This is a poem I wrote when I was in the hospital. It is entitled "THE YEAR THE LOCUSTS HAVE EATEN":

Somehow I've spent a year of my life here;

wobbling among the mad and the sorry.

They've eaten up my dreams

and left me spinning numbly to my own waterfall.

Somehow I've spent a year of my life here,

but really only three days here,

and the man who could be my father is entrancing.

Something so exciting in the energy flooding,

stirring,

vascillating between him and I.

His gorgeous blue eyes

have me letting down my hair.

Today I felt them crawling (winged and disgusting)

all over my black, stained heels and

I threw the triangle onto the chair

as it rang out its disapproval.

I am not alone here

but I am quite alone.

My peace: the 3-2-1 cigarettes I smoke

every other hour.

Deliberately.

Thelocusts are not a fabrication of my imagination.

They've eaten up everyone's year.

Since I am nothing without my body and my flesh,

my sweat and my tears,

I am choosing my body, my temple, my home.

I eat a little each day to pacify them,

yet my year begins over again with every new bite.

They've found a way inside my skin-

gnawing at my liver.

(Insects learn to love raw meat)

I smash my life into a purple book

and write "Halleluia, I have come".

The year the locusts have eaten is borrowed,

it is numb.

2001-07-12, 7:59 p.m.
design by bluechicken

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