Currently Untitled
In a previous life I was a mother bird
regurgitating early morning fixes
6am
no sun to rise
dog on leash gets off said leash leaps at my car
owner growls at me
soon thereafter
entering parkway
deer running on shoulder against traffic
the next day
that same deer lays lifeless
I saw that coming
wonder if the deer did
There are alarmists at the helm
shit talkers typing their shit now
nobody gets shit for talking shit
nobody talks anymore
nobody listens
man, I don’t feel heard
all I do is fucking listen
the kid gloves are off
For whom and when?
couldn’t handle it so we make some deals
with ourselves
with others
unwritten agreements
lip service
dry chapped lip service
I cut my teeth
I shaved my head
been left for better off too many times
call it countless
fuck your shit list
it is a lame excuse to carry those grudges
your sarcasm is humorless
your sarcasm is a veiled defense
I have assumed this role and let it consume me
gotta place to run
to
from
you are your own man
you are your old man
Ballerinas with bayonets
I wonder if the ecstasy really put holes in my brain
I need more space to bury the dead weight
gravestones for skeletal thoughts
the burial plot thickens
Nothing’s wrong
just don’t feel right
Good
You ok?! She asks.
I am struggling to respond to people in a timely manner.
My response time has been feedback from family and friends.
I am working on it, just rather unsuccessfully right now.
I think actions speak louder
so do as I do
or don’t
it makes no difference to me
I have disappeared
I remember sticking out like a sore thumb
or so I thought
but I have become like part of the furniture she said
I am a ghost who has no desire to haunt
I used to be a tornado
the eye of my storm had a thousand-mile stare
now I am more dust bunny than dust bowl
when the weather changes my wrists go numb
the same wrists where the handcuffs were tied too tight on purpose more than once
when I wake up and know where I am, I am proud of myself
when I am warm,
dry,
not covered in shame
I beam brighter than the sun
when I am where I last remember being
I am higher than I ever was
and remain so knowing there will be no impending shaking,
groveling,
scratching at a rock bottom low...
You okay?!
Yeah, I am good.
Arbiter of the Road
Front porch sofa
Xmas lights up after 97 days
Seasonal Affective Disorder really is sad
I think hard to disagree means it is easy to agree, right?
Is it possible to be an arbiter of hearts and thoughts?
All this before I have even made it ten minutes down the road
then I realize for the first time
after driving this route for eight months
that the field I drive past five days a week is the field where I broke my wrist twice in five
minutes time
Then I think about more broken bones and the park where I shattered my clavicle
Then I think about brokenness
and the bar that banned me
my picture up like an unwanted poster
Do Not Serve!
I have bled all over these towns
I am a museum where even the masterpieces are hung crooked
and the statues are made by first year sculpture students who think Michelangelo was a turtle
The song Seatbelt Hands by Listener comes on
the last time I heard it I was shoveling an ungodly amount of snow with drifts that buried three
cars
it took me two days
I thought I was sore from shoveling
turns out I had Covid
never had a temperature
never had a cough
never had a fever
it was in and out of my system in five days
during which I ran five miles a day
that is my truth
it is okay that it is not yours
it is okay
I am reading Lanegan’s Devil in a Coma
Covid nearly took his life
until it didn’t
eight months later he is dead
I wasn’t okay after I heard the news
life is fleeting
that is my truth
it is okay that it is not yours
it is okay
Estimated time in traffic nine minutes
The woman behind me in the Tesla applies
mascara and then lipstick
The man in the painting van chain smokes cigarettes with brown filters
Sirens scream
Man in pickup truck with not only one, but two, Punisher logos dripping red, white, and blue
hollers at another car that pumps the brakes even at a standstill with a bumper sticker that says it
made it to the top of some mountain I care very little about
there must be mountains high enough
and valleys low enough and rivers wide enough, right?
Again, Seasonal Affective Disorder really is sad
We have been divided; it is just that some of us refuse to be conquered
that not a bumper sticker
that’s what I know and how I feel
no need to put it on my car
I finished 32oz of green tea mixed with maca, mushrooms, and agave and I gotta piss more than I
am pissed
Fog reported ahead
I see it
nothing else
Police reported ahead
No shit, five cars pulled over by five unmarked Dodge something or others protecting me or
them or them from me or them from themselves
I couldn’t tell
never could
Last week my buddy said
I know you; you will burn every bridge on your way out
or maybe he said down, either way
I have not yet forgiven myself for the previous fires and the scorched bridges but oh how I love
the smell of smoke
I hope he is wrong, and I will be able to levitate before I sink to those depths of a river too wide
for sure there are mountains high enough
and valleys low enough, no?
In 900 feet turn left on Wright Street.
Kevin R. Farrell, Jr. is an artist, poet, and educator whose work has been published in The Poetry Society of New York, BONED – Every Which Way, Burning House Press, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Adroit Journal, Ink in Thirds Magazine, Foxhole Magazine, Yo-NEWYORK! and others. Farrell’s poems and images are his constant documentation of a life spent toeing the line between spiritual bliss and emotional upheaval. As a recovering addict each day can be a struggle when dealing with the dumpster fire that is modern day existence. Sometimes Farrell attempts to put out the fire, on other days he warms his hands by the flames.