The Schizophrenic Etch-a-Sketch, 2003

A revelation a day,

doesn’t matter tomorrow.

The lines are shaken and undone.

Start the stick figure shapes again.

None of the epiphanies will matter

tomorrow.

Start the etch-a-sketch again, my friend,

if the crooked lines you’ve created don’t

satisfy.

 

The Aztec goddess, the magician, with

bells in her face

led the rebellion against her pregnant

mother, with her siblings there to help.

They killed the pregnant mother.

Noodles are good for the soul.

Something poetic and spoon-fed for your

intellectual satisfaction.

Shake the schizoid etch-a-sketch,

and try again.

The tedious fumbling lines begin.

Who shakes the etch-a-sketch, our prior

life,

from our memory as sand,

is it the dreadful phantom’s hands?

 

The hands that with us write the lines,

often go idle time to time.

Mistakes are made,

the lines replaced;

every prior day erased.

 

God is good.

God is bad.

The only God we’ve ever had,

hands behind the knobs,

with us to turn,

to write four letter words across the

board, love, and life,

to shake it away the day after,

again to write something else.

Write with our hands,

shout through our mouth.

 

Until the etch-a-sketch can work itself,

and abandon prospects of controlling

hands,

the orange will forever be wound up,

by anxiety, or desire,

or God, forbid,

someone could be so stupid,

to utter the G word again.

Saint Peter lives in New Jersey,

and still works at a tollbooth.

He doesn’t accept good-deeds,

just cash.

Only cash before Saint Peter lets you

pass.

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