FAST DESCENT (in 1975)

Image result for mirror maze images

Hurtling

through the

mirror maze

young-old

embryo.

Contorted,

misshapen,

falling back

one-eye.

Cry “Peace!”

Cyclops crazy

beady, heavy.

Where am I?

Who?

Brown.

Old contankerous

brazen brassy

witch-bitch

delirious.

Stop!

Simple smirky

purple  prude.

I am the

glamorous sham.

Damn.

Staccato waltz,

loping trot,

forget-me-do.

Who?

Who is that spinning,

passing prisms

fancifully

fragmented

to pieces.

All of them

am I–

Please no.

Red.

Gaping maws

dirty paws

shiny smelly

ripened belly.

Yes, no, true.

My God

hell-o.

                                           nm circa 1975

                                       Image es Devlin

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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2 Responses to FAST DESCENT (in 1975)

  1. This poem is as timeless as you are. Don’t ever stop pitching those words over the railing. I’m so grateful to have you out there reading what I need to get off my chest. As I look back I realize that the fates must have arranged for me to move to Athens so I could meet you, and learn about Taco John’s. When you get to feeling lonely, please console yourself with the surety that somebody in Cincinnati loves you.

    Like

  2. Nan Mykel says:

    Thank you, now I feel a whole lot better. I left out two lines, but I can’t say them here.

    Like

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