Stay Up On Your Feet.

People say things easily.
Mostly, being insincere.
They strive to weasel into your life and prove something to themselves.
Something rotten and reminiscent of toxic spores. They aim to break the strength they see in you, to make the beautiful into the hideous.
They want to see you cry and beg.
They aim to show you new lows.
They aim to make you alone.
They aim to silently poison your table of knights one by one.
They feign love.
They indignify truth through their very existences.
These people want to be a victim, always; unable to endure what doesn’t fit into a pre-self-determined reality that’s far from being real.
People like this can’t (won’t/don’t) help themselves from being the epitome of protervity and narcissism.
It’s often quite easy to glimpse the actual pig’s (from the state of perpetual pig-headedness of such people) features at times, if you concentrate long enough on their’ faces.
These people are truly hopeless, and entangling yourself with one of them will inarguably take years off of your life.
People need to sleep at night (well, most people, at least) and throughout their’ lives, have honed the art of achieving said sleep by any and all means necessary.
It doesn’t matter who they have to steal from, lie to or cheat on.
Most people are either like puppets or puppeteers.
They can be dragged around by a string and made to do another’s bidding – to be the butt of another’s constant stream of jokes and gags and be kept in a box out of sight, some asshole’s means of venting his subliminal machinations; or they can be the one dragging the strings and throwing their’ voices, the people harboring silently forlorn grudges against all of humanity.
People who feel it necessary to repeatedly outline the purity and righteousness of the lives they lead might as well wear a t-shirt that reads:
“Hey. I’m a fucking Fatmouth. Don’t believe a word I tell you about myself. I’m worth more dead.”
These are the same people who know – deep down – that not a decent individual in the world holds any sentiment in his/her direction, not even mom or dad, usually. Grandma even disowned these people, even, in her own heart.
These are the people who vampire your cha-cha and exhaust you in totality.
Don’t let this brand of evil wash out your colors and make you feel like a faded version of yourself.
These are the people you exchange faked smiles with anytime you meet eachother.
Try to keep those meetings at a minimum.

Thank You.

It’s been a whirlwind knowing you…I don’t need to say this though because you know.

I know that you know.

I genuinely love you. I meant all I said, everything.

And it’s because of this that I wish you well in life; and I am warmed by the knowledge of your fulfillment and happiness.

I toast your future.

Have a nice life.

1/2 Hour Life-Span.

I love how you fancy yourself,
Sending gifts and wishes well,
Lending bits of your own Living Hell
But underneath you’re corrosive still
I love how you randomly pose as my friend
Obviously not wanting to tie this loose end
You act like your choices aren’t hard to defend
You’re onward and upward and I’m dust in your wind
I love the fact that you’ve traced around
The base I laid out on solid ground
While your betrayal has been quite profound
You remain unwilling to own it now
I love how you jumped from the frying pan
Into the flames of a garbage can
You cursed possibility before it began
With the harshest reality that you’re a conman




Nevermore.

One place stands
In a forgotten hollow
In the crimson tinged forests of Nevermore.
In the windows hang curtains
Hand stitched to perfection
To block out the sunshine
To shut out the truth.
Two faces, two hearts and two hands
Smothered in the sweetest honey
To make me retch everytime
Make me wonder who I am.
Over the door hangs an upside-down horseshoe
Rusted and weathered by lonely seasons
To remind the trees and birds and bees
That things will never be the same
Inside the walls dwell many secrets
Spicy whispers and midnight moans
Divulged to disconnected telephones.

A Butterfly’s Wings.

I spent all of this miserable time,
With an eye ever watching what’s mine,
Oh, how these strong emotional walls,
Break to bits when they finally fall,
Watch as my own wrecking ball,
Bitterly destroys it all in due time.

Wildly employing harsh strategies,
Idly killjoying my fantasies,
See how the peace is so far gone?
The why and how, the right and wrong,
Unsevered ties to my tragedies,

No bottom to the darkened depths,
no solidity beneath my many missteps,
Hear how my world is death rattling?
See my walls of glass as they’re shattering,
Around the feet that the mirror reflects?

Like a fluttering paper in a wayward breeze,
Screaming answers to queries whispered silenty,
A blessing disguised as an atomic bomb,
To explode and expose what our oaths have become,
The violent detachment of a butterfly’s wings.

A Jewel Dealer.

The bellboy silently closed the heavy hotel door behind him as he left the cushy room. S swallowed hard and calmly shut her eyes. She let her head roll back against the wall and began to quietly count to herself in the dark closet. She heard J’s voice float to her in the darkness, boisterously speaking to the man who’s name was signed on the hotel paperwork scattered across the glass coffee table about 10 feet in front of the closet.

