The patient people who work with the insane are not my kind of people. They are too entertained by the oddness of the inmates and act with a superior sense. I, on the other hand, am odd myself, searching for adherents to my view. The inmates know me as such and agree with me frequently.
I Drink with My Thinking Problem Intact
If only I could decipher the mightiness of the sword and put it into pen, I might free myself. But then again, I sought this duration of loss. I wrapped a fabric of lace around my body, stood stiffly at the garden party and asked to be captured.
Nothing I Carry Can Ever Save Me
I go through the boxes of once precious possessions, dredging up memories as I touch them: moth eaten, decomposing fibers. Swollen hands, shoulders, wrists, fingers in pain from packing so much crap in cardboard boxes: this is how the world ends: in dust and disintegrating filaments and fibers.
Bobbi Lurie has worked as a visual artist and therapist. Her essays, short stories, and poems have been widely published in the U.S. and England. Her three poetry collections are The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn and Grief Suite, all published by CW Books.
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