Skip to main content

On Bad Days

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #186. Sorry. Probably best to skip this one.


On bad days I argue with the void: it is empty;
I call it full of nothing made pathological; therefore
it obsesses to possess mass, to be something
arguing with the universe but shouting in the mirror
black as starlit backdrop, as stars that fall
deeper and deeper into time until they 
drag everything into the void and are empty,
wrung out of needing to have an argument
and then we look at each other, deep in the black
fallen forever of our gaze. 

I wasn't going to post this week. But that probably doesn't matter...because here is a post. This has been a weird week and, in the midst of much more important things, my NaNo project just [temporarily] self-destructed. There will be a return to that project and I'm already sharpening the knives for it. Just need to let a little off-topic anger abate so that everyone doesn't get flamethrowers and a crazy 80's soundtrack. AAAAAAAAEEEEEIIIIIIIIIII! *explosion* *power chord* *secondary explosion* *high-pitched guitar phrase* *tertiary explosion* *power ballad with all the emotional range of a toddler dragged to just one more store extolling the glories of love and really rad highways* *silence* *whine of the worst love theme ever penned* *credits creep upward* **some of them catch fire** **some of them explode** **good lord, does that note ever end** **random catch phrase** **the rest of the credits are on fire** **it's fine** *the lights come up* *overstimulated audience stumbles toward the restrooms* *the credits are still burning* 

-- chrissa

Comments

  1. FireblossomNovember 13, 2021 at 5:05 PM

    Sounds like clinical depression described.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Carrie Van HornNovember 13, 2021 at 5:55 PM

    Even though this is an intense and painful write, it is excellent. I love the closing line too. I hope you do return to the Nano project and I would enjoy a great 80s soundtrack.

    ReplyDelete
  3. SunitaNovember 13, 2021 at 8:24 PM

    Your poem has so much to say, loneliness, helplessness and hollowness! A rant from the depth! Hope things work out for you, Chrissa. :)

    ReplyDelete
  4. Gillena CoxNovember 14, 2021 at 5:11 AM

    "I call it full of nothing made pathological;"

    Indeed that's the void

    Happy Sunday

    Much💛love

    ReplyDelete
  5. hedgewitchNovember 14, 2021 at 7:28 AM

    I love the central pivot here, the constant argument with world and self, the void infinite around us, that is empty yet also reflective of every dark twist in our own brains. This is probably one of the poems I've seen from you that speaks the most to me. Really well done.

    ReplyDelete
  6. HelenNovember 14, 2021 at 8:04 AM

    Don’t know which I enjoyed more ~~ poem or notes!! Whichever, an amazing gift from you this morning!

    ReplyDelete
  7. Sherry Blue SkyNovember 14, 2021 at 9:37 AM

    Yes, I enjoyed the notes as much as the poem. The closing lines of your poem are especially potent,

    ReplyDelete
  8. qbitNovember 14, 2021 at 1:10 PM

    "it obsesses to possess mass" - Oooh!! fabulous. " stars that fall deeper and deeper into time" is great too! I love all the sound mass here, the syllables like stars falling into black holes.

    ReplyDelete
  9. ✿November 14, 2021 at 5:16 PM

    “black as starlit backdrop” ... nice

    “wrung out of needing to have an argument” ... I am so there.

    ReplyDelete
  10. JimNovember 14, 2021 at 6:15 PM

    I hope soon you will be writing again.
    BTW, is "the credits are still burning" good or bad?
    ..

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. C. SandlinNovember 15, 2021 at 5:45 AM

      By the time I got there, I think it was the right way to leave them, so not bad. Just on fire. :)

      Delete
  11. purplepeninportland.comNovember 19, 2021 at 5:55 PM

    A dark, but deserving poem. I wish you better times, Chrissa.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in...
15 comments
Read more

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa
16 comments
Read more

The Soul and The Spine

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low,  eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe  so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes  she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches  between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small  not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...
14 comments
Read more