Invasive.

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I have my own invasive mass of cancerous needs,

dotting my insides like tumors to match yours,

but, mine won’t kill me – not yet at least,

they’ll grow bigger along with yours, though…

as time is inhaled into the night skies,

our allotment dwindles before our eyes,

I’ve always foreseen and known,

but could never fully imagine it’s blow,

like a repeated cinch around my throat,

the defeated pitch of my voice as I choke,

over words and feelings I can’t integrate,

in order to make sense of such sensible fate,

there is a break in the line,

if there’s no you in the future of mine,

there’s no way I will prove to be,

strong as I’ve always liked to believe,

without certain pieces of you ever-hanging,

like homemade chimes over my life,

a dreamcatcher made to be grasped at from my bed,

now, nothing in the Universe feels right in my head,

there’s a new hole somewhere in my soul,

of which spills out unstoppably –

my childlike love and adoration,

I miss you already, even as we plan Christmas,

even as we plan your death, together,

you apologize to me for dying of cancer,

a different person now, you feel bad and regretful,

for the fact that you will, indeed, be leaving me soon,

You whispered:

“…but, I’ve only myself to blame – I did this…”

as I put out a cigarette and wipe my face.

 

 

 

Eternal Inquiry – A Haiku.

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Americana Injustica

Perpetually,
a yarn ball made of questions,
unrolls before me;
~
asked frustratedly,
a tangle of answers form,
tripping up my feet;
~
the theme, unchanging,
surrounding the inquiry,
how and where is she?
~
unanswered for me,
tears that eat away the years,
as they pass slowly.
~

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Portraits of the Dead.

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Americana Injustica

A tendril invisibly,

wafting stealthily,

a hand-picked,

sentimentality,

flower bouquet,

rotten by decay,

aimlessly floating,

across fields of graves,

comes to me finally,

as I sit alone, sadly,

beneath the shade,

of a favorite pine tree,

and it falls gracefully,

at my muddy feet,

I’ve been drawing,

portraits belonging,

to the faces of the dead,

from memories,

held strongly,

in the spaces in my head.

 

 

 

 

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Begins A Dread Ending.

menmom2011

Well, the biopsy results came back this morning…my mother has officially been given 1 to 2 years to live, “depending on her treatment choices”…stage 4 lung cancer that has already metastasized quite aggressively, hence that huge lump growing on her neck that I wrote about recently.

When I was driving her back to her job following this news, it was weird, almost like for the first time in my conscious memory, I didn’t want to let her out of my car – I didn’t want her to go. I’ve tried twice to speak to her since then, and had to hang up abruptly both times because I choked up completely, like a desperately bitter child.

Due to the location of the lump in her throat (it straddles her carotid artery), they have had a difficult time in diagnosing this because they didn’t want to biopsy the regular way and cut her by accident. In the meantime, she was given x-ray, CT scan, and sonogram in order to get precise measurements of its position in relation to her veins and arteries. I took her for a radiology appointment last week; when I saw the thing on the screen in the sonogram room, I went cold; something about it made my knees like jelly for a few seconds, I just got this sense of what it was – the finality it represents…I had to sit down.

Waterproof Makeup.

depression

She should have told you certain things,

like how she hates being on the phone,

how she hates the sound of her own voice,

how laughter makes her stomach ache,

how anything right feels so wrong on her,

how empty and alone she becomes after “good-bye”,

the reason she pays extra for waterproof make-up.

Grey Street.

selfie1

“There’s a loneliness inside her,

and she’d do anything to fill it in…

And though it’s red blood bleeding from her now,

it feels like cold, blue ice in her heart…

when all the colors mix together to grey,

and it breaks her heart.”

 

Unfolding.

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Americana Injustica

It’s not like I can claim,

that I am not as much to blame,

It’s not like I

can’t recognize,

can’t rationalize,

conceptualize the game,

don’t think that I can’t hang,

don’t think my mind will change,

It’s not as if,

feelings like this,

don’t define my Everything,

and control the unfolding,

of such events,

the deliverance,

eloquence in my heart’s breaking,

another undertaking,

to the smoky depths,

It’s not like I am blind,

To the ways of heart and mind,

It’s not like I

haven’t memorized,

and compartmentalized,

internalized such decline,

spoken as a truth, confided,

uttered from a mouth, lopsided,

it’s not as if,

all things meaningless,

are deemed as being mine,

not like I cannot stand idly by,

as if to be left alone means I’ll die,

it’s not like I can’t stand upright,

on my very own,

and move my bones,

the blame is mine, and…

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