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.
Above the planetary jet stream, asunder, and bellowing, I hear the heavy dripping, a reserve blood supply, spilling, I feel the blackness choking, so much misery, throttling, I feel the years behind you, that drag a weight of fading loyalty;
Above the universal hollering, beneath, and woven intricately, I sense the teardrops pattering, I see through vision, gone blurry, I see the darkness encompassing, misdirected, ill-detected feeling, I feel the loss ahead of you awaiting your every personal move;
Below the deepest pit of humanity, struggling to surface, violently, I hear your poetic story-telling, I know each word before its ring, I see distances between, widening, I see the fractured lines, separating, I know your most secret of things I feel every pump to your heart, darling.
In international politics, the union of two thieves who have their hands so deeply inserted in each other’s pockets that they cannot separately plunder a third.
An agreeable sensation arising from contemplating the misery of others.”
– Ambrose Bierce
Today is a special day; it is the day that celebrates the birth of my best friend.
There is no way to gain through the words of any language known to humankind, the ultimate and profound finality that represents the birth of this individual into the world. On the birthday of such a human being, I find myself in deep recollection about the birth of all things before and after her own – of all things cosmic and worldly; minute and massive; near and far.
In a selfish way, today is kind of a birthday of my own to celebrate – it marks the birth of an individual whose influences over the years between my own birth and death are inarguably strong and incomparable. It marks the day that, despite having been a while ago, was the day that a God smiled upon me for whatever reason, and sent me Sam. Today is the anniversary that some of the most lasting and meaningful words ever written coming to life in the tiny brain of an angry infant somewhere in South Africa; one who would grow wiser and stronger than the Gods could have foreseen; one who defies the odds.
Sam is the Meri to my Pippin; the Drax to my Rocket, she is the Florizel to my Geraldine. I have truly come to refuse any real thought of life without her; she is the John Keats to my Joseph Servern – and I would follow her to the most gruesome of deaths, if she asked such of me.
Most importantly about Sam’s birthday though, in my opinion, is the fact that whether she likes to wear the jacket or not – SHE IS A SURVIVOR – who has made it to see another year; she is yet, another year older than certain weasels from her past might have liked to see her become. She continues to defy, spitting in faces as she passes by. I wouldn’t trade her for anything.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAM – THE BEAR TRAINER.
Across the sea
a ways from me
lives a wondrous
writer of poetry;
a Spaniard – my Charly:
his prose are like dreams,
the way that he
whittles down words,
he knows how to love me;
An Ode to a Spaniard –
a blue eyed, fair-skinned King
writes words I believe
alongside of me,
in a flow that goes freely,
the click of typing keys,
Ode to a kindred,
spirit belonging to me,
my favorite bull-chaser –
My Crazy Lifed Charly.
Howling out loudly –
to a loss mourned deeply…
another full moon, here to shine so soon;
tonight’s moon makes it three…
three moons have full shone,
since your laughter’s been gone;
and I howl out my lungs,
with each one,
that’s been hung;
though I don’t know
what’s drives me to
keep this ritual updone:
whether in honor of you,
and how your pores oozed
with kindness and love –
or if I need to scream ,
up to the Gods’ high esteem,
because the moon,
in her shiniest prime
deserves a kick in her eye
for taking you
so permanently, so tragically.
Her blog gave me the chills because some of the sentences she writes mirror my own from the former life that she and I share in common. She is much newer in her recovery from terroristic, physical trauma, and she is so much stronger than I was at that point of my own journey – her strength is inspiring – the grip she has on her situation is amazing I’m proud to know of the progress she continues to make in her recovery from the awful circumstances she left behind her. Welcome to the Cut-Throats
Here, you will read why she’s being acknowledged here;
Below is something from her blog:
“Now how the hell am I supposed to tell a Judge how it has really impacted my life if I have to be fucking politically correct about it? Was that bastard being “considerate” towards me when he terrorized and abused me? So why the hell should I watch my words? Maybe I should draw a picture…”
“The red is my ANGER, the black is my HEART and the grey is my BRAIN. How’s that for an impact? Hmm, not bad, I think I should put more RED. 🙂 ”
The emphasisthat I would like to place on the above excerpt is on the very end of the quoted statement above…
…that– my friends (and enemies, alike); is the heart of a Cut-Throat Survivor.
This is a brand new award created by me, given away by me and, hopefully passed along to other bloggers who belong to this club.
This is an award for the SURVIVOR of life and living.
This is in celebration of someone who is currently surviving a traumatic experience and pushing on, renewing an almost lost existence among us.
This award is intended to be given in recognition of the struggle that is all-too-often silently involved in making that survival a continuing reality.
This is an award meant to acknowledge those of us here who have displayed the ability, desire and strength to get back