Four Poems by Bobbi Lurie

freeing need this talisman to survive count me in

the many of them just like you, abused by this world

and its systems, art the sacred place we go to hide

there is a we of us here making life new with our wares

secrets and lies if need be or breaking the gate

and we are numerously longing to be loved

everything is yourself reflecting yourself back onto you

to be one seeking everything the everything seeks

this disease you speak of is your life

philosophy

the neutrality of the universe doesn’t care

who you think you are

its indifference should alarm you

don’t force yourself to believe in

benevolence only see

you must be neutered too

neutralized made into com-

post like the rest of the dust

covering us

Be alive Be real Be alone

The hive diminishes you

the tribe does

the lies do

you’ve been stripped of dignity by

no one in particular by

the collective

by the global

conspiracy of

this dimension of forgetfulness

heart attacks more likely 9 a.m. monday

thought flow this imaginary being

all things come from seeds

it’s time for the seeker to stop

Bobbi Lurie is the author of The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn, Grief Suite, and the morphine poems. @BobbiLurie

Three Poems by Bobbi Lurie

how to be old an old lady old

detach yourself

and learn

how to die

Locution Fulfills Highroad

You, zombie jealous drifter, made-in-house, you, taker of dreams refused too at the time, losing self on lower emotions but you, little one, stealer of the throne, lying faculty of early learning curves. I mean he stole it all, and obviously wins, you hawker, you lumberjack, you sorceress, you highroad loophole autobahn made distant by belonging to, you cruel and evil heart, name covered over with veneer, a patent-leather loophole on the autobahn made distant, cruel heart.

thought deprives itself of feeling all of my gestures proved false

1.

wake to pain-time between meds isn’t growing longer as planned-the pain’s so bad-waking nightmarish living dream take pain meds and wait-can’t compose a narrative of my life without it sounding like complaint-all the maneuvers to get through a day-reframe what you’re facing by not speaking it in words-a thought deprives itself of pure feeling-it longs to be identified with

2.

first day off gapapentin-angry tirades on television sets turned on throughout the hospital crippled wheelchairs amputees hopeless television sets talk election results or some other fleeting news report on the way to yet another doctor-i, always polite, seemingly hopeful, sicken myself for what I’m turning into, being in this body, in this mind, standing in melodramatic landscapes

3.

talking heads television set says need for pain meds something other than round the clock can i function at all today must lay down can’t lay down it hurts too much yes to life say they of positive attitudes so sick of the “they””their” neutral voice of knowing it all prescriptions for happy ever afters which never happen in the grave bugs eat after the “they” buries you there

Bobbi Lurie is the author of “The Book I Never Read,””Letter from the Lawn,””Grief Suite,” and “the morphine poems.” @BobbiLurie