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 Butterfly’s Wings.

Shanghaied.

Blue skies,

high highs,

then it’s all gone…

Closed eyes,

finalized,

rendered solemn.

Shanghaied,

hogtied,

to the bottom…

Blindside,

decried,

bigger problems.

That’s right,

just might,

never solve them…

Surprised,

scandalized,

by the outcome.

Demoralized,

demonized,

a conundrum…

conceptualized,

verbalized,

begging pardon.

Wide-eyed,

falsified,

ever outdone…

Ill advised,

characterized,

by the pondscum.

Incentivized,

portentous lies,

drab skies darken…

Satisfied,

pacified,

black hearts harden.

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.

Home.

Things are happening; I have already started to pull out every box and crate stored in my garage; in order to sift through and keep only what’s truly necessary, I must touch each thing.

It’s almost comical…how all of the things I have nearly killed myself in order to hang on to for so long will soon be thrown out. These things turn out to mean nothing; and to serve no purpose at all…outside of painful reminders to me of a former identity that’s become a bitterly recalled ghost. Things are changing; big ideas are being rolled into balls and set into motion around me – and I have been called off the bench to get into the game. I intend to play like never before once I get on the field, believe me…

But Life is funny this way, isn’t it? At last, I have lost everything; I don’t mean that in a pitiful sense, either. I mean to emphasize how I have nothing to lose anymore – no child to set a good example for – nobody to financially support or look after – no career left – no social life or REAL friends nearby. I am finally unbound from the courts and the juvenile delinquent joke-of-a-system; I have no warrants out for my arrest, no news anchors left to stalk me from my front porch, no family (besides my brothers and theirs’, of course).

I have had no drive or motivation; I have been feeling essentially hopeless and as if my Life has been winding down to its final scenes, somehow. Things have been exceptionally dark and dreary here in my world – and any of my regular readers know how and why this has all come about; it’s almost just a natural result of the absolute deflation attached to Boo, and my former identity’s faith in her “recovery”. Either way, the word STAGNANT comes first to mind when I try to search for a fitting descriptive word…yes, I have been quite stagnant.

All that being said, I have recently become the (un)secret winner of the (un)secret lottery; and things are beginning to open up, for lack of a better term. I am now fully planning to make an enormous shift – like to a different continent and country – to a different time and equatorial zone – to a new beach and ocean with different animals and an unfamiliar salinity in the water…I am finally leaving this Gods-forsaken shit-hole of a “life” in my dust…and the actuality of the whole thing is beginning to sink in with me.

I have, at last, told some people that matter to me such as two of my brothers, my mother, and my former boss – a big step in the process. I have emotionally shut myself down to the negative reactions; and have perfected my responses to inevitable arguments; I guess the point is that it’s finally starting to move a teeny bit, all of it. And, for the first time in so fucking long, I have a curious level of hope…hope for my own days to come.

An unexpected and uncharted chance; at …something good and wholesome; something meaningful and fulfilling to the broken spirit I harbor…something like “home”.

 

 

 

 

Hangman’s Blood.

He sat, legs out-stretched;
his drink, known as Hangman’s Blood…
he wore exhaustion…

“I’m a Jar-head, Babycakes…”
blue diamond eyes, a match strikes;
“Of course I still smoke…”

sports bright twinkly stars,
eyes: adorned by shrapnel scars…
lives for deployment…

he carries no clue;
beyond decorative brass…
of how deeply he is adored…

A career Sand-Tank Gunner;
my first Love, look at you now…
I still see so much fire in you.

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I sweat and bled;
while they closed my wound
I  brooded on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came with my remaining four,
pounding on your secret door;
Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering of my murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and you said, “We’ll get it next time…

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– Honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the bridges we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– Honnør.

 

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was the fate of that box that haunts me now, you see?…

the darkness we anchored to it by burying it so deeply;
– Honnør.

 

A marksman’s dot on both of our foreheads again…
one must offer the other a last shot at another salvation…
but in spite of everything, there’s not a second’s hesitation…

the thought of “better me it be than my spirit’s dearest friend”;
– Honnør.

The Unsecret (Childhood) Dialogue of S and J (3).

“I had no idea the child was epileptic…”

Ms. Melody’s hands trembled in her lap as she answered the string of questions put forth by Mr. Brown, the principal. As J sat across the small space in the waiting niche from the two adults, she couldn’t help but to sense a bit of irony circling overhead, even at age 5. She casually let her eyes wander over to the nurse’s station, where her best friend in the world lay “unconscious” after all of the commotion.

“Pssssst. Psssst.”

S skillfully turned her head slightly to the right and peeled open one eye with careful attention, winked the eye quickly at her friend to reassure her that she was, after all, just fine, and then rolled and began to groan loudly.

“She’s waking up!”

cried J as she popped up from her chair and rushed over to S’ side, kneeling down closely to make sure that they would have the few seconds of private dialogue they needed to get out of the day’s cluster-fuck, unscathed.

“Here, here S – quick! Take this, hurry, give me your hand!”

