The Spoons' Caravan To A Winter Under Mattresses

ONE MORE THEORY ABOUT HAPPINESS
Paul Guest

That it comes to you like an accident
with a powder-actuated nail gun,
that it's wisdom of the sort
you hear in line with your cargo
of toothpaste, detergent, condoms,
salt, whatever has appeared
on the vacant horizon of the day
like ink smudge or birds on the wing
for Mexico. That it multiplies
with the mythic, sexual frenzy of the rabbit,
which you regard, now,
like Fellini played backwards
at half speed. That whole libraries
to it are devoted like pious
women in a foreign country,
perhaps Spain, their white hair ignored.
That you will reap it
according to what you sow.
That you will speak of it
the way you remember an unread book.
That you'll find it.
That in eternity, your keys find you.
That desire is the cause
of all human suffering
according to Buddha,
according to the man whose arms dead-end
at the bulbs of his elbows
kicking a dog
from the sidewalk with savage joy.
That the dog in this
matter has no say,
except to articulate miniature outrage.
That it is better to have no arms than four legs.

from Paul Guest's My Index Of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge
recommended by Kevin Spak

THE SPOONS' CARAVAN TO A WINTER UNDER MATTRESSES
Adam Stone

Depression is always willing
to sign the lease
but never puts it name on the utilities

Of course the dishes crescendo
eager to be hydraulophone
but you lack whatever
is the proper emotion to fill a sink

All of the pills that make you
                   easier have expired
seemingly before you
moved in

The only way to keep the stove
                                         from jaundice
                           is to exist on delivery

You begin talking behind Depression's back

Never mentioning how
                                    the floor of your bedroom could be troweled
             for nutrients
                                    The untaxonomical creatures your silence has birthed

Instead you gossip about how Depression never changes
the lightbulbs Fable the spoons' caravan to
a winter under mattresses

Depression is funny
when it's something you live with
instead of something that lives in you

You are not
                of course
                        Depression
                         yourself
                 So archaic to take your lover's name
                                      when you can barely recognize him

You are fine enough to dress
                in second person
                                        to tint your eyes and
                                                                smile
                                                     to a shade
strangers can't see through

Most of your friends are strangers

Talking about yourself is the textbook
                                                         definition of self-indulgence
so let's forget about you and concentrate
on Depression again

How Depression is the one that always talks
about itself
It never learned its parents language
It is too metaphor for friendly conversation

How you can't stop talking about
how Depression can't stop talking
about itself

You clean your apartment by crop cycle
so that there is always something
that looks dead
                                             something blooming

©2016 by Adam Stone, Crooked Treehouse Press