J was carrying on about pointless things, trifling topics that filled the empty space between herself and the jewel collector she was captivating with nonsense.

“75…76…77…”
S stealthily sat up on her haunches, readying herself to spring to her feet.
“85…86…87…”

“I hear it’s lovely there in the spring.”

She heard the sarcasm oozing from J’s low murmuring voice through the darkness.

“95…96…97…”

The footsteps were growing louder, getting nearer, the floor beneath S shook lightly as they approached the closet she was hidden it, lying in wait.

As the closet door opened, S registered the surprise in the face of the jewel dealer; he knew he had been gotten. The jacket he had intended to hang up in the closet was already wrapped tightly around his torso from behind, and J’s maniacal grin peeked at S through the darkness from over his left shoulder.

“Don’t make a sound.”

S was deftly binding his legs already and, rather gracefully, switching her position in the closet with the jewel dealer’s next to J. THUD. The man fell full on his weight like a sack of potatoes into a heap on the closet floor. Two wide eyes staring up at the calmly poised women from the floor of the closet.

“Give us the keys.” J thrust out her hand towards the panicked face in the inky darkness.

“I…I…”

The jewel dealers words stuttered pathetically through gasps and quiet sobs.

“You will be a ghost full of regrets if you don’t stop talking and hand me those keys.”

S was wearing her serious face as she said this. Nervous pocket shuffling in the closet; keys jingling, coins rattling, until finally a small ring with two tiny nondescript keys on it was tossed through the space between them. A groan of miserable defeat followed from the closet.

Introspectivity.

It always starts out with,
that involuntary twitch,
eyes popping,
nervous rocking,
hard to catch my breath;

This much accursed gift,
heart haywire, mind adrift,
engine sputter,
pulse aflutter,
can’t run away from it;

A sand that’s too fine to sift,
these hands: too broken to lift,
no motivation,
slow salvation,
beyond a dark, longstanding rift;

Steaming piles of shit,
line my pathway to its pit,
a one way road,
on the map I hold,
of a soul that’s counterfeit.

Still Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous things,

picking thorns from trees,

like a blended sugarcane,

DMT, bonfires and peyote,

cigars and syringes,

sparkling fringes,

champagne, cocaine,

and pornography,

somewhere out there,

fathomed too deep,

Where I hardly sleep,

And maybe it’s killing me,

how my eyes stay closed,

mouth neatly sewn,

over words of my own,

this place is forsaken,

this space can’t be taken,

the loose change shaken,

from the secret pockets,

sewn neatly in my cheeks.

Flounder.

I’ve been circling the moldy, plankton encrusted bottom layers of life; feeding off of the slowly sinking debris that once littered the surface layers: the leftovers of a long-ago feast that I attended up there.

My vision has adapted to the murk; my breathing has adjusted to the oxygen depletion of dangerous depths and harrowing heights; my skin has settled into the wrinkled prune-esqueness of an over-long bubble bath; my hair now growing shafts of seaweed and tangly kelp in place of it’s natural fibers.

I’m a flounder, living with a great white shark who is lazy with a eating disorder; I am stuck in the suction of his hefty submerged wake; I am seemingly happy to gobble up the chunks of shit that fall from the sides of his razor sharp bite as he chews incessantly; I am his shadow down here.

Pins and Needles.

My fingertips are pins and needles,
That tuck the hospital corners of your world,
and smooth the blankets of your mind,
It’s chaos, come to adjust the pillows ’round your heart,
Anxiety, come to massage your broken hands,
See my sparkling, salt encrusted crown of worry,
Ever thickening with hardness,
Never weakening with softness,
My fingertips are ten tiny doorways,
That seek you out, thus desperately
It’s a welcome party sporting shotguns,
It’s death, come to holler in the deafened ears,
Life, come to go away again,
See my hate-infused senses trying so hard to love,
Ever faltering with drunkenness,
Ever drinking in this emptiness.

Go On.

Scratch every single thing
That ever held meaning
Swipe away the empty words
All Ive said and all Ive heard
Make it rain with truthfulness
Wash the stain of uselessness
I dont need the toxic lies
The well concealed goodbyes
Its all a joke told cruelly
Behind the trusting back of me
Just go on and get in line
And take your place in kind
Youre all the sorry same
Point fingers and place blame
In the face of reality
Incapable of solidity
Its like a giant oozing wound
Stitches opened far too soon
Im alone in the responsibility
Of letting mutants close to me
Days and nights between
The lies fed forcefully
I vomit each and every breath
Until nothingness is all thats left
Go on.
Go live your life.

Sine Missione.

