The New College Being Built

Crane climbs into
clear November sky.
Workman in blue hardhat
underneath
drills a granite mountain.

confusion haiku

I took it out to make a call--

the mobile-phone-shaped

flapjack in my pocket

Mr. Jones

Sometimes I feel like Dylan's Mr. Jones:
Quite alone inside the teeming crowd;
Unsure what's happening anywhere
Ten feet beyond my own front door.

Most people tend not to feel like that.
Mr. Jones is usually your enemy,
However many cast you in the role
Unbeknownst to you, because you're not like them.

Of course, this is among the shrinking number
Who are still familiar with Dylan's music.
Most I know prefer a bit of pounding grime.
And like Mr. Jones, I'm baffled to explain the reason.

haiku

classical violin

and muesli for my breakfast--

bloody hell! it's bin day

SEIZURE

The preceding moments are surreal,
like talking nonsense in an echo chamber.
But once it's happened once,
you have a pretty good idea what's coming.

And then you wake up on the floor.
You don't remember how you got there,
or occasionally, where you are.
That filters back; sometimes it takes ages

of frustrated pawing at your memory.
You have to deal with sympathetic faces
asking if you're okay now,
telling you they're glad you didn't die.

Your muscles ache as you stand up.
You've taken all the skin off your left arm.
You're limping; but that will go away.
You wish the lookers-on would scram as well.

Afterwards, you only want your lover.
You're scared that she will be revolted.
You want silence and the dark to hide in
to look up at the moon and curse

whoever struck you down with seizures.
And then you sleep. Your dreams
are movies of the ordinary.
And in the morning you resume your life.

Every twitch and flutter in your head
feels like another episode.
You're tempted just to hide indoors,
but obviously you can't.

You go shopping. You go to work.
Do everything you always do.
But you have an added reticence
that some interpret as withdrawal.