Bad Haikus and Visions of Cody

How can you say if you’ve experienced something if you can’t tell the difference between it and possibly a symptom of your disordered threat processing abilities?

1.

Three by two by one.

It’s 1, 50, and 100.

Don’t touch me now, please .

 

2.

What’d Dickinson say

Regarding Oblivion?

Clearly, not enough.

 

3.

Here, a stone knight prays–

The MFA turns holy.

Intruders: douse fires.

 

Being I suppose a Romantic (neoRomantic, my period is wrong–apologies to Whitman), I constantly crave the sublime. Open up to the experience, wait for it to catch me. Someone talks about her experience and crying, being so profoundly affected. What can I offer? The feeling of my chest burning when alone in a museum? The tightness and push when walking behind the science building, held in suspension by orange lights of a greenhouse? I identify the feeling of rushing down Rt 1 alone as being “sublime,” or as close to it as I have gotten, spurred forward. These moments change me, but I always run the risk of reading too much into them by virtue of my veritable brain stew of problems.

 

4.

It is easier

to say, “I fear elections.”

So those are my words.

 

5.

Your fingertips are

rough. Delete spaces for me.

I keep losing words.

 

6.

The caffeine counters

the other symptoms I have.

Why? I feel too much.

 

Driving into work, there’s this one section of highway–one of the exit ramps merges here–that the sunset hits to make a perfect gold. It will only look this way a little while longer, but I love it. I feel my heart climb up my chest in a good way when I’m covered by that light, and I want to cry for how temporary it is. And how do you describe these overwhelming feelings? I cannot articulate what happens, or express exactly what I think it is without feeling embarrassed about being wrong, particularly when it might be said in front of people I admire (and yet I do it here, anyway).

I have been caught up in these things that I’m well behind on NaNo. I don’t think I mind.

 

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Author: jillboger

Part time writer. Editor-in-Chief for the Bridge volume 13, former EIC for The Odyssey at BSU. My glasses protect my secret identity.

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