02-24-2015, 09:58 AM
Ode To Asperger's Revision 2
The world's too close; and never safe or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there
beyond my door: it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I must bear
my old garage door's perforating din.
Unraveling, I climb into the car;
the seat-belt viciously abrades my skin.
No choice; each time I have to go too far.
I see each single leaf and piece of trash
across the floor; before the car's in gear
I'm rattled by a buzzing in the dash;
a squeal as well, that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
Dried water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
are overlays that move and disappear
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist I see them near:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
So far it isn't fun, but still time flies
as dread accumulates: a tidal wave
created from impending mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My self-reliance dictates policy,
(It always does, regardless of my fear.)
I sell an apt pretence of normalcy
but even so, the effort costs me dear.
My neck's as stiff as steel when I arrive
and sidle in, avoiding every eye.
I shrug my way past chattiness; contrive,
with every unmet glance, my alibi.
So no-one knows that I've got what it takes,
or calls to mind a word I left unsaid.
I'll leave sometime before my patience breaks,
and once I'm gone, I might as well be dead.
Revision 1
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I endure
the shrieking metal door of my garage;
then tense as seat-belt webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a fraying wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear;
assaulted by a rattle in the dash,
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My self-reliance dictates policy,
(it always does, regardless of my past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even so, the effort's just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so, as I arrive
I sidle in, avoiding every gaze,
and furtive, ducking through the crowd, I strive
to vanish lamely in the social maze.
I've never proved that I have what it takes;
I never can remember things I said.
I leave about the time my spirit breaks;
I always end up wishing I were dead.
(Apparently I'm in a creative frenzy right now....the critiques so far really clicked.)
Original
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
Suppose I want to drive; I hunch and bear
the shrieking metal door of my garage,
then tense as nylon webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a twitching wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear,
distracted by a rattle in the dash;
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
In rapid train I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water spots displayed on side-view glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My confidence convinces even me,
(at least it's done so in the recent past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even though I try, I'm just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so when I arrive
I sidle in the door, avoiding every eye
and weaving through the crowd. Furtive, I strive
to put my back against the wall and spy
out my escape. I never can remember things I said:
each time, before the end, I find I'm wishing I were dead.
The world's too close; and never safe or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there
beyond my door: it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I must bear
my old garage door's perforating din.
Unraveling, I climb into the car;
the seat-belt viciously abrades my skin.
No choice; each time I have to go too far.
I see each single leaf and piece of trash
across the floor; before the car's in gear
I'm rattled by a buzzing in the dash;
a squeal as well, that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
Dried water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
are overlays that move and disappear
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist I see them near:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
So far it isn't fun, but still time flies
as dread accumulates: a tidal wave
created from impending mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My self-reliance dictates policy,
(It always does, regardless of my fear.)
I sell an apt pretence of normalcy
but even so, the effort costs me dear.
My neck's as stiff as steel when I arrive
and sidle in, avoiding every eye.
I shrug my way past chattiness; contrive,
with every unmet glance, my alibi.
So no-one knows that I've got what it takes,
or calls to mind a word I left unsaid.
I'll leave sometime before my patience breaks,
and once I'm gone, I might as well be dead.
Revision 1
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I endure
the shrieking metal door of my garage;
then tense as seat-belt webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a fraying wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear;
assaulted by a rattle in the dash,
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My self-reliance dictates policy,
(it always does, regardless of my past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even so, the effort's just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so, as I arrive
I sidle in, avoiding every gaze,
and furtive, ducking through the crowd, I strive
to vanish lamely in the social maze.
I've never proved that I have what it takes;
I never can remember things I said.
I leave about the time my spirit breaks;
I always end up wishing I were dead.
(Apparently I'm in a creative frenzy right now....the critiques so far really clicked.)
Original
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
Suppose I want to drive; I hunch and bear
the shrieking metal door of my garage,
then tense as nylon webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a twitching wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear,
distracted by a rattle in the dash;
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
In rapid train I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water spots displayed on side-view glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My confidence convinces even me,
(at least it's done so in the recent past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even though I try, I'm just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so when I arrive
I sidle in the door, avoiding every eye
and weaving through the crowd. Furtive, I strive
to put my back against the wall and spy
out my escape. I never can remember things I said:
each time, before the end, I find I'm wishing I were dead.