Without a second’s hesitation, S shot her right hand out secretly, keeping it hidden between their tiny forms as she did. J slapped a key into her S’ palm, being careful to curl S’ small fingers up around the rough edges until S’ hand was closed tightly around it. The two savored a short moment of “the know” (the childhood title they used for their’ extraordinary ability to communicate almost telepathically), in which they shared a mental image of the overall escape plan.

“Hit the lights on your way out, would ya?”

S gave J’s request a quick nod of agreement as she began to sit herself up and ready for her mark.

And with that, the room became an explosion of activity all at once: papers flying everywhere, voices hollering, doors opening and slamming closed behind small, blurry blobs of pure motion. The fire alarm began to sound then, just as S made her way safely through the side exit and brushed her hand downward across the light switch. The building went dark; the fire-bell klaxon blaring with a Doppler affect overhead, the girls met up outside the office and slipped easily out through the rotten and retired drainage pipe that had eroded away enough to leave a child-sized passage. J being well-aware of S’ tendency to escalate situations without necessarily meaning to, she forced S to carry on ahead while she waited at the mouth of the passage exit to be certain that nobody had followed them through somehow.

It was another half hour before J made it to her house, where S had already made apple and peanut butter snacks for them.

“Your Dad says I can keep your house-key and he will just make you a new one…”

S said matter-of-factly as she crunched a piece of green apple.

              “He’s home?”

J suddenly sat up and wiped her face with her filthy hand, shocked and beginning to worry.

              “Does he know? You told him!?”

              S rolled her eyes, an expression that J endeared deeply in her best friend.

              “Um…I had to tell him, he drove past me at the crosswalk and pulled over to pick me up…I didn’t want him to take me back to school because he didn’t know better!!!…sorry, he’s not mad…”

J burned S with a look of sheer dubiousness.

              “He said we shoulda called him as soon as Ms. Melody gave me a seizure again, so that we coulda avoided all that time in the principal’s office…he thinks we spend too much time in there, anyway…”

The two girls crunched loudly on the snacks and caught their breath, collectively.

 

 

Sunday.

It’s Sunday; and sometime in early December…I hate the holidays.

I have been in a notably embittered state of being as of late; I wake up in a shit mood and spend my day feeling either numb or way too much emotion, shuffle my feet around and paint makeup on my face, do my normal routine of being a pissed-off and resentful human being for x amount of hours – before I will eventually (and still angrily) find my way to bed and fitfully fall asleep (Gods willing).

I am at home; I am surrounded by cheering men; men who honestly have very little concern in life outside of Fantasy Football rankings and Christmas shopping for the so-called “difficult” women with whom each has settled down with.

I am somewhere I did not really anticipate being, somehow; despite the situation I have been held hostage inside of (in the context of Boo) for all of these painful and dehumanizing years… I somehow never genuinely considered the possibility of such a circumstance as that which I now find myself: a place where motherhood does not live; a place where years of invested time, love, energy and hope can be found strangled into lifelessness and shriveling up in the unforgiving heat, a place where the thought of my only child makes my stomach feel sick in the most literal sense.

When I look at Boo’s face, I now see only her father’s there; his features stand out so strongly against the muted ones I contributed…there is actually very, very little of me anywhere in here at all. I keep finding myself thinking about abstract and unimportant trivia when it comes to the unhappy ending of this story; things like:

  • How the abusive, violent, backstabbing, murderous and psychopathic piece of trash of a father was able to imprint so many horrible characteristics and traits upon her without hardly ever knowing her;
  • How chillingly similar everything about the two of them has turned out to be, despite EVERYTHING I tried in order to make sure that couldn’t happen;

The thought that seems to be stuck like a piece of chewed up gum to the forefront of my exhausted mind is constantly buzzing inside my ear, asking me

“How is any of this even possible?”

There comes no response of course, just the same query over and over until my head hurts.

I have a seething and roiling hatred growing inside of me that feels bad, and is shocking in its severity. I feel disgust over so many things in the world, especially in my own little corner of it; I am lost and aimless, emotionally numb and going through motion after motion. I am turned off. I am tuned out. I am shut down. It comes to this crazy thought every time, the one in which I have sold everything I own worth anything and just POOF! disappeared into the masses of the urban jungles somewhere, where? I don’t know or care. I have been gradually been ridding myself of all the boxes full of hope that I have lugged around with me for the years Boo was gone: craft supplies, old drawings and school papers of hers, clear tubs of pens and pencils and crayons and scrap-booking shit for days. I won’t ever need or use any of it; that time has passed for me now.

The freedom attached to suddenly not being anyone’s Mom feels alien, even as it feels okay on some days, almost tolerable. Other days, I wake up with both middle fingers locked straight upwards; other times, I just want to die.

Unfixable.

