Jason's Poetry Page

Jason kindly allowed Bipolar World to display some of his poetry here.  To see more of Jason's work
go to his homepage at

Jason was recently diagnosed with Bipolar Affective Disorder.

Thank you Jason!
 
letters

i sit here in front of
the macintosh
and look through
the address book
and kick up the
word-processor
preparing to write
a letter or two
to friends.
i haven't seen these
people in years must be.
i wonder how many
people have doused
their lives with good
and bad
and indifference
(which is the worst).
i wonder if they
are the same people
i used to know. would
they get the ole humor
like they used to or
would they think
i was still just a comic
looking for a stage
wasting people's time
off-stage.
i wonder if any of them
have kids. and if they do,
how many know it.
how many have picked up
v.d. or a heart condition
or have gained 45 pounds
and still wear the old
jeans around just to make
themselves feel like
they're living in the ole
days of college 
and carefree fun.
it's been years all right.

it seems like a waste of time
writing to ghosts.

written
05-27-1995 @ 04:22 


 
Depression

sitting in this room
all lit with yellow, faux
light, I can't feel me.
Or Anything
For
That
Matter.

written
08-17-1998 @ 12:08 



empathology

i can't
wait
till
technology
makes
it
possible
to put a
special
cap
on someone's
head
and fill
their
head
with
what
it
feels like to
walk
in someone
else's
shoes...

written
04-24-1999 @ 22:06 

 



just to say

I want to go to every
library in every city,
even the tiny rural
libraries that have
editions of 1920s boy scout
manuals for the boys
and "sewing can be your friend"
for the other sex.
I want to go to these
libraries and go to
every poetry section,
probably in the LB
section, the english section,
except in the rural places
where the dewey decimal system
still thrives
like
baptists.

I want to go to every poetry
section and find every anthology
of poetry—though the pickings'll
be slim in those rural
places—and I want to
write an original poem from
my collection in the inner covers
both front and back
of each of those
anthology books.

but i'll leave the poems without my sig
and i'll be able to say that
I have a poem
in more anthologies than
any poet
and I want everyone who
appreciates poetry—the
pickings'll be slim in
those rural places—
to see my poetry and
not know the name but
they will know it's me
and they'll say,
"damn he's prolific."

written
04-28-1993 @ 01:06



surrealHobo

The hobo looked up from the
sleep that hobos sleep and saw
me waving a George Washington
buck at him, teasing his
poverty and the shakes the hobos
get after waking from their sleeps.
he smiled with rotten teeth that looked
like he'd been eating baked beans
since Bostonians first discovered
bacon and brown sugar and beans
went together quite nicely.
he reached to his crotch through
his left dusty pocket and
scratched a good, long time.
he mumbled something and stung me
with his drunktalk. 
"i've got a g-g-good time in my hand, sir."
he said, and he
pulled a green rolex and a condom
out of his pocket where his hand had been
and his crotch still was.
"f-f-for that georgie bill, I'll give you
fifteen minutes and a blow,"
he said.
"No thank you, sir," i said.
I had something better in mind.
I paused...
"Do you dance, sir?
I like to polka.
Can you polkadance, sir?" i said.
he said,
"well. . .well. . ."
just like that he said well twice,
trying to remember the moves.
he was willing to make it
up for a ten buck,
he said.
"I do believe I remember," he said
and he stood and I moved my feet
to a rhythm that wasn't there.
I jiggled. he jigged.
he became tired and had
to retire back to his cement
stoop.
He looked at his green timepiece
with squinty eyes and said,
"fifteen minutes and a good time was the deal."
he was all business. as much
business as a hobo could be.
"There was no deal," I said
and gave him the George.

written
10-06-1992 @ 01:56 



 
 
 
 
 
 

 

dizzy day
 

tom walked out of
his fast front door and carried
his 150 pounds with him
into 8:53am.
he was late for work.
he knew it.
and the traffic from
the other late sleepers
wasn't going to make him
move faster.
he remembered to hit
the alarm button on his BMW
only after he'd pulled the
handle and it screamed at
him.
"shit!" he said.
he stepped his right
foot in. then slid in
his left.
he reached into his
right pocket for his
keys.
"damnit!" he said,
"should've gotten those
out before i got in the
damned car."
he felt a drop of
sweat lose slip
near his left temple.
it dropped like droplets
do when they reach the
jawline and have nowhere
else to go but down and
landed on his light blue
shirt, making a small
darker circle near his
left shoulder.
"damn! it's hot!" he said.
"damn keys!" he said
as he pulled them out his pants.
he stuck them into the
ignition and cranked the
BMW.
it clicked.
that's all.
it clicked.
it was 8:59 am.

written
08-30-1996 @ 01:46



killing myself

today, I wanted to
kill myself. it was
3am and it felt right
to think of it.

too many to count 
white
faceless
pills
were in my
right hand. 
the cup
in my left was cool
and pregnant with water.

I sipped at the
cup's corner's edge and thought 
of
my family and my friends,
of
the credit cards I
had tapped out yesterday,
of
the book I hadn't finished reading.

i threw the pills
across the room,
sat back and drank the
water dry,
living because of obligations
and the obligated,
alone
and
lonely.
it feels more right
now
than at 3am.

written
09-12-1993 @ 04:19



think

most people don't think of
depression as making a snowangel in the
mud
till the angel is six feet
deep
and the mud takes a
gulp.

written
11-02-1992 @ 20:07 



why I do the things I do

when I was young I
heard whispers from the 
bump on the back of my noggin.
they haven't even sighed in 1293 days.

written
10-06-1992 @ 02:46 



it's only logic

if I could only find the patch of air
that samson once breathed, I would be strong.
if my lungs could taste hitler's breath, I would be a
leader. if I could feel the sweat of the 49er's, I would 
work hard. but i've happened upon a patch of don quixote's breath.
I would be a fool if he'd ever lived.
but he was fiction.
he was nothing.
that's what I breathe.

written
11-03-1992 @ 02:18 



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

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