all in a pile, pretty blue pills


The pillbox was god!

The powder it contained was compacted,
compressed, and dyed – and it held the
promise to lift when it seemed nothing else

could. In it were

the better ways to believe in, or to want
the dimpled dreams which never really
appeared – though it was not for a lack of

having parsed the explanations.

Now and then a wisp would eek or wink
through a transom, or a mind might display
pictures, but the hurries couldn’t be bothered

to lift head or hand to heaven.


Along for the ride,

to watch and observe the mating rituals of
eclipses, and to singe white clouds brown,
making them all disappear – the worlds trees

burned – singing all

fall down songs. Later the books, because
they wanted to be tangential and connected,
ignited their pages, like the tickets

the weary used to travel

westward to their warm homes, clutching
at samples and other follies of wool shaved
from the backs of the less savvy,

and by fire disappeared the brethren.


Now or then

a part might expand into a whole, exploring
life in different cupboards, and chips from
other older blocks would follow and tell

stories and make up precedents

a burning tree or an ignited book might not
ever be able to explain the rules of, or too
the stares looking in belief mirrors –

not even late at night,

or when the fire had an endless supply of
thighs to entertain, and the eclipse was in
its most beautiful and awe full state,

orange by the fires glare

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6 responses to “all in a pile, pretty blue pills

  1. This is very good, PM.

  2. Interesting poem, somewhat prosaic, proceeding from the easy knowledge of medications–perhaps antidepressants–to the depressing knowledge of declining literacy, or cultlure, or appreciation for art, until only hints and guesses are left–in a devolution of tribal fires and fear of eclipse. The transition from the first movement to the second requires a lot of the reader, but I made it through. Enjoyed,


  3. The thing I enjoyed in this piece (like in many of your pieces) is the little phrases like “the hurries couldn’t be bothered” and “the mating rituals of
    eclipses” and “other follies of wool shaved
    from the backs of the less savvy” that permeate like seasoning sprinkled to add flavor to a dish. I simply don’t know where else I could go to see it done so well. Bravo…

  4. Jo – Thank you…

    C. E. Chaffin Wow, your use of the word “Interesting” reminds me of when someone is presented with a piece of art they do not understand or like and the say “It’s Different.”

    I won’t even try to understand what you are trying to communicate with your use of the word “Prosaic.”

    …hey, it’s all good – maybe when your having an off day again, you can come back and poke at the rest of my “Interesting” and “Prosaic” poems…who knows, you might find the tiniest of diamonds among them…

    Bob, I am glad your here, I was feeling unsteady a bit ago…much better now though…Thanks for the comment and your sober appraisal…

  5. Once again I’ve fallen into your wonderful word-world; this time you had me at “a wisp would eek or wink through a transom.” I love the way these words feel in my mouth while reading your poem aloud. ;>

  6. Found you by happenstance, you’re glorious. Ta.

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