[Jeffrey]

You went mad at the sight of cinematic ghosts

You went mad at the sight of cinematic ghosts
wrapping themselves around your frame of reference,
so fresh young veterans wrapped you in a straight
waistcoat, a longshot to hold your body back from an
abyss your rolling eyes had listlessly dismissed.

But: discharged with partial portion of honor, buckshot
across rising sun, you become the same old someone
you were before your problems became clinical,
medicated, as if you waited during your state-
sponsored exile for an escape. I wait to see you
turning leaves, but you're tossing knuckle-bones
in that alley that you called home before you
shuffled off with Uncle Sam, and now it's your
desert. You, the great I AM, leading your faithful
nations of feverish hallunciations down a path
to the sweet Avernus of Lady Liquor, Dionysius in
a summer dress (calling out to sailors like a wild
stag: "I am Dionysia!"). Or call them (us?) to Canaan.
Paths to Oblivion are quicker than that to the gates
where I intend to wait, counting off the seconds
as stragglers stalk to their way to an eternal reward.

Alliances stretched across aisles (an aisle of white
where my darling and I will retire) are holding your
feet over the fire, roasting you in an Edwardian Hell
in which you're built yourself, brick by wire, a private
study where you read laserdiscs and Alexandrian scrolls
snatched like wayward, half-committed souls from the flames.
It's a false balm to your soul, sandpaper for your softest
skin. You are damning yourself in due time to lose the
mind you claim is already disputed on a borderline
between Hades & Olympos, Valhalla & Loki's chains,
the horror-addled brain & a good night's sleep.

The woods are lovely! So dark, so crisp, so deep
like the waves that would embrace me with finality
if I were to let them get to second base. There is
a white mask over my face, I breathe steadily,
hiding my name, age, race, my fists pound the
theme to an about-face on the waves. I join the
Calvinist choir in a declaration of Who saves, and
I let the rest sort itself out. I shout until my
throat is an open wound, I am running my own race
around a padded room, I lay my head on my lover's
lap but her sweet caress and kiss are like a scolding
slap to a face that seeks just a peek behind the
curtain, wants to know for certain, see the Father
lurking on a mountain path. My kingdom, all of New
Dakota for a cleft in the rock!

You and I are so much alike, we're both
two steps from quitting. I am getting frayed
around the edges, I spin out at corners. But
the mansions behind Heaven's gate are warmer,
heated by a never-setting sun, and even I,
well-acquainted with the night, will cheer
when I become one of that number. The saints
are marching in, without boots or bloodless toes,
but they know where they'll rest their feet.

[Ordinary Sarah]

Mmm, I really, really like this one. I think this is excellent:

I shout until my
throat is an open wound, I am running my own race
around a padded room, I lay my head on my lover's
lap but her sweet caress and kiss are like a scolding
slap to a face that seeks just a peek behind the
curtain, wants to know for certain, see the Father
lurking on a mountain path.