Gypsy in Chains

“They hang out at the less hoighty toighty ski resorts, the ones with cross-country granola skiers instead of the women in three hundred dollar ski goggles.  The gypsies just grab their chainsaws and carve these bears and sell them for a few hundred dollars and live off the money off season. They had a big fire. I was cold and wet, so I went up to them and said, ‘Won’t be buying a bear today, but would love to talk to you.’ I really wanted their story.”

I remember my bear. Her name was Fitzpatrick. Every day, they would line us up in alphabetical order. Fitzpatrick was always called at least three times. He was either sick, on restriction, or unable to hear his name over the cacaphony in his unquieted mind. So, every day, I stood there looking at a picture of this bear with her (?) cubs on the hallway wall waiting for Fitzpatrick to get his shit together.

I stared at Fitzpatrick, the bear not the man behind me, and wondered about something capable of so much rage and comfort. I wondered if I only noticed this duality, because I like Fitzpatrick, the man behind me not the bear, was grappling with my own in the form of bipolar disorder in a mental institution in Staunton, Virginia.

“I don’t think my parents would ever let me do that!” prattled my  caseworker.

“Buy a bear?”

“Be a gypsy.”


“Yes,  a gypsy life is not for everyone.”

God, how mundane medicated normalcy has become.

Won’t be buying a bear today.


Three Ate She

Dear Litai,


She’s cunning evil unseen,




She’s Pandora’s box.

She’s Cerberus bitch.

She’s Lucifer light.


She holds no cure.

She offers no remedy.

She answers nothing.


She liquidates.

She incinerates.

She obliterates.







Faith’s Eyes

She knows I’ll kill it.


She has wide set eyes.


Wide set eye women are notoriously slow to react and laid back to a degree you think they are high.


She is a fool….a stupid fool.


And, with a glance, she knows my soul’s truth and the situation’s gravity.


I first think her eyes to be hazel, but they are dirt brown.


Brown eyes are a result of Fascist genes dominating and capitulating all other color expressions. The only hope for something beautiful when brown hangs around is mutation. Freak prettiness.


Stupid and plain.


Yes, I judge her as harshly as I am sure she is judging me as she commands me via eye contact to train my own eyes away from my guilty piss cup.


“May I pray for you while we wait?”


Unnerved, I nod.


She closes her dumb, ugly eyes and opens her previously ignored mouth whispering hope, salvation, and redemption.


She and I transform.


Perhaps, faith is best with her eyes closed not blind.