[y66]

Scary Movies

by Kim Addonizio

Today the cloud shapes are terrifying,
and I keep expecting some enormous
black-and-white B-movie Cyclops
to appear at the edge of the horizon,

to come striding over the ocean
and drag me from my kitchen
to the deep cave that flickered
into my young brain one Saturday

at the Baronet Theater where I sat helpless
between my older brothers, pumped up
on candy and horror—that cave,
the litter of human bones

gnawed on and flung toward the entrance,
I can smell their stench as clearly
as the bacon fat from breakfast. This
is how it feels to lose it—

not sanity, I mean, but whatever it is
that helps you get up in the morning
and actually leave the house
on those days when it seems like death

in his brown uniform
is cruising his panel truck
of packages through your neighborhood.
I think of a friend's voice

on her answering machine—
Hi, I'm not here—
the morning of her funeral,
the calls filling up the tape

and the mail still arriving,
and I feel as afraid as I was
after all those vampire movies
when I'd come home and lie awake

all night, rigid in my bed,
unable to get up
even to pee because the undead
were waiting underneath it;

if I so much as struck a bare
foot out there in the unprotected air
they'd grab me by the ankle and pull me
under. And my parents said there was

nothing there, when I was older
I would know better, and now
they're dead, and I'm older,
and I know better.

from What is This Thing Called Love. © W.W. Norton & Company, 2004. Reprinted with permission at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/inde...date=2010/07/29

[OleBerg]

Roses are red
and violets are blue,
I'm a schizophreniac
and I'm that also.

[kenberg]

Small world department: Checking the Wikipedia I found that Kim Addonizio, the author of this poem, is the daughter of Pauline Betz Addie. I am pretty sure that I have played bridge against Ms. Addie, although it has been a number of years.

The poem comes to a thoroughly logical but to me unexpected conclusion. An interesting reflection.

[y66]

Thank god for poetry or I could never say:
He was a schizophreniac from Hackensack.
His better half liked to overcall 3C over 1D with xx xx Kxxx KQJT9.
Sick? No doubt. But effective, even fashionable.
His other half was semi-rational.