ALL RESPONSES |
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| This photo is one in a series of photos taken of closed mental hospitals. |
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She will not fail to arrive
February 29, 2012
We two will meet there at the gate.
It will be after some time that she comes.
I wait, calm in my knowing,
sure of what will happen—
that same surety of childhood
that she would be
there in the kitchen after school
with cookies
or cinnamon rolls
just out of the oven.
The child waits
while the mother carries in
clean clothes from the line,
stiff as boards in the winter sun.
No, she will not fail to arrive.
She will hold out her arms,
enfold me there at the entrance.
I will gaze again at her face.
It is the happy smile
of her school portrait,
big bow across the back of her head.
She is beautiful.
She will not fail to arrive.
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The university where I teach
was a state mental institution—
the original Hotel California
where once checked in
one could never leave.
Even though the president
won’t let anyone mention it
students hear whispers
in the walls of redone dorms,
at night sneakers crunch
cracked red tile roofs
The mountains that surround
the university where I teach
were once clouds of volcanic ash
dropped to earth eons ago.
Why wouldn’t buildings bear
the history of a place
spirits registering the way
absence does sounding like
a kleptocracy of crows.
When the computer systems crash
I remember an evil technology.
Here my spirits are made of Kesey’s words,
Nicholson’s doomed McMurphy
and his friend, Chief, who broke out
who flew over these mountains
whose spirit still runs among the yucca
over rocks created from ash.
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They refuse to shave body. Crazy
are we the priestess of the temple. Violence
a nice break. Nice lady. Shave me.
Today, we sort screws, nuts, bolts and washers
into boxes. Here, she speaks friendly
not set apart from the rest, as always it was
in kindergarten, school, in playground.
No naps for me, talked and yelled much,
threw things and had to lay down
in the corner. Later, it was dark coat
closet, a nice, quiet place, really.
snip...snip, snip
Hairspray smells like last time, like hair
collects on floor, gets legs, runs away
Quick! Chase with broom my hairy
into can. Can I have? For making dolls.
But no scissors for clothes, little dresses
hats, underwears. Must tear with teeth
sheets, blankets, curtains. Don't eat.
Macaroni and cheese is good today.
Salmon cakes tomorrow. Even better.
snip, snip...snip
Like this lady in the magazine. Please
please please. So sexy shaved men.
Charlie loves me. Temple priest, big
talk with lord our father. Blood of Christ
blessed, heaven's flesh on earth. Sex
all in astral plane with angel wine. Dry
dry desert children held together loved
waiting. Nuts and bolts, flowers watered
and nurses smiling, a nice place, really.
snip |
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Speaking only in whispers,
you have been successful
in distancing yourself
for years from the tragedy
that is only in your mind
You appear to be a prophet
to any audience who will
listen but secretly long
for a hook from the ceiling
and a rope that will tie
its own knot; that,
and a bit more privacy
to use it |
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All’s not well in the doll’s house
Screams roll deep in the night
The hair in the sink is a memory
The pillow a marshmallow fight
Hands to big for the doll’s house
White sleeves and buckles abound
All is not well in the doll’s house
Where no peace of mind can be found
Correction, deletion mind warping
A tablet held under the tongue
Sanity’s gossamer thin
Madness repeated in song
A blue leather chair in your nightmare
White powder dreams scatter the floor
Two bolts and a key always wake you
Embedded deep in your core
Set out before you your doll’s house
Living the past every day
A replica built to perfection
Free but you still have to pay
Cured of all that haunts you
Medication a thing of the past
The hair in the sink that you dwell on
Binds you to the ghost ship’s mast
Sailing through the doll’s house
Each room tended with care
The dust lies inches thick
But you daren’t look under the stair
Where you buried your inner most secrets
As breath blows back from the brink
Fresh air tastes rank on the tongue
As death stains the hair in the sink
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1 PM sharp by the clock
and the windows
are no longer secured
the last customer was Frieda
fresh from the cafeteria
on the final Friday of work
promptness was important
in some necessary places
as with the hairdressers
it was a bit like the outside that way
appointments and all
and even the conversation
gossip about next-door neighbors
or tales of imagined cell-mates
there was not all that much difference
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How strange to be in two places
at once, in two places at the same time
one: a ‘60’s beauty salon, aqua blue
plastic chair, white talc powder
on the floor, a woman’s footprints
to the seat; it’s one o’clock, screen
mesh is on every window, no matter
which window, it’s even in the mirrors
nothing ever changes here, ever; not time,
not location, not going anywhere never
changes; the same movies, tea leaves,
the three short blocks it takes from
the end of the line to that Beach Road
house on the hill above Third Street East
two: a house in western Wisconsin
to provide a physical reaction to it
takes an effort, to access a chemical
response to it takes only a glass of wine;
on the way there, there is a sort of grandeur
in the flowers, a representation of youth,
full flushed; there is a bench near the house;
one can sit and watch petals fall to the ground;
one can lean back, take three breaths, count
nine heart beats, then the light, then the sound,
and finally all of life’s shadows left behind
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“Who wants to squeeze my boobies?” Minnie would holler while lifting up her shirt. Her perky B cups of 16 and 17 years eventually aging into serious nipples adorned with a few hairs in her 40’s and 50’s. Nevertheless, her smile was always radiant, and her gesture, reserved for her most intimate of friends and family, sincere. Ironically, she was bookish and shy. She drove a hard bargain and demanded excellence from herself and her loved ones. She was difficult to please, a frustration for many, but pleasing her could bring great joy. Privately, I called her Sleeping Beauty. She was tomboyish and skinny and her dirty-dishwater blonde hair, grown midway to her back, was frequently not brushed; hanging plainly around her face. Her lips and her skin were also plain and mousey. But she had a strong jaw line and when she put on lipstick and turned on the charm, you realized you were madly in love with her.
