Other Poems by:

Dawn DiBartolo

the dog & her demons

my dog looks at me 
as if i have demons 
        she can see 
speaking malcontent 
        to my soul, 
as if they motion 
for her silence 
        and she complies. 
i thought she loved me. 
these demons whisper dissention, 
saying it belongs 
to my survival - 
though i don't much hold 
to vague fatalistic notions ~ 
and i thought the dog 
        didn't either. 
but since she cannot speak, 
who's to say? 
anyway, the dog, 
she kinda cocks her head 
and stares into my eyes 
as if they were windows 
looking from light 
        into darkness, 
uncertainty lending weight 
        to the abyss. 
they hiss of my dissonance, 
silence speaking volumes 
        from the dog ~ 
and i thought she loved me, 
though she's sidestepping touch 
as if i'd reached 
        for her salvation. 
i wish she wouldn't 
convey these things 
so that my sadness 
could be my own, 
not a product 
of her inaction ~ 
it's just neater 
if there's no one to blame 
but myself.

a survival guide

the world is full of assholes 
and it drains me being one of them. 

 "i don't care" can guide me 
thru the valleys of other's indecision 
but can't lead me toward 
the fullness of my own soul. 

to bathe oneself in the 
fiery spit-sweat-tears-and-cum 
        of one's own past 
makes for the newborn organism, 
each day, the phoenix 
rising from one's own 
        sea of mirrors ~ 
for mirrors never lie. 

trust no one ~ not even yourself ~ 
and leave nothing to chance 
~ inherit only decisiveness 
and make a lifetime of your choices. 

and in the unavoidable fades-to-black, 
strain to keep the color as it dies 
because, trust me, 
you'll want to remember soon enough.

zodiac

ego stroke a leo. 
finger-fuck a taurus. 
bore us all with your diatribe, 
cancer, as to why 
man is morally screwed. 
scale the libra, 
measured not in the least, 
and feast upon the scorpio. 
lie to a gemini and 
bind him to an aries; 
perfect pair, both truth impaired. 
each beast needing 
of his own accord. 

soliloquy

O, my kingdom... 
my kingdom for 
a fucking break in the line 
leading me along 
the path of ants, 
tiny mites working 
day and night, 
non-stop, and for what? 
no treasures glimmer 
in my stockpile. 
O, my kingdom 
for some peace 
and maybe even quiet. 
riotous rebel-rousers 
all demanding flesh 
for my debts, as if 
they've no knowledge 
that my fingers are bone. 
O, my kingdom... 
my kingdom for a king 
to take care of mighty things 
that i may lie about and be... 
pretty, and shiny as a trophy, 
harlot of his nightly dreams. 
O, my kingdom... 

commuter train

hawaiian shirts 
in boastful bright colors 
study the morning news - 
the sports page seems 
of most interest. 
business suits sway in aisles 
with the motion of the train, 
their attachés casually grazing 
        the hips of passers-by. 
and the women... 
my god, the women 
are a special morning treat. 
they smell so pretty-sweet 
in their bronzed summer flesh 
        exposed to professionalism 
and non-sensible strappy heels, 
that gain the appeal 
of hawaiian shirts and suits alike. 
the gentlemen let the ladies slide by, 
incidental contact 
preying in both their eyes. 
and as these splendors disembark, 
gratitude for longing 
embedded in all her 
        womanly wiles, 
its her smile that imparts 
"have a good day," 
as she sashays away. 
and the afternoon daydreams 
waft from her hips 
like the scent 
of much needed coffee. 

stutter

i feel like... 
i feel like, way over strung, 
like a guitar string 
twisted out of tune, 
like...like my anxiety 
is driving me super-speed 
down a one-way street, 
and its not where i want to go. 
my thoughts are all...are all, not, 
cuz p-p-prozac clouds the mind 
to numb the soul. 
if i don't feel 
i won't hurt no more... 
if i don't feel 
i won't hurt no more. 
this time...this time and place, 
i've written before. 
i seem stuck in stutter, 
a poetic impediment 
easily remedied by p-p-prozac 
...clouds the mind 
to numb the soul. 
if i don't feel 
i won't...i won't hurt no more. 

the strength of blessed numb

forgetting that i am 
        allowed to feel, 
i dug a grave 
for my emotion, 
buried it beneath 
the fortress 
i always thought 
        i was. 
like a b-movie 
        horror beast, 
it reaches for me 
from beneath 
the black earth 
decay reeking with 
the need to defy death. 
and i feel 
every inch 
of marred flesh, 
digging, 
demanding escape, 
implying violence 
before recapture. 
but i give an inch 
and disintegrate for miles, 
seeing a two-lane highway 
when my eyes are closed, 
black road, yellow stripe 
down the center, 
broken, 
never ending. 
never able to 
        stay in my own lane, 
i swerve into 
an intoxicant-induced 
sense of well-being 
and the sun suddenly rises 
        to light my way 
to a blessed state of numb. 
clearly there is a path 
laid out 
        so neatly before me, 
and if i step 
i can feel 
only pebbles shifting 
        'neath my feet. 

**Copyright 2007 Dawn DiBartolo, all rights reserved Send us your comments on this article
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