Blues on crack

and i am inside my mind
controlling the levers that
guide my lifeless shell
through the universe
the machine is outdated

every highway a
dead-end street
to insanity-in-a-box
lost in space like
will robinson

rising at noon i
pull the shades down
drown in mattress and
pillow again smother
my head in
cover i
am an ostrich
i don’t want to know

three-fried brain
hollowed eyes sinking
like a raft with a hole
down
to my concrete feet

see black in
Light
grey storm skies/
optimistically embraced
like a childhood buddy
lost to the rains
the air’s stench can’t upset me
corrugated skin and i
could care less about exfoliation
my mind left without me

wrap myself around myself
in a corner so tight i
can’t rock/head on knees
no tears a
straitjacket looks
inviting
i am not lucid

winter sings arias january
through january in an irritating
mezzo-soprano the
bareness of trees in thick wind
like dinosaur bones in a small room exhibit
i am
frightening
smoking newports 24/7
it
satisfies my taste for
food pacing the floor
guarding the door
from thought police ‘cause
they may storm in
and arrest my carcass…

(and when someone makes
you laugh you
envision being with them
forever. no cost.)

guilty innocence
brown/grey the
stylist’s dream thoughts
on a loudspeaker
like the cars rollin
through the streets
i think i’ll go dig my grave

stepford wife presentation’s
grey ghost gives
up the life

not looking back.
Blues on crack.

By Jacquese Armstrong

Biography:

Jacquese Armstrong is a writer/poet residing in Central New Jersey. Her chapbook, dance of the shadows, is to be released in June. Her work has been previously published in GFT Presents: One in Four, For Harriet and Black Magnolias Literary Journal among others.