She came to the “Grand Opening” of my first salon, a small shop on the first level of the commercial building where I also kept an efficiency overlooking a parking lot and a park. I had invited the “Old Gang” for cocktails and a sleepover. Things went well. I was pleased. Everyone was pleased. We got caught up with each other over Trivial Pursuit, drinks and a little pot. We washed and styled each-other’s hair. Minnie was feeling groovy so she offered up her boobies. Paul was delighted but also stunned. I diffused the situation by squeezing “A” (she had them discreetly tattooed). She winked at me, uttered a gently intoned “Atta Girl” and the moment passed.
After “Everything” had happened, I visited the old shop. It was still there as were the chairs, the shampoo, everything. The windows were covered with barbed wire and the place was obviously still contaminated. But he sun was out and fond memories of better days came back.
I smiled in spite of myself.
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They were giving a perm
when the ceiling caved in.
They painted the west wall
but forgot the south.
They stuck up photos of swell do’s
your hair might look like.
They bought two chairs
in aqua leather naugahyde.
Someone stole another
from a garbage can’s heap.
They remembered the blower
and hair dryers, forgot the comb
and spray. We’re here!
They covered the windows and mirrors
with wire mesh in case
you didn’t like what you saw
and were prone to erase it
with hammer or fist.
They left the lights on so
anyone could see
and not fall down.
One o’clock, one o’clock
the clock said, the round-
faced clock that stopped. |
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Even though she was released
from the hospital after
the insurance expired,
she does her best
to keep that appointment
at the beauty salon every week
it is all the potholes in front
of the houses with white
picket fences that prevents
her from perfect attendance
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I care for children who don't speak...
Teeth show when they smile with all the Eyes of God.
I seem to sweat the small stuff daily....
They are content in all they have with the Eyes of God.
I grieve with all that is within me...
They jump for joy in their hearts with the Eyes of God.
I comb their hair and brush their teeth...
They study me in great amounts with the Eyes of God.
They laugh at me and sing a song...
Teeth show when we smile with all the Eyes of God.
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She sits, transported to another realm.
Her hair is perfect, she dreams of Superman
to sweep her off her feet,
having swept away her split-ends.
Her floral dress, her spiral locks,
bandaged in her scarf,
her bunions don't hurt from walking,
and her calves look simply stunning in her
square toed shoes.
The air sweeps to her scalp,
the heat from above makes spring.
Superman carries her,
hand-in-hand,
to her children,
to her beloved,
through florescent greens
of April. |
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Blood isn’t really red,
thinks Ann, more a
copper color.
She watches it
ooze around the knife.
Like drilling oil, she thinks,
or creating a manmade pond.
It doesn’t hurt the way it should,
she thinks, and jabs deeper.
The skin on her upper left thigh
is mostly scar tissue and yellow bruises
so she has moved on to her right thigh.
Her tongue meets fire.
She tastes rust.
Her nose scrunches with the pain
and rebirth of her old rage.
The skin is ripe.
The blade slides in further
but meets resistance at muscle.
This is where she usually stops.
This is when she comes awake,
a princess from a fairytale,
gasping in surprise at her discovery
of what has happened to her kingdom.
This where she is drawn by the liquid
quality and quantity of herself,
how much redder
the red has become,
how drops have metamorphosed
to a patter and now
the edge of heavy rain.
This is when she reaches for a towel,
presses down hard on the gash to stem the flow,
entrenched in the peace that has stolen
way to the surface of her mind.
Throbbing with calm,
she pats herself neatly dry.
After removing the towel,
she inspects her handiwork:
the jagged skin, a way in now,
flaps open, glistens
a hole in her exterior
yawning a hello.
Sometimes,
if she has somewhere to be,
she’ll bandage it
and pretend it’s not there.
Sometimes,
she’ll put on a skirt,
leave the wound naked,
so she can feel it hurt
when she moves
as it brushes against the rough material.
Like not wearing underwear.
No, she thinks,
more like a talisman coin,
my secret protection
for no one else to see.
And there’s always the potential,
if there’s wind,
the skirt could fly up
and expose her.
She is both thrilled and afraid
at the chance.