I know that I do not get the same consideration from my own daughter when it comes to “cause and effect” that my mother continues to be shown, and somehow always has been shown, in spite of our tattered history. When my little brother killed himself, my mom’s way to cope with the blow was to try and erase him from her memory altogether: an element between she and I that hung bitterly in the stale air between us for years. She never speaks of him; she never lets me talk about him in any context in her presence without either full-blown freaking out, or changing the subject with blatancy sharp enough to leave a mark.
I have come to accept and understand over time that this has been the only way she has been able to continue on with her own existence after losing a child to suicide in the way that she did; and am only now beginning to see that this response was initially not one of choice for her. It was the effect attached to specific causes: those of profound emptiness, loss and failure. One of the most difficult things about coming to grips with acceptance surrounding my own child – and my own loss, emptiness and failure – has always been the absence of so many points of reference for me. I don’t know what a mother “should” look like or act like to her child; I have only ever winged it and did what felt right when it came to Boo.
Now, it has become unarguable that most (if not all) of those things were not right; no denying that I was an inadequate mom or else she would never have grown up to become what she did. But, I also think of a lot of other facts and truths that surround us such as how I also had an inadequate mom. I had a mom who was a violent and unstable drunk during my childhood; she was always high on drugs also, and kept like-minded company. My father fought tooth and nail to keep us protected from her unpredictable nature; she was painted very differently than I could possibly come close to being depicted by my daughter. Or was she?
Granted, I was not the type of mom who hit – I never even spanked Boo besides to SWAT at her backside with gentle care when she was a toddler; our experiences with a mother in the big, bad world were most certainly very different in almost every way. I am nurturing because my mom was the opposite; I was attentive because my mom seemingly forgot all about me and my brothers after we were born; I was protective and overbearing because of those reasons, too. I was so involved with her life as much as possible: a yard duty at her elementary school, the PTA, class mom, field trips, etc. I exhausted myself at all times with her IEP and the constant red tape around getting her through school because of her behavioral issues. I admit that she overwhelmed me at times, but I always wanted best for her, I never got any satisfaction from her struggles or tears like my mom did with me. We had very different mothers, indeed.
Now comes my point:
I had a father.
Not just any father, either – I was blessed with an exceptionally special Dad (and a long line of older brothers).
Boo had…well, we all know what she had, don’t we? Boo had the Ripper for a father in the slice of time that she had one in her life at all, before he tried to murder her mother and then was gone to prison before dying on the inside of those walls…Boo never had a Dad, hardly a father. I have concluded that it is this (very often overlooked) factor in the comparisons people (including myself) make between me and my daughter’s characteristic traits that defines the essences of those differences down to the nano-fiber. When I think of what my own existence could have and likely would have been like in the absence of my Dad, my knees often feel weakened by the thought alone. Now, I imagine actually living that reality from one day to the next like Boo must…and yes, I see.
I know that in many ways, I haven’t failed as Boo’s mother in the years I was allowed to be her mom; but in this one major and unfixable way, I failed her immeasurably.

Death Grip.

Perhaps I am tired and weakened by things,
being battered to bits by the passing debris…
like the fat trimmed away from the rest of the meat,
flaking ash of the embers dying out on the beach…
Maybe I have embraced at last all that’s haunted me,
held on to the grip, bones broken – skin ripped, undauntedly…
bold enough to cut the ties between, poisoning,
each and every thought I have, all of my memories.

Adrift (For the Bear Trainer).

This is a piece written for my VERY BEST FRIEND ON THE PLANET (and beyond), The Bear Trainer.

…S, you are the entire village that it takes to raise the child – and I honor and cherish you more than you know. ❤

Letting-go21

It’s the incessant babbling,
Of a perpetually invisible stream,
This I do most certainly know,
There is no halting or stopping its flow;
Even when I can’t touch its noise,
It isn’t like I have any choice,
I feel its presence trickling,
I feel its coolness prickling;
A sense of a long, lost something,
A dense and heavy whispering,
I can count the nights and days easily,
To try to measure what I’m so missing;
I can carve notches like lines into trees,
But there’s no accounting your importance to me,
Have you any idea of the weight you carry?
an influence that trumps all, subconsciously?
Near or far – here you are…
to awaken these things that sleep,
I need your heart attached to mine,
if I’m to somehow believe;
the Heavens are darkened by the distance between,
the truth is the anchor that’s unwavering,
the tides wash off the filth of humanity,
when all’s said and done, I have only this one thing;
the notion that resides in the depths of my being,
the unspoken truths attached to our destinies,
when the Universe again – fails to reassure me,
yours is the comfort that mine will find eventually.

