squish7 .com / poetry

daze away into a little of squish's

the following 15 poems are just my serious poems; most
were written in college, many for a poetry course i took.
i really like most of them imho, so you should too.


Know Thyself

I certainly was born the happy pig,
and wallowed in the sacredness of life:
I saw my friends as lights who waved hello;
I knew myself as living flowing flesh.

Then madness shredded my mind to its core.
I saw what no plush toy should have to see:
my stuffing -- gored guts, gears -- across the ground.
Then all the King's men put me back together.

I'm now a dissatisfied Socrates.
Here, sacredness of life is just a sham.
I see a friend as paint and molecules;
I know myselves as thoughts duct-taped with time.


i am a point
in the universe.
i am a point
in existance.
and i think.
i'm the definition
of life.

what is the point in the universe?
what is the point in existance?
what is the meaning of life?



i think (;)
i exist (.)
now (.)

Growing Thick Skin For Idiots

Even lack of love can be replaced.
Don't worry that your son is gay and bashed;
Hatred, given time, can be erased.

Society might slap him in the face.
Don't worry that its slant will cause a rash;
Stigmas -- smears -- can always be replaced.

Classmates might insult, and chill, and chase.
Don't worry that their slurs are far too harsh;
Self-doubt and fear can always be erased.

Friends might fall away to elsewhere graze.
Don't worry that his solitude will stretch;
Eventually, friends can be replaced.

Even God might shun him in disgrace.
Don't worry that his sin will stain his flesh;
Even false beliefs can be erased.

And while he's bleeding waiting for embrace,
don't worry that your hatred made the slash.
His scars will fade in proper time and place:
Eternity in heaven to erase.


To you who hate poetry:
you don't know what you're missing.

To you who don't fully understand it,
you who know what you're missing, but try anyway,
cuddled up on a couch, cup of tea in hand,
re-reading a phrase for the 45th time,
scraping away at the three-inch-thick layer of ice
on the windshield in front of you,
smashing, scraping,
working out from the one crystal spot
you've already broken through,
scraping, smashing,
picking apart,
picking away,
fascinated, intrigued,
determined, drivin within this endless mine
to find and pick away the sacred golden bits of understanding
that will bring you one tiny, extraordinary, enlightening step closer
to the vast, elusive meaning of life:
Keep picking.

To anyone who understands it all:
you don't know what you're missing.


to hell
with picture albums,
boxes of old letters,
and nostalgia.
is meant to be lived
not remembered.
if life were meant to be remembered
we wouldn't forget everything
at the end of it.

magic jars

how cold and empty
the number 73,289,761.
how lifeless and inanimate
a few droplets of paint.
how crude and mathematical
text is --
a choice of one of 26 symbols
repeated indefinitely.

yet how neat

that you can pour the magical stuff of life into them all
and store it on a shelf, where it will stay
even after the generator has fallen apart.
wrote a young artist's mother
of millions of strings of 1's and 0's,
"The songs on this CD
are the true 'remains' of Jeff Buckley,
not the spec of dust they pulled out of the Wolf River."

Nothing Holy

sacredness of life is just a sham.
life is only playdough for the Gods.

Some Kid above commands with colored clay:
He smooshes two figures together.
He plops another two side by side.
He forms a funny-looking person.
...far away,
a woman is raped.
two soulmates meet.
a retarded baby is born.
life is only playdough for the Gods.

Christ and Prometheus look down on two towers:
"Hey Pro, betcha can't do THIS!"
SQUISH!! goes one of them.
"Pah, I can do that too!"
And the other goes
... far away,
flags shed tears.
soulmates are hung
on the missing-board with care
with prayers that St. Nicholas soon will be there.
children are told their mothers
have left for a better place.
sacredness of life is just a sham.

and me: a madman,
sitting in a psych ward,
sanity battered, shattered.
my mind: a horse pinata,
(What a piece of work is man!)
bashed by the Gods for fun,
a hundred blindfolded times,
(oh, the taste of destruction!)
(oh, the taste of inflicted pain!)
'till its entrails now spill out,
and all rush to claim their keep.
and while i hang in gored pain,
i watch the junk-food candy fall:
(thoughts, memories, feelings...)
and cry, seeing i'm just stuffing
and brightly painted cardboard;
and here i thought i was a horse.
(i'd run and tell the other pinatas,
but they would never believe me.
just let them think they're animals.
they'll be happier that way).
i'm a gutted tickle-me-elmo,
staring at my cold, inanimate
battery-powered giggle box
and some cotton stuffing,
soaking in a black epiphany:
i have no soul.

