be what I am
I want to be what I was, am, and will be
But at last I am me

III.

You cannot force me down this spiral slide into a box of wood chips
I can see the puddle at the bottom, brown and murky
It has just rained and the light refracts from the metallic surface
It blinds and heats, and the humidity is palpable
If I sit much longer on top my thighs will burn
Simmering flesh and a sweaty brow
Letting go I slide and the metal grips my skin, squeaking me to a stop

The Milk Maid

Have I forgotten myself?
Swept up in a delicious delirium of playful love?
Is it folly or future?
Am I fearful or inept?
What step to take or path to cross I know not
I cannot know for sure
I must put my neck to the guillotine and hope for mercy
Ann Boleyn is not me
I am Sir Francis Drake
Defender of the English country by sea
Destroyer of the Spanish Armada
How can a milk maid make me weak at the knees?
She is so fair
So joyful
She makes me happy like no Spanish galleon ever could
I would fight ten thousand fleets to see her smile
To feel her warm embrace
To touch those soft lips
Such tenderness the sea will never know
But I can know for a moment and it would be enough
A glance of affirmation would suffice as my heart yearns for sweetness
The sea has battered me and left my tongue dry and salty
It thirsts for a water of life that she only can give
A milk maid coming with her pail
I shall not wait for meat
Milk will suffice

Mired in Progress

Drifting, floating, yielding to the current
A steady push of ticks and fluid flashes of dim light
Opulence comes and goes as does eventfulness, usefulness
Wallowing or wading through sandy breezes of mind masturbation
A trickle of truth and a glimpse of glory fading as the sun retires
"We must live for the moment," they say, and fill our calenders to the point of bulging and explosion
Well get me a belt, suspenders or a bottle of laxatives
We are not meant to be so full of this mindlessness
There is more to be said for the calm reticence and meticulous craftiness that an idle mind and a patient nap bring
So I wallow. But mired in progress. The kind that the world cares little about.