My “Whatever They Are”, Exactly…

So…over this past couple of months, I have been swallowing the unwelcome and unhappy ending to the story of ‘Me and Boo’.

ladonnaNothing about this process has been comfortable for me by any means, but I guess it has proven to be the natural order of my own existence; and so…I am trying my best to endure. It is a “one moment at  time” gig so far…

cameron ferris buellerI can vividly recall my own trains of thought in the past:

Stupid and blindly faithful belief in the notion that somehow and some way, Boo would miraculously recover from so many fucked up circumstances, and find her way back to sanity and a desire for normalcy…I have been feeding myself bullshit like this forever – since she was first sent away…and it is almost comical now to think back on the things that I denied myself of accepting for so long.

nicole eye rollBut, now, here I am…and nothing makes sense to me – for me – in terms of the future ahead and what I am supposed to do with it. It’s like someone finally found the restart button now after all this time and pushed it when I wasn’t as ready as I thought I was to start over again. In truth, I’ve wished for a fresh start with EVERYTHING for so long that I am stuck on stupid in the face of its arrival. Life doesn’t wait on anybody…and I have no choice but to pick that bitch up and run, right?

nows the timeSo, I have wiped the picture clean of the drama and unhealthy bullshit that has sadly come to define everything about my own, personal adult life – as an affect of such an emotionally unstable and unhealthy offspring; I have not wavered in my choice to do so, either – and I will not waver ever again in this context…I am sucked dry of the forces needed to interact with it anymore at all.

ermaAt first, it was just like it’s been any other time I tried to make a clean break from the living Hell surrounding my only child and her ongoing destruction: I felt weakened by the very aspect of her existence, I felt controlled and dominated by the constant lack of any input or influence on her lifestyle choices…I have felt that way since she was old enough to talk, in essence; and somewhere along the way, I lost sight of what is important in MY OWN passage through this world. I allowed myself to become so entangled with such a negative element (in this case, my own daughter), that I lost track of the things that I personally stand to represent in this fucked up world.

the rulesIn reality, at the end of the day, everyday – I am quite different in nature from my child, in every possible way; and, as long as I am ending my own days under the spell of the lifestyle and code that SHE lives by, each one of those days has been spent in absolute vain and wastefulness. skeletor arrgI’m over it. I am over the confusion and guilt and self-loathing and tears…I am over the shock and surprise of the despicable things my own child has come to stand for…

I realize that the stark contrast between Boo and I has been weighing like an anchor around my ankle for so fucking long now that I have gradually failed to even see it there or feel it’s drag.

nothin but punks fridayIt’s finally sinking into my thick skull that there’s NOTHING I can do for her, besides to enable her – which, I refuse to do any longer now…so the math is done and the answer is apparent and comprehensive; I need to just move on with myself.

move the fuck onWhich, is a notion that I have struggled mightily with all along when it comes to Boo…a factor that is only becoming more obvious to me with each layer of its removal. But, as the light gets brighter down there somewhere at the end of whatever tunnel I am inside of, I can see the scars stitched up in my own heart and mind; and I feel something akin to “HOPE” again for my own emotional status.

Not hope for Boo…not hope for my long-evaporated, little family…not hope that balances atop of any unrealistic or unreasonable goals or motivations…just hope that I can and will get through the initial discomfort of suddenly NOT being anyone’s Mom anymore…

piper hang up n cryI have hope that I can hang up the bullshit and revive my true self, and my true motivations in my own existence…I have hope that I can surprise everyone, including myself, with my own strength and perseverance through this darkness…to fight.

servant of mordorI will be honest and admit that I have been inside of the darkest place I know of, mentally, as of late…I have struggled to get out of bed in the morning and cried myself to sleep at night…I randomly quit my long-time job and stopped returning phone calls…I have been resigned to sadness and loss…I have eaten myself with guilt and self-doubt…I have wished for death in a very serious tongue…I have cursed each and every God I know.

jane drunk on horseBut in the end, I am still just ME…no amount of pain or discouragement can break my spirit, even when I want that to be the outcome; I am simply built that way, and I accept that much now. I guess right now is a time for me to figure out what comes next for ME and ONLY ME. I have recognized the fact that there will be NOTHING to come next unless I am selfish for a while and say “Fuck You” to the unnecessary drama and unhealthy bullshit.

pine exp fuck you sirAnd THAT’s what I have to say for now.

No Longer MY Loss.

