From tanya feher
Three
-Tanya Feher
1. I wish I could tell him it’s not worth it.
Boredom is the devils playground, idiotic clichés. As I fall in love with the potential of yet another junkie – flawless-
Yet another jesus – deaf-
I see him tortured by the depth of himself and know he’s bored
He is a drug addict an alcoholic and healthy. He tries to change the things he is warned will kill him, his spirit knows the limits of what he can do and be true, what he can’t do and be okay. He accepts help but not orders – the gamble his only option, except to turn off his special. He is bored and does not know it
I wish I could tell him you are worth it. All the meaningless doings, more proof in your end of your right to be
The fear of what makes us different enough to be as special as we are what makes us different Without that, we think - we are not alive -
It is not what holds us together. It’s science that can. This side of the argument is where I live now- art entertains us not sustains us. I have to believe things my heart knows are not true
Striving to prove the importance of your purpose, to keep purity safe, poetry alive…
To me you’re all patients, sick and breakable, disgustingly human and trapped in bodies you cannot control
No goals exist for this patient
I wonder, are poets the playthings of the lords? Mere Distraction from the tasks of survival? Are you obtainable?
You are whores.’
And I envy you still
Dance for them, whore
Play your thoughts for them, philosopher … know thyself for them, poet
Let your banter be bread for your empty whore body to prolong its animal life…
2. She says ‘what does medicine do?’ believes wholeheartedly in its miracles
pharmacotherapy for body will save your life
but psychotropic’s will ruin your mind,
I say ‘what if your mind needs to be changed?’
She eats a vegetarian diet expecting health.
There is no peace, no health
Only shame and fear and the sickness that is its product; ‘why is my asparagus not changing my sorrow into doves – she – still heavy in body and heart
Why does everything and everyone fail me? She asks.
Even when she begs for answers she cannot hear, not even this.
3. She eats with awareness and attention, not much better or worse than the mean. just wake up and do what you’re told, her mantra
Soullessness her only respite
She’s on the other side of the argument now, there is no time for philosophy.
It’s all too big to fit in the confines of little letters, words.
just wake up and do what you do,
never searching, the quest has all been fruitful, most of it rotten nectar but nonetheless fruitful
‘Too late’ she muses, ‘my cells are mutated by insult, with history remaining and no facility for infection.’ Freedom lives within the fear of what will next fail her body. She is only thirty and knows it is the end. experience at any cost will save her definitive truth and she will die isolated from the masses in her glorious ego and broken body. All will be well, they say at every meeting ‘these are the promises’.
She recovers and still in relapse, recovers more. She is not true to her ardor but to her faith. She walks ready for the next compromise, for it’s wonder … its torment.
there she sits, the thorazine parakeet
Too many years spent as narcissus, as Sisyphus, only now to find relief in being too busy to feel anymore -only to taste mirages as they rain in her eyes
No goals exist for this patient --
maybe she is the one who is free
freedom. another. promise --for it, your thirst unquenchable… life spent finding ways and means to get more, it’s a mirage –you’re chasing a prettier dragon now
Ought never be organized they say. “But you, young lady, are lucky I’m so lenient! if you showed up this unorganized at ‘the other campus’ they’d ask you to leave.”
Her eyes seek tolerance
If they think she doesn’t know she amends the words to accomplish some sense of defeat –to bask gloriously in some masochistic high all its own----then----
they are dead from chasing.
Never Microwave Blood
and
Never chase dragons Of Any Kind, especially in any organized fashion.
If you must, maybe do it naked on a floor of mirror thin as ice, there she dances, the thorazine ballerina, SHE is without parallel, blood and feathers fracture free as shatter sings and now in the air in symphony
SHE IS THE DRAGON.