I can write so-called “poetry”,

and rhyme strange words essentially,

I can tell my whole sad story,

in prose that spit-shine defensively,

I can swim in an unforgiving sea,

breakers and barrels spin-cycling,

I can ride waves semi-professionally,

a pipeline that leaves my mind spiraling,

I can clean up and seem undoubtedly,

exactly the way everyone seems to be,

I can focus my brain’s scattered energy,

and complete tasks that are given to me,

I can turn off and on emotionally,

like a switch on a wall in a laboratory,

I can protect my childish feelings,

by detaching myself from reality,

I can recall things once lost to memory,

I can trace roots far back in my family,

I can complete a tax return accurately,

I can also lift and carry the heavy things,

I can speak several languages fluently,

I can tell a story pretty truthfully,

I can tow dead weight to shore safely,

I can sniff out the best kept secrecy,

but I can’t seem to truly comprehend,

how to get myself out of this wasteland,

my brain doesn’t appear to understand,

my body doesn’t answer to the demand,

how to accept the filth for which you stand?

how to walk away and not look back again?

how to convince myself that you are not human,

so that I can live with the mirror’s reflection.

 

 

Delay.

FOREWORD:

They say that the delirium is late-stage cancer – nothing more. Perhaps it is, I can’t say at this point. What I can say is that the delirious woman is still my mom; is still worthy of my love and support; is still a person who I love very much, suffering…dying.

baby-of-mine-dumbo-o.gif


Let me tell you a short (though, repetitive) story; one I have come to know by heart without consciously trying…one that plays itself out through each and every nightmare I have if I am lucky enough to fall asleep deeply enough…one that has come to define each and every “visit” I get with my mama, anymore:

The Bedpan: It is an inevitable circumstance, no matter where mama is.

In whichever facility that she is hospitalized, she is bedridden and increasingly unable to move without severe pain. She, therefor, has been reduced to a bedpan or commode when she is lucid, or, a fucking adult diaper, otherwise.

In her lucid times, the diaper must come off, else she have a massive coronary. During these interim of semi-coherence for her, is the perpetually running song and dance of trying to go to the bathroom. My mother is on diuretics for edema in her legs at present, and therefor has to pee like every 15-20 minutes no matter which state she is in…a detail that seems to define every moment that I spend with her anymore: the horrid revolving door of trying to get a fucking bedpan in time.

The orderlies and nurses are slow as molasses in any setting we have been; they seem to take pleasure in the circumstance of making my mama wait until she can’t hold it any longer, and a mess ensues, without fail.

Then, there I am: frustrated beyond words with the staff for letting this happen AGAIN; and there’s mama: so broken down and defeated by the humbling experience that she’s enduring, she just cries while I clean her up. Each and every time this occurs, it sinks my mama lower into her resignation to death and departure. Each time she cries, it does something to me that I can’t yet find the words to express accurately, but I can say with certainty that her tears in this context make me want to seriously hurt someone, or worse.

As a result of this hideous cycle of requests for basic assistance, delayed responses, messes to clean up, and mama’s subsequent withdrawal further into darkness, I have begun to absolutely dread going to see my dying mother at all.

bambi.gif

 

My New Mom.

Because of the collective whirlwind effect created by the sudden appearance of, and the subsequent hijacking of any former Life by this hideous reality, this thing known only as “my mama’s terminal cancer”:

  • I pushed it to the limit with keeping her with me at my house (actually, just a single rented room in a home shared with 2 bachelors) and nearly bit off way more than my can possibly chew;
  • I nearly pushed myself to the point of no return in regard to my own sanity and my own abilities;
  • I allowed myself to totally reside on the back burner for too long, and in turn began the cycle of forgetfulness and neglect in light of my own basic needs and any prior commitments made before the nightmare of Anticipatory Grief entered my day to day existence.
  • I stiffened my upper lip and sucked it up – I refuse to ask anyone for anything in the context of help with my mom, especially my new mom, due to her total and complete lack of any sense of self.
  • I moved her to a place where she isn’t going to be waited on hand and foot like I had been doing for her – having such a personal caregiver isn’t a good routine for her overall independence, despite what she says now.
  • Since the move, she has slowly declined in mentality to the point where as of now, she is too confused to find or answer her phone 9 times out of 10; she still cannot walk on her own either for some reason; she forgets her medicines and forgets to eat, she doesn’t shower at a;; anymore unless she is made to do so; she has no sense of humor, the only remaining thing about my former mama was the crazy thick hair – but that has fallen out now.

 

It’s like I have slowly come to be caring for a total stranger; this person is nothing like my mama. My new mom is stoic and scowls at me for no reason; she snaps at me for offering to help her with things when she is struggling.

 

“I wish you would just get out of my face for a change!”

 

This was what she hissed at me on New Year’s Eve, when I showed up to surprise her with some sparkling cider and pizza. She said she was tired of seeing my face whenever she opened her eyes. I left well before midnight and cried the whole way home.