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Asylum
shows
another side,
moving from
shelter to
cells that scream,
air that rages
with saturnine secrets,
blood easily drawn
or dried
in the vessel,
wounds furtively covered
with
beauty balm.
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The barber shop was never a pleasant place
under the corner shoe store when I was a kid
or half way up the hill to the courthouse
or even when it was in the basement
at our house on a Sunday afternoon
with a father who did not handle shears very well
and did not have the cash to not handle them at all
I last sat in a barber's chair in the headquarters shop
compared fishing notes with the post commander
and I am sure the general enjoyed his cut
a good deal more than I did mine
though neither of us had a choice
being a necessary part of the uniform
whether over silver bars or silver stars
I toyed with them myself for a few years
the combs the mirrors and the shears
not all that difficult if your right hand knows
what your left hand is doing
but never really liked what I got out of it
seemed more madness than sense
more convention than function
Those shops have been abandoned for decades
and I would not know where to direct you
to any barber anywhere as I know none
but still have those very good shears
hidden away in a drawer or a box somewhere
for that day when they put me back into another kind
of uniform and on some schedule I can not refute
rev 031412 1a |
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Hi honey. How do ya want your hair done? Take a seat. Are ya new here? I haven't seen you around. There isn't a lot of time for me to socialize. I don't get around much... Cut peoples hair though.. Seen em come and go... Where do they go? How short did you say you wanted your hair? Excuse my scissors. They are so dull... They're child proof... can't even cut paper. I have been using the same pair for about 40 years now. I don't think I'll ever get a new pair of scissors. Nope. Don't think they'll let me. Oh well, change isn't easy for me anyway. My tv is still a black and white. I don't like to dream in color. It is too real for me...
Excuse an old lady for not knowing the latest styles. I'll give you the same cut I give everyone else. That way you'll fit in easier... It's really important to fit in here. Don't ever want to rock the boat. Nope. Don't want to do that...
My daddy was in the war... He came back home really mean.. People say he killed my mama.. People say I saw it.. .. People say a lot of things..
He went to jail. I came here... I stayed here.. Here you are... Here you'll stay.
You remind me of a girl I knew once.. a long time ago. She wasn't nuts. None of us were. She had long red hair... just like you... Her eyes were blue... her spirit full of passion... golden like the sun. Her light was true.. so real to me. To understand... to be understood.. to live.. to love... to listen They are not allowed here... not allowed.
We were beaten into nothing... bloody nothing... She is not here.. not alive.. not here. Do not rock the boat. Do not look at me. Promise not to love me. Turn off your light. It is too bright... too painful... really.
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1:00 is the only time
to experience
what it is like to be
a member of the free world
in this our asylum of dreams.
It is that same hour when your arms
would have held me
your arms - the master of energy,
strong because you knew how
to sequester desire and let it build
until it could run 50 miles
unchecked.
It was all sunshine
gleaming on a still pond
green with algae
it was makeshift
and (for all appearances) long-lasting.
We usually met on Sunday afternoons
wintery, summery, springtime, autumn leaves;
it was sultry and meaningful. It was
an hour that passed without language,
a time that bridged pleasure
with cries for inner peace.
We were going nowhere but all
things traveling in a circle feel
as though they can last forever.
Faith was my greatest folly.
It must be true that where you lean
the hardest and longest
you will find a weakness
and so our love fell to pieces
like the sight of sunshine scattering
on a sense of loss, golden drops
racing for shelter
beneath the shadow of a looming tree.
My last glimpse of reality was an empty space
for there was a thing once inside me now gone
and I did not know where to go
to find it.
My heart, once beating
so loudly within my chest,
now remained just outside my body
pounding like a child bearing down
on the door to her home.
There was no answer; your arms had let go.
In a flash there was nothing left,
not a breath, even of despair.
It was the feeling of pulse turned paralysis;
the soft, slow dropping into the deepest well.
“Memory, memory, be still!”
I awoke as though it had been years.
The surrounding walls were high and white
and orderly, building comfort
like a neat and mighty fortress
that now holds me
in a stronghold for the criminally insane.
My happiness that once wore
a failing grin
has turned taciturn and weak
from psychotropic pills.
We were all once beautiful
we tell ourselves this, we say
I desired something: I felt hope,
my body once screamed with passion.
It is the why each of us is here.
We lost our hearts, not our minds,
somewhere along the way
we lost ourselves
and now we must build it a new host. |
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If it were not for the metal grate and the bars at the windows,
you'd think this place seems almost happy
with its vinyl sea-foam green chairs,
the white counters,
and the mirrors plastered with magazines cutouts
of beautiful and smiling girls strutting their hairdo.
A small TV sits in a corner.
Something to entertain the guests of this Asylum
while they wait for their turn at the Beauty Salon
of the Trenton State Hospital.
Girly moments when to look at their image
smiling back at them from the mirror,
simple moments that make them feel free,
ready for a date, a make-believe one,
with the life that could have been,
the one that remained outside
behind the metal grate,
a curtain pulled tight
over their lives.
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