Thom Garzone

A CRUCIAL LOOK BACK

 

I do not hold you accountable for that October morning in 1981 when I was

subdued and thrown in a Santa Cruz psych ward raging in mindless inferno.

I mislaid a manuscript, and having not exhibited harm to myself or others,

what you called therapy inflicted my condition, deceiving me to stay on

a three-day hold, which lasted two and a half weeks.

My manuscript wanders eternity in search of solutions to my psychosis.

I only condemn the society you symbolize, or such pressures from higher

authorities who had instructed to squash the insipid creature I was, writhing from

lethargy, hunger, sleeplessness, and the hypergraphic ramblings

of a despondent bard. The moronic decision to inject me with

the very ignorance that caused me to tremble and seize and question

why my stressed-out academic brain appeared distinctly abnormal or insane.

But instead I thank you for opening a passage for more journeys into other

regions, learning to face even more bizarre responses to my illness.

 

JOHNNY ONE O'CLOCK

 

With a beard does his reality distance him.

When I notice his perpetual sojourn to the dope man

cold shrouds his capacious figure.

He rides the same old blue bicycle,

produces whimsical reflections of his being,

pictures I still long to use as covers for my books.

Drugs puncture his soul,

form dependent images on wicked avenues

to his mind that mold only emptiness.

I see his aging bitch, belly speckled

and with white hair that wavers. Then

our eyes meet at the church after a meeting

where God's compassion and recovery prevail.

He acknowledges me, yet rejects my purpose

as if manifesting my inability

to counsel other addicts.

Then he turns away from me, farther

away from a solution.

SPRING FRAGMENT

 

A rock opera in my mind plays

a concert to my senses,

cities permeated by storm

wane in remembrance,

solos buried beneath soul,

Beings crouched, dreaming in forests

balance on towers to vanish

in coffee house jazz where lulls

of patrons harmonize with survival.

The universe drowns in defeat, silent.

Visions question when will these rains cease,

or the skies fill with light

to glint down on us in verdant seasons.