Maslow's slave
Posted: July 19th, 2008, 11:19 am
I pour coins from the jar, count
them up, put them in a plastic bag.
I walk to buy a jug of milk. I spill
the coins on the counter. The clerk
is seated, then rises at my insistence.
I am thirsty. I buy milk with coins.
My skin is dry, overheated.
I breathe with the assistance of an inhaler
almost depleted. I sleep sporadically.
My dreams are cinematic. There are empty
houses with brightly colored rooms, pets
which demand my attention, cars without
steering wheels, tents and floods, people
with vacant stares, people I do not know.
I grow tired of the dream.
I awaken. I lock the deadbolt.
I return to bed. I drink a glass of milk
to wash down aspirin. I want to sleep.
I wrestle with the sheets.
My legs are wrapped tight.
I am cocooned.
The dreams come again.
I am at the bottom of a pyramid.
I try to tip the pyramid on it's side.
It is heavy but I push it until it topples.
I push again to stand it
on it's tip but it is unsteady. It teeters.
It turns inside out and inverts
itself. I am Maslow's slave.
I lie in a shallow grave,
inhaling dirt.
I awaken, thirsty.
I drink a gallon of water then piss
out my waste. I chase myself in and around
equilibrium.
It is summer. I get dressed and go outside.
I lie prone on a sun-heated rock.
I am a reptile. I blend into the earth,
my ecological niche.
It is not Maslow's fault. Do not blame
the illustrator. I have ceased to be the
creator of will. I want to but I cannot.
I am deficient – a paralyzed low- level
dweller.
The artist wants a woman to teach.
I am nobody's lover.
dp.7.12.08
them up, put them in a plastic bag.
I walk to buy a jug of milk. I spill
the coins on the counter. The clerk
is seated, then rises at my insistence.
I am thirsty. I buy milk with coins.
My skin is dry, overheated.
I breathe with the assistance of an inhaler
almost depleted. I sleep sporadically.
My dreams are cinematic. There are empty
houses with brightly colored rooms, pets
which demand my attention, cars without
steering wheels, tents and floods, people
with vacant stares, people I do not know.
I grow tired of the dream.
I awaken. I lock the deadbolt.
I return to bed. I drink a glass of milk
to wash down aspirin. I want to sleep.
I wrestle with the sheets.
My legs are wrapped tight.
I am cocooned.
The dreams come again.
I am at the bottom of a pyramid.
I try to tip the pyramid on it's side.
It is heavy but I push it until it topples.
I push again to stand it
on it's tip but it is unsteady. It teeters.
It turns inside out and inverts
itself. I am Maslow's slave.
I lie in a shallow grave,
inhaling dirt.
I awaken, thirsty.
I drink a gallon of water then piss
out my waste. I chase myself in and around
equilibrium.
It is summer. I get dressed and go outside.
I lie prone on a sun-heated rock.
I am a reptile. I blend into the earth,
my ecological niche.
It is not Maslow's fault. Do not blame
the illustrator. I have ceased to be the
creator of will. I want to but I cannot.
I am deficient – a paralyzed low- level
dweller.
The artist wants a woman to teach.
I am nobody's lover.
dp.7.12.08