Paper Canvas

I liked the assignments for poems in this class,
Then came this fifth poem like a yank in the ass.
I read the blank words that I soon came to mourn:
"You're choice of topic and form."
The assignment seems simple: just write any poem,
So why must I fumble and grumble and groan?
"Damn her!" I scream, "Now my structure is screwed;"
I can't write a poem when I'm nude.
No assignment?  Really?
I can write anything?
AGHK!!  Too much to talk about!
Too much to think about!
You don't tell a manic streaker:
"Do anything you want!"
We scream and run around in circles
flailing our arms in the air
running from the swarm of ideas chasing after us.
Oh god, whatever...
I pick up the notebook
and turn to a blank page...

firefly / fire-fly / fire fly / fly, fire
burning thoughts; burn away; away, thoughts!
burn, burn...
firefly / fire fly / freefly / fly, free
free of structure, free of sin, free of yang and free of yin
freefly / fly, free / fall-fly / freefall
fall from fancy, fall from space
fall from freedom, fall from grace
into homework -- in a cell -- into labor -- into hell:
what to scribble?  what to say?
what to ponder?  what to pray?
love? lust? pain? joy?  rainbow skittles made with soy?
what to scribble, what to say, what to ponder, what to pray
thoughts and feelings circle me;
some i grab and some i see
for a moment, then gone, like a leprechaun
and others swim like sperm to my head
plethoras of ideas, fighting fleeting swarming sperming
i could catch the lake i love in a jar for all to swim in
or catch a delicate tear for anybody to try on
i could write about:
my dog, my aunt, pringles, nuns, mountains, kiwis...
i could i could explore the meaning of life!
or i could i could ooo-- how about-- no, oh!
i could -- i could -- what to scribble, what to say,
what to ponder, what to pray
firefly / flying free / fall-fly / free
fall, fall..., fall.....

So I write up a poem about writing this poem,
Yet still I must fumble and grumble and groan:
Do I write it using trochees?
Or iambs in pentameter like this?
Do I tie it with a knot?
Do I tie it with a bow?
There must be a million clever ways
To end a poem about itself.


This is a poem that looks like prose. You may ask, "If it's spaced like prose, isn't it prose?" Well, not really. You see, a poem can have about any format it wants. Verse is free and flexible, constantly taking on new forms and adapting to its environment. This poem choses its spacing and syntax precisely to imitate prose. But don't be fooled; it's just pretending. If you look very closely at the end of this sentence, you'll notice it does something that only a poem can do . Oops, it slipped.


the following are mostly related to bipolar experiences:

[note: "Normie" is a mildly derogatory term some bipolars use for a non-bipolar]

normie, do you feel?

this sacred song flows from a pair of speakers
into my soul.
there we dance by silk moonlight,
as two soulmates, eyes closed,
under a blanket of pure white stars
enveloped in a deep mist fog.
a tear escapes.
i breathe.
i live.
you hear the song too.
what do you hear?

normie, do you feel?

i step outside on an average sunny spring day
into an ocean of warm mirthful light.
the sun's friendly rays reach out
and turn everything they touch to gold.
including me.
i hover in a perfect, painless world
with a white and blue heaven of clouds above.
i sniff the fresh air.
it smells of the golden light within it,
like tinted milk in a bowl
that's absorbed the cereal's sweet sugary taste.
i sniff the golden air like a drug
and float.
and fly.
you stand next to me.
what do you smell?

normie, do you feel?

the world is dark.
but cast upon the darkness
are brilliant streaks of color
spinning around me.
i am a fluidic form
morphing with the music.
colliding with the colors.
spinning with the sounds.
i'm swimming in fireworks.
i move my hand, and the universe moves with it.
i float.
i breathe.
you're on the dance floor with me.
where are you?

sometimes the joy is just for a moment.
but at least i've been there
so i can fight to return.
but what of you?
i can't help wondering,
do you even know of these places?
or is it only us who travel there?

normie, do you feel?


i float at 5am,
in darkness before dawn,
in the dimensionless, hovering gray limbo
between the sabbath and genesis.
here, time and time again,
i've been reborn.
here, dogmas have crumbled.
stars have gone supernova.
here, too many times to count,
i've been crucified.
and from my ashes, a new me has risen
time and time again.
always awakening to the rooster's screaming war cry
(stronger than the week before)
of fierce, furious, flying, surging determination
to get it right this time.
and i run with weapons flailing...
...into the first day of the rest of my life.

time and time again.

but every rebirth takes its toll
when each life lands where it began.
i've slain these demons before.
i've tamed this maddness before.
i've cut through these vast nether fields
of screeching soulless shadows --
dragging, tearing at my sanity --
pushing against dimensionless odds
swiming furiously against a storm of human suffering
few have experienced, or will
to finally collapse, near death,
on the bare edges of the shores of sanity
and again.
and again.
and again...