So this is how it ends for you…after all you have managed to survive against all odds; you are going to be your own demise in the end. You have missed today’s surgery, because you disappeared into the night last weekend with the promise of returning on time to take care of your own physical needs…once again, you have highlighted for the world: your complete and total lack of any self-respect or desire to take control of your issues. I can’t say that I was honestly expecting you to show up for something that only a responsible individual would have the nerve to do; I recognize that despite your fearlessness, you have a very low-functioning ability to actually handle yourself in the Real World. Perhaps, that is why I had already thought ahead and cancelled your time in the O.R. today; because I knew deep down that you not only lack the care or concern for your own health – but for anyone else’s also; and so I made sure that whomever was in line got to go in your place this morning for their’ surgery. I wonder if you ever consider anything outside of yourself in any context at all…like, do you think about what you are psychologically doing to your grandparents? Or me? Or anyone who has had the humanity to give you another PASS since the most recent Return from the Dead? How many times might your peanut sized brain expect to be forgiven and allowed to return for more destruction to be left in your undoubtedly impending wake? You obviously harbor a completely unreasonable idea of who you are, nor have you a fairly accurate perception of anyone who has been fixed in your life, thus far; while you have been blessed with a family that has been patient and understanding to the best of its ability, you have done nothing but shame yourself and everyone attached to you.
They say that psychopaths have no shame or fear built into the mechanisms that make most people “human”; they say that there is a total lack in the ability to feel for others, or for the part – themselves even. I can say with certainty at this point that you fit that psychopathic profile to a T, as did your father. Any creature with even half of a brain cell would have learned some very lasting Life Lessons after surviving what you have come through…yet, here you are doing the same old shit and another year older, somehow. I have accepted the loss of you, Boo…I know that I am no longer anyone’s Mom, and to be honest there is something disturbingly refreshing about such a notion for me these days; but you still exist (for now, at least)…and I can’t grasp the concept of your choices in regard to HOW you choose to make your existence be like. I cannot feel sorry for you anymore…not after so many times finding you with your entire hand in the fire before it’s anywhere near healed from the last time(s). To pity you only means that you are the victim…and that is NOT always the case, is it? You have been foolish in every element of your life to the point of disbelief; you have essentially shit away any access to the Trust Fund that I fought tooth and nail to ensure through a Civil Lawsuit – money that would easily get you set up in a “normal” scenario, if you had the sense or maturity to just fall in line long enough to get your ducks in a row…but that’s too much for you, even.
I don’t feel sorry that you live on the street and sell your ass to get by, not when I know that it IS NOT NECESSARY AT ALL and you CHOOSE that lifestyle in the face of normalcy and/or self-sufficiency. I don’t wish for you to return like I used to anymore either…because the bonds have been broken already and I now harbor mostly a complete lack of understanding or tolerance for your behaviors and actions. I will not allow my parents to die in brokenness and sadness, missing money and heirlooms that you stole without a second thought as to THEIR existences. What kind of person steals from their grandparents, anyway… not to mention, brings friends home to steal from their grandparents, also? I think we both KNOW what kind of person does that kind of dirt…and I think we both know that I am NOT that person, and never could be. Can you say the same? I didn’t think so…

None of it is MY loss anymore, you know? You’re an adult now, remember? Mrs. Big Badass whose wanted to be grown for so long now, and for what? Ain’t nothing changed, you still do the same immature and despicable stuff that you did as juvenile delinquent, don’t you? How’s that adult thing looking now, kid?

All My Dirt.

I am randomly typpling (type babbling), yes, I know this… my personal Microsoft Word screen seriously could fuck me with all the secrets and truths it has seen at my hand, fuck it though…transparency is the new thing isn’t it?

I have given up my appearance altogether, I suppose…couldn’t tell you when the last time I looked in a mirror at myself…hmmmm…the possible causes behind this fact aren’t lost on me, either…
Something is happening inside of me again; although I couldn’t possibly describe any of what those “somethings” may actually be in the big picture of things; and I am not trying to find any way to describe it – there’s just a slew of mental data on upload at present; and my mental data down-link seems to be broken, too. There’s just a fuck-ton of shit coming in, and nothing moving aside to make room for it; if that even makes sense to anyone reading this.

Failure:
Failure is something has come to define my every moment of each passing day for me; it began slowly when Boo was put into “residential treatment” almost a decade ago and only snowballed from that point on. The many things that have subsequently gone horribly awry since then have accumulated into a vast and freezing cold tomb; each instance of my own perceived failings stacking up against the previous until the room shrinks. Failure has been something that I struggle with regularly, and I often lose the fight with it because of its overwhelming and constant presence. I go to a psychiatrist based on this failure (and its many facets and faces); he repeatedly instructs me to “just let it go”…
Abandonment:
Abandonment is another key element that is deeply embedded in my marred psychological profile; this element is born of my inability to “just let it go” when it came to my inter-personal relationships with parents during infancy and childhood (most notably a then ever-absent mother). It has mutated the human being that I was born as into a different version of who I might have been in a “healthy and/or intact family setting”; over time, it has warped my perception of others who I feel any closeness to – a mechanism of the emotionally fearful and unstable. I am extremely insecure inter-personally, and it only becomes an exacerbated symptom when I give two shits about the other person involved. I am afraid of people in general; not in a physically cowed way though…I am terrified of interacting with others because of the emotional traumas that inevitably attach themselves to each and every experience with closeness to another human being (or the socially mutated versions of one).

Truth:
Truth is another crucial piece of who I am from one moment to the next; it has come to burn in my veins like molten lava these days, and growing increasingly more important to every nano-thought in my head. Acceptance of truth is part of this element; and as painful as this aspect often is for me, in my own experiences, the truth carries weight that is undeniably addictive to my heart, spirit and mind somehow…
Perhaps after all, “the truth shall set me free”.

Digestion.

At this very moment in time I am so overcome with love for Boo. There’s not a particular reason why besides that she’s my daughter. And despite it all, she’s so brave and so strong. Even if she has a complete lack of her own self-worth…she is beautiful.
My best friend Sam (more of a guardian angel the gods have blessed me with for whatever reason, I don’t ask questions) helped me to understand a key element of this nightmare situation a few weeks back…and yes its only barely setting in now.
She said,

“Babe, the Boo you are waiting for is not going to come back. She’s gone.”

