” bringing it to the table ” – everyday poetry 210

so, i am still on skid row

i received some daunting news from the doc – Temple & Alameda VA, Los Angeles

i may, or may not make it

time will tell

i have not even told some of my closest friends

i have posted a vague entry on fb, maybe on twitter too


kennethjamesArt – my art pages on face-book, on twitter, on youtube ( 3kennethjames3 )

i have quite a few sites

i have tried for three years, but only to my capacity

which, for social media promoting of myself, it may be o.k. blasé in the mediocrity of hopelessness buried deep in my ineptness through severe depressive disorder lending and on loan to the complex trauma difficulties that i try to mitigate through the incessant maintenance therapy that i am constantly absorbed in, for the sake of not being overran by the onslaught of ghosts and the active forces of evil, we call them the ones who are getting away with it, i call it that anyway, for now, and still at this time.

i don’t want to die now

along with the struggle, i don’t want to be here now

will success be a help to me

make me want to be here at all

maybe more-so than now

with a kitchen to cook in

for me, maybe even for

lets say 40 others, or 100 people

they are my friends

they are interested in the art i just created

they are interested in the poetry falling from my lips, that once lie dormant in my soul, or raged trapped in the confines of these walls called the body

and yes, the periods of time, the body does lie, but does not lie

veracities spoken as the time that breath met the lungs

the finality is infinity, as birth is the end to time

the means, everything that lies in-between

settled and not


so in our time of constant give

could it be greater to the constant take


started in the group therapy write – and previous dialogue silted


i was hoping so

knowing my own meandering river

more than 6,000 miles to go to understand me

can we then understand anybody at all

NGUYEN PHAN QUE MAI makes it easier to do so

as the the eloquence of writers painting spirits of known and unknown generations

the gifts of observations in an interpretive dance to untangle recondite complexities to the incontrovertible acceptance of a better journey to now be taken

we are to hear or not hear what anyone now has to bring to the table of contribution

is this a reason not to want to die – especially untimely

imaginative minds may concede that it depends on what has already been given


rain droped

rain droped

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