time and time again.

but just how many times can one begin anew?...
surely my lives are numbered.
how many more times and times again?
and again?
how many deaths before the last?


stripped of will and pride and might and muscle,
i stare outside at the rising sun.
it will give birth to a new day
but i fear, no new me.
for i fear i won't have the energy to try yet again...

so like a vampire at dawn with nowhere to hide,
i fear.
i envision the morning light searing my face
engulfing my body and soul in hellfire
scorched, liquid flesh dripping to the ground...

the sun rises...
the ominous, inexorable sun,

...somewhere, hidden deep, deep within the fear --
the knowledge of eminent destruction --
lies a shadow of a shadow of a ghost of a memory
of days long past (were they so long ago?) when i would say:
"i don't see why people hate mondays.
to me, it's a new beginning,
a new start, another chance at life,
a new hope."
the sun rises.
as the first morning sunray reaches over the horizon
and shoots at the speed of light
toward my face,
in the infinite wait before it hits--

i freeze...

...like stalked prey in dead silence,

...in dead stillness...

...praying my motionlessness will let me become one...

...with my surroundings...

...and the predator will move on...

...my senses are heightened...

...to a vast, still, piercing awareness...

...and one infinitesimal spec of thought...

...that ISN'T dedicated to fight-or-flee...

...is left to wonder...

...will this sunray be the catylist...

...of destruction and death...

...that i know it will be?...

...or will it somehow...



...be that long forgotten ray of hope...

...that used to greet me every monday morning...

...floating in the dimensionless, hovering, gray limbo...

...between the sabbath and genesis?

i write a poem...
i'll be safe here, in a poem...
the romanticism will save me.
the poetry of life--
the meaning in life--
will save me.
it has to.
it's my very last resort...

The Existential Lava Lamp

i sit.


a thousand thoughts, thick as pudding.

fifty florescent feelings --

intense, thick, hypnotizing blobs of goo --

in a lava lamp

ever so slowly shifting

form to form
movement to movement
cloud to cloud...

blobs of my brain

squishing, squeezing

musing, morphing

inside my skull

like techno music --

measure to measure to measure

beat to beat to beat to beat to beat...

pumping intense, thick, hypnotizing energy into you

at ten trillion watts on the dance floor

laser lights lashing, thrashing...

and there, at the center of the universe

with galaxies spinning and cycling,

tearing and twisting,

all around...

what do you do?


you dance.

you dance a manic dance.

you let the music move your body

shift your soul


you're there.
the music's there.
the lights are there.

and there's nothing else to do

but be a blob of goo

in a lava lamp.

but what do you do with a lava lamp?

it just sits there.

no purpose.
no point.

yet everyone still thinks they're fuckin' cool.

you just look at it, i guess...

and so i sit
in deepness
in pudding
in feelings
in blobs
spinning squishing morphing musing
dancing dreaming flying fusing

writing about
thinking about
writing about
thinking about...



i sit.

Still In Rage

i sit
how do i call this sitting?
oh yes, i'm in a chair
but i would call handgliding "sitting"
before this.

a key now is gone from my keyboard
it flew off, when i flew off
tearing the curtain hanger rod off the wall
and smashing it into the keyboard a moment ago
standing, smashing
in a pool of liquid-fire chemical rage
like the T2000 in terminator two
at the end,
when he was pushed into the red hot liquid metal
morphing, twisting
from form to form to form
extensions of him lashing out

i sit, like him
still, so still
yet still in rage
furiously flying from form to form...

music outpours from these speakers
sort of spinning
in a raging whirlpool--
dancing, floating, twirling

my thoughts outpour from the music
sort of soaking
in a bath of intense contemplation
and furious raging wonder
heavy, hovering

my dreams outpour from the thoughts
sort of soaring
in an infinite sky of raging light

and so i sit.


still sitting

in fire.
in heaven.
in tears.


here, with all control over my own being
overwhelmed by the furious chemical powers
against me,
i'm the olympic swimmer
being flushed down a whitewater river.
wondering, with fierce, terrified curiosity,
where the cold indifferent current
will deliver me.

now, with will to live and will to act
long-lost depleted resources,
i'm a boat whose oars dissolved long ago
in the acid chemical waters
of this sea of undying pain.
wondering, with only a vague, numbed curiosity,
where the cold indifferent seastorm
will deliver me.

finally, stripped of will and pride and might and muscle,
stripped of heart and hope, in hell unreal,
i'm an inanimate feather of intrinsic pain
floating in a firey sky of blackened air.
without a bloody fucking care
where the cold indifferent winds
deliver me.