Admittedly, this was NOT an easy conversation for me to digest; and luckily I have a best friend who understands my slow computation process; part of her likely expected me to explode at such a statement. But between me and my best friend, anything can be said without such lingering negative affect – and so the story goes. After my conversation with my best friend, I went through some different things: types of mourning, grief, and acceptance of a loss so deep that it cannot be treated or cured.
During all those trials and emotional roller-coasters, things continued to play out with the current situation surrounding Boo and her status, reinforcing the fears and sadness and loss. And then, something happened. The last time Boo was found unconscious and unresponsive – right before they gave her the first tracheotomy – my perspective and/or perception had shifted somehow.
Now, anytime I spend with Boo is different, but not in a bad way. I do somehow see her as a different girl from my own, yet, she is still my daughter. And, all I can do is try my best to be a good mother to the Boo before me today. She will not be the things I have been hoping to see her become…now at least, maybe never. But should the Boo I have today survive through this, there’s hope for a relationship with her, instead. Which is good enough for me.

How I got Oprah to Admit That Her Hairstyle Doesn’t Fit Her Facial Structure.

For S: in response to I LOVE YOU MORE, DAMMIT!

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“I have heard this stupid “joke” from like twenty people since this morning, and it’s not funny, I don’t get what is so funny about it…”

S is frustrated and it’s apparent.

“Tell it to me….?”

J can’t stand to see her best friend in a state of unnecessary frustration. S retells the joke from behind gnashed teeth, accompanied by heavy sighs and rolling eyeballs. Before she finishes the punchline, J finishes it for her with a hearty laugh and a nod of her head, in obvious appreciation of the joke.

“Hmmmm, okay, well let me explain it so that you aren’t pissed off anymore…”

S has a killer sense of humor, don’t get me wrong; and the instant the joke was told in a way that tickled that sense, she laughed just as loudly as I had at it – because it IS funny.

photo_13525_20070624TEN REASONS I LOVE S MORE THAN SHE LOVES ME:
1) She does things with her face that speak more loudly to me than her words ever could.
2) When she doesn’t “get” a joke, she gets mad.
3) She is afraid of the ocean.
4) She thinks mathematically.
5) She is the most divinely magical person I have ever met.
6) She protects me from bad things and bad people.
7) She trusts me.
8) She is a hardcore survivor.
9) She gives me hope when there would otherwise be none.
10) She thinks she actually loves me more than I love her.

Wet Shore.

547f28c8a2dd2d87511187be3807f916-d5z6h2yI dreamed of it before…
it was a while ago, though;
I sat in whipping winds,
wrapped tightly within,
a blanket on a beach;
and I’m doused in gasoline…
I sit there almost alone,
but not quite by myself…
I sat on the sidelines next to somebody else,
as the sincerity in her mossy green,
eyes, capsized and captivated me,
as she played me music telepathically…
I began to realize something;
here, on the shores of a tumbling sea,
she hasn’t come to this place,
put out any fires I’d,
planned on lighting,
nor has she been sitting,
opposite of me – listening,
to the endlessly,
venomous spattering,
that define all of me…
no, she’s not here,
to clean up my mess tonight,
only to simply “be”;
on the shores of a tumbling,
promising ocean shimmering,
colors of me-her, blue-green;
as she plays me music,
and streams it directly into me,
reflexively,
unexpectedly,
the muscles all over my body,
begin to sag with ease,
exhaustion reigns supreme…
and I lean into,
the mental melody;
as the moment passes,
I recall the book of matches,
clutched in the hand of me,
as I think to strike one –
begins a new verse to her song,
the realization forcefully dawns,
upon my matches and gasoline…
she knows she won’t talk me down,
try,
try again,
in the end, nobody will win…
so in place,
of rearranging my face,
to rope me safely in,
she provided the gas,
clever kick in my ass,
but to her own detriment;
she hates the ocean,
hates the lack of control…
she knew my fire wouldn’t burn,
very long on the seashore.

Hangman’s Blood.

He sat, legs out-stretched;
his drink, known as Hangman’s Blood…
he wore exhaustion…

“I’m a Jarhead, Babe…”
blue diamond eyes, a match strikes;
“Of course I still smoke…”

sports bright twinkly stars,
eyes: adorned by shrapnel scars…
lives for deployment…

he carries no clue;
beyond decorative brass…
that he is adored…

A career Tank-Gun;
my first Love, look at you now…
I see fire in you.

Delivered.

I had been complaining about how long it has taken her package to arrive via snail mail just the other day; it had been just about one month…she made the comment that it was okay, that I’d see…the mail would arrive at just the right time – when we were each more in need of the said packages than we knew. As usual, she is right.
Today is Mother’s Day in the U.S.
I have a rough day on Mother’s Day every year because…well, for obvious reasons…
I opened her mail this morning amidst the sadness that I typically wake up to on Mother’s Day…and it made me smile and reminded me of important things that aren’t always so easy to recall during the rough patches in my life: to breathe…inhale and exhale…and everything else falls in line somewhere.
Throughout my lifetime thus far, I have seen many movies and read endless storybooks detailing friendships that seem to be able to surpass the confines of space and time; even life and death through the invisible bonds associated; I never fully comprehended such subject matter until now, more recently in my own life.
There are, indeed, some friendships – bonds – ties – sutures – webs, which are so intricately wound throughout the human elements of the Universe, that even those bound inside the weave do not fully appreciate the depths and heights made available through such cosmic humanity. Those of us who are woven into this fabric know the power and strength to which I refer; those who do not know, can only believe.

