Beginning the separate road

After the loss comes the separation of the roads we travel

I make sudden decisions to replace a chair,

get a new bright kitchen bin

But  I see that it will no longer be the kitchen you knew.

And your bed is covered in objects or clothes

awaiting a new destination.

I can’t sit in there looking at this green view

In case someone comes to the door…

I am slow on the stairs,you see.

And it’s no longer your room,, where you wrote your books

with our old cat lying across your shoulders.

Parts of it look oddly tidy

Then there are bags to divide up your possessions…books to keep?

Books to toss?

Clothes to kept  in memory?

i thought I could hear a voice speaking to me

I had kicked your red radio!

that was not your voice

This is  not a poem.

I am not myself.

Yet who else am I?

Maybe those we call mad

are  simply better at picking up signals

which the sane can ignore

but who can say which ones matter?

You are still here in your urn…

Whatever shall I do with you

Or without you.

This is not a poem

i am not dead

I am not a person.

the radio addresses me.

Am I alive?

Everything little thing  I do

makes me more separate from you.

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And therefore I am

middle east 3

Freud was a deep and   bright man

He invented   neuroses , and wham!

We all  got laid faster

by this ancient master

I came to and therefore I am.

The shadows of the past haunted Jung

??????????As round him they oftentimes clung

When he span around

They were laid on the ground

But the mere sight of them bitterly stung.

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Adler was  the disciple number three

He  thought power was all,don’t you see?

But he lost Freud’s  hand

As  it lay on the sand

If anything’s queerer, ‘snot me

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