In a dream, a one block stretch of New York City street
Where everything that was needed and satiating and satisfying and
safe and tangible was laid out neatly
in good city planning and best business practices.
No one was there except the company of color and the sensibility of place.
Place to be viable.
An embryo as in old lady viable.
in order to reconstruct
find a construct
to know where “I” am
in the who “I” is.
Finding the “I”.
Searching for the way the place the time.
Time is this one city block,
it really does wrap into itself
in this Deep Inside and Far Away.
No, wait, scratch that.
It’s not about finding the “I”.
It’s about hiding the “I”.
A moving target and all that jazz..
And there is jazz, and classical and hip hop and bee bop
most of all, true rock.
Cuppa Joe cafe serving two seats
if there happens to be a guest who can stomach
not imposing an agenda.
You can have it in a cup if you’re feeling up
You can have it in a bowl if you’re
but have yourself a cuppa coffee.
The main sin of the Mormon world. Coffee.
Second sin to being fat.
But it’s the only medicine that has ever worked
in all the decades of guinnea pig prescriptions.
So Medina says fuck it fuck you all
If your religion represents God
Who wants God
Hell is infinitely easier
And yes, if “men are that they may have joy”
A little “easier” can be reasonably expected.
Medina rage comes up blocking
The thiefs of the frosting colors buttercream
on vanilla cookies.
Snickerdoodles too, but you need more milk for those.
Is there a quicker-is-liquor store on this block? Cookies no way.
A bookstore, a library where hiding in the stacks is real
when razor blades double-edged kind
are taped to your shins.
Yelling tantrumming sniveling
Maybe the “I” is never real, just a form of truth.
Truth is what you know while everyone else is playing along
to some other dream where the streets are facade movie sets.
Construct deconstruct the sets
find a structure to order your day
keep the Overwhelm at Bay.
Detective work, mystery story hats and disguises and voices
Isn’t a mystery just another Hiding?
About finding truth? Whodunn it?
If everyone in the christmas living room
hospital suicide room
little storage locker room
Passes milk and cookies ya ya how ya doin
While the Fargo blood stains the snow
woodchippered psyche splattered on the walls
while they smile and compliment your new wall paper
Then I am not the crazy one.
That much I know by now.
Wait, I said “I”.
That’s the “I for now.
What is not truth, and also, when it clears on the horizon,
What is truth.
And it ain’t my problem.
—————“One New York City Block” poem is written and copyrighted by an a name-withheld author. The accompanying mural is by Heidi Hansen. Questions and comments should be sent to Heidi D. Hansen, M.A., Mental Health Advocate specializing in Dissociative disorders and Post Trauma Stress. Contact (360) 892-5218 or email firstname.lastname@example.org to discuss your needs in this area. Payments for DID consultation and advocacy can be made via Paypal using the button shown here.