We Went to Unsecret, Different Schools Together.

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NOTE: Even at a post-wedding-ceremony party, S is snapped crying while J just wants to get down and cut a rug

Beginning as far back into life as either of us can remember, we have somehow genuinely been: thick as thieves. At one time, she had longer hair and seemed much taller than me, even donned dress flats to make her Mama happy once in a while…although it was I that sucked my thumb until I was five, she cried often and was sensitive – surprise, surprise. Her skin thickened later on in life, but during childhood, she was kind of a sissy.

Bruce Springsteen – CHECK.

Handcuffed together inside of a high security paddy wagon – CHECK.

1980’s eye crystal blue eye shadow and feather bangs – CHECK.

Teddy Ruxpin (and cassette tapes) – CHECK.

Piercings in unspeakable places – CHECK.

Ever-Revolving door of chaotic Life-Phases ranging in severity – CHECK.

Direct Tissue/Organ Donation – CHECK. CHECK.

Secret Matching Tattoos – CHECK.

Disturbing and vague shared recollections involving a drunken exotic bird and many, many bottles of Tequila – CHECK.

(CIRCA 19–)
Here, you can easily see the perfect demonstration of our days together in childhood.
(We are at either end: I am the blonde piglet and she is the snickering shithead)
Directly after this was snapped, I was nearly beaten to death by my playmates (S included) for “eating on the clock”.

(CIRCA 19–)    S had a traumatic jellyfish experience at the beach early in life, rendering her perpetually in malcontent on any shoreline, anywhere. This photo was taken only a matter of hours prior to her attack, and clearly captured my evil fatmouth full of lies and false assurances to her of her safety.

Our days as friends had no beginning, and will never end.

We've been solid since back when your "bikini" left tan lines that made no sense at all.

We’ve been solid since back when your “bikini” left tan lines that made no sense at all.

(CIRCA 19–) One time, the two of us agreed that we’d made a trivial mistake…soon afterward however – we realized we’d been wrong.

When we became bored with finger painting in preschool, we whisked ourselves away to religiously shrouded monasteries of truth and light, barely visible off the Eastern coast of…some place that was very far away;

we learned to write in Latin… to shoot like the archers from times long dead to history books and chainmaille legends…we gladly taught them to eat with their hands like savages – a few steps back towards their pastel colored roots.

We always eventually overstayed our welcome, wherever we went – and were either escorted beyond the perimeter or politely asked to be on our way.

Drunken Sailorettes – CHECK.

Military AirSupport Dropouts – CHECK.

Shitty Low-Budget Horror Movie Extras – CHECK.

I could go on, but need to save something for future volumes of the Unsecret Chrons…

More of the fictitious story of “us” to come…maybe.

(CIRCA 19–) NOTE: We are seated on the far left end of bench (I am holding a net wtf?) Immediately after this one was snapped, we made history by leaping up from the bench and affecting a medieval style catapult, launching the three remaining girls as well as the creepy, freeze-dried cat well over the internationally recorded current best of 59.05 m into the air.

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the pieces we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– honnør.

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was what happened to that box that haunts me now, you see…

the depths and darkness we anchored to it by burying it so selfishly;
– honnør.

A marksman’s dot on our foreheads again…
one of us must offer the other a last shot at salvation…
whatever it may turn out to be, there’s never any hesitation…

long-ago accepted by us both: a thought of “better me than my dearest friend”;
– honnør.

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and even cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I, myself – bled;
they seared closed the wound
I was fixed on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came pounding with a bloody paw,
on your secret passage door;
“Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering made by a murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and said, “We’ll get it next time…”

Painful Pinches and Smiles.

Okay…

It has officially happened.

The Orphan is moving out – and I am so torn over it that I need to write a few things to hopefully clear my head…

Firstly, I am very happy for him, for his progress through his trauma and near-fatal divorce; with that said: I worry about him, he is ALWAYS in the cerebral with me…because he has become like family over the past half-year. Wow…

He has pretty much been gone all of the time anyway lately – assuring himself the right spots with all of the right people in the City, doing what he does best: rubbing elbows with Police Commissioners and Porn Actresses – and of course, surfing and swimming with sharks. I have already been feeling a hole where he used to be with me every day, all day – for days on end – before he had his own car and I was like his soccer mom…all of the shit that we got into when he first moved across the globe to come here and heal…all of the hours spent sucking down nicotine and coffee and bleeding our individual traumas all over each other. We were weird, our friendship is weird…but I love him like my own flesh and blood. And, I worry about my own flesh and blood – that’s just how I roll.

He doesn’t say

“I’m coming home”, anymore…he says,

“I’m coming over”….

It’s funny in a weird and twisted way:

The Orphan is a beautiful creature, inside and out (he could easily be one of those Greaser style models from Europe) but he sells himself so short in the realm of love and closeness…he has so very much to offer a woman someday when he feels like he’s ready to try that again, but I fear that he has turned cold permanently. His “new” persona doesn’t leave room for these things at all – robotic and frigid when it comes to matters of the heart (not towards me, but in general). This worries me, a lot. And it makes me sad and I begin to feel uncertain about his being on his own already, which I know is none of my business at the end of the day. But I can’t help but think that he might be just teetering still…and I do not want to throw him to the wolves before he can fend for himself completely…I am a worry wart, I know this….but I love him very much and he has come through so much recently…I don’t know…I just don’t know…

Follow My Lead.

When the moon is hung high
like a pock-marked lullaby;

When the music has stopped
and the sweat begins to dry;

When the day is finally over
and there’s finally time to cry;

When your feet won’t seem to
carry you..
when you feel like you could die;

Follow the trail that I’ve left for you;
track the stampede left behind by my shoes;
Do not even think for one second –
about where the trail might lead to…
just follow my footprints and I will protect you.

When the faked smiles
go on for hundreds of miles;

When you’ve been shown
compassion known only by crocodiles;

When the defense rests
while the prosecution compiles;

When your heart won’t beat through
to awaken you…
and everyone is beguiled;

Take the route that I’ve mapped for you;
charter the waters that I have just sailed through;
Do not even think for one second –
about where the map might land me and you …
just follow my lead and I will be there waiting for you.

Answer.

together

“I have your answer.” he says through the satellites;
The answer – to a question…that I asked him tonight;
A tickle to his Wizard brain –
A thought, one driving me insane;
He is the winner playing on this field;
He breaks the records, he owns the game;
of my bullheaded difficulty, against his grain.
“Look inside of You.” And his words ring true – to my bones;
“This is me, is this you?” heartache gone…Let’s go home;
A tickle to my inner-ear –
A touch, a truth, I long to hear;
His are the hands that carry gently,
my evidently beating heart, he knows my name;
he holds the stones and feathers of the home from which I came.
“There’s nothing broken about you.” He’s all business in his tone;
Over and over and over…until the message starts hitting home.

Understanding

kiss011

Life often throws curve-balls at me when it comes to the stupid choices I make in regard to ‘trust’ and ‘the wrong people’; and so the story goes.

The older I get, the more able I am to take responsibility for my own parts in the bullshit that goes down between myself and others – and the older I get, the less willing I become to even involve the others at all in my existence.

Being online with so many diverse personalities has helped me to learn a lot about the unwillingness I have cultivated over the years; and it has also been my experiences with people online that have helped reaffirm a longstanding sentiment I’ve held when it comes to the people around me:

  1. I do not have to love them.
  2. I do not have to understand them.
  3. I do not even have to give a shit about them.

But my not giving a shit about somebody in whom I foster no love or understanding for should not impede my own sense of morality and/or humanity as a result; and I should never allow it to.

Rubbish

I keep stumbling across all of these stupid reminders of the person who I just lost from the rest of my life: someone whose lost presence made things seem better, someone who used to make me laugh every single day, multiple times…someone who was never really was, most likely.

ImageA weathered “missing” crossbow arrow, stuck firmly into a fence post from last summer when this person and myself shot everything and anything we could aim at in the backyard; tiny, yellow, plastic bbs that I still find rolling silently beneath my bare feet in the hallway…echoes of laughter and sunlight and smiles that were unprompted and genuine on my behalf…things that don’t come easily for me with anyone.

A safe in the garage, full of this person’s precious valuables and stacks of money – things this person doesn’t trust to leave with ANYONE or ANYWHERE else; quarts and quarts of “butter” in the refrigerator that I have to get my meals out of every time I get hungry – which isn’t very often any more, anyway, but still…it makes me remember the person who left these things here in comparison to the person who will be coming back to retrieve them: An ugliness that is painful and sour in my belly.

The deep reverberation of sound that resonates within this place’s new emptiness from wall to bare wall; all these plants sprouting up everywhere from the seeds mixed in with the piles of rubbish this person cleared out like the end of a party’s cleaning crew cleans a party hall. Most certainly the end of the party…

Turns out (who knew) that this person is the kind of person who is only honest with you about stuff when you see this person every day – the type who isn’t bothered by being dishonest with someone when there’s little follow up contact to worry about – which is pretty hurtful and sad to me, yes…but not the end of the world as it has been feeling like more recently. I’m tired of being used and tossed away by people because they have some superiority complex that is their own baggage and has nothing to do with me.

I intend to disallow this in my future, and it won’t be easy because I get my own gratifications from the twisted and warped ideas I carry around to strengthen my own ego, ironically. I see that I am in the wrong ballgame, and need to move on to a different field. Not sure which one yet…but one without so many god damned constant reminders of so many ghosts, that’s for sure.