A Sproutling for Neurosis by Abel Ruiz

close your eyes.


This has been tugging at me-


the dichotomy of the social insistence of bowtie show-time limelight mannerisms,


and resentment unexpressed, reluctance paraded as eagerness.


Like some incessant formication that’s permeated deep beyond the levels of my skin;


the spotlight burns like poison on the groundwork of my moral conscience


and behaves plague-like on the development of my soul’s positive progress.


A madly self-constructed scaffolding of disadvantaged cognitions.


A million incessant voices, thoughts and words,


spilling over my mind’s rim ad infinitum, ad nauseam


I need to find some peace;


tear these somber nights at the seam.


Tear away from these walls the pictograph memories,


the rosily recalled hazy snapshots of contentment


filling these rooms with the chagrin of simulacrum bodies as my companions,


petrified audience for my dinnertime camaraderie


Their mouths always moving; but they’re either saying nothing, or I’m paying no mind,


I cannot tell which.


it’s been tugging at me, this feeling-


champing at the heels of every thought and every step.


Tingeing every inflection and punctuating every breath.


The ironic permanence of transience,


schemas scripted towards table-talk applause,


pleasure in the popular approval


The unconscious oscillation between cynical suspicion and anxious apprehension,


chewing words like cud between teeth that have been iron-pressed into a grim smile,


nuanced truisms of grandiose superficiality,


Come for dinner, stay for the show,


it’s filled with ferocious putative jubilance and is endlessly ruminative.


I’m lost somewhere between the planes of my fear and my ambition,


whirling in a torrent of my own cyclic meta-thoughts and self-talks.


I’m listing.


Caught in an unseen struggle between Hollywood aestheticism,


utterances of rococo lexicons, jauntily and devilishly extravagant,


paralleled against madness, dissonance as a result of disgust


at the play-performer’s part that I obligate myself to.


The dinner-table’s head, master toaster and glorious host,


the pure exemplification of the all-eyes-on-you personality dichotomy,


publically perfect posture, internal hurricane of dismay.


All this happens always in the heavily silent PM,


pilot-testing perspectives and scriptures,


for measures of their get-together small talk palatability.


Attempts at cultivation of a true sense of caring.


Attention-demanding, unpleasantly titillating .


the social-chemist madness shakes my head and my sight,


gives me headaches and grants my hands volition of their own,


so that they dash across paper, trailing a quivering line of black across my careful script in an ugly jagged



the best tangible representation,


mark of my madness on the careful scrutiny of my public presentation.


It makes my peripherals into a home for ghosts,


and turns the darkness of my garage into the maw of some terrifying, unimaginable beast, mouth agape

to swallow me whole.


A world where every smile is a sneer,


able to be labeled mostly insincere.


Where the folks dip their hands in piss prior to their hand-shakes and back-slaps


Where every crowd’s a bloodthirsty Inquisition


and every word spoke is in someone’s eyes blasphemy and treason,


Where the dark and infinity are synonymous:


an edgeless, formless hole for all the world’s nightmares and inconceivability to spill out and take shape

and name.


Undertakings of impartiality have catalyzed out-of-body objectivity,


where I am regressed to a guest at my own dinner table inside my head’s home.


I can only stare with dumb animal lust at the man at the table’s head,


and remark at the stark similarity of himself to I.


Words and meaning spilling out over lips to his court of beautiful people,


Their smiles nailed up way past their cheeks, and their eyes glued like stray dogs,


surveying with hungry desire the words that dribble from his endless orifice.


I look at him and love him, sitting amongst his great feast


with his beautiful people , gaily demeanor and delusions of the grandest kind.


and I’m scared to ask: “Of us two, mirrored selves, whom is the imposter?”


Is it he?


The confident, bold and brash, outlandish to the max,


socially precocious, the mind-set of a king.


or I?


the meandering, tragically derelict?


little-boy silhouette of insecurity,


self-perpetuated confusion.


I thought, being his engineer, I’d know him better…


I need to find some peace.


close my eyes against my soul for always.

Categories: Issue 2 - Spring 2012, Periodicals, Poetry | Tags: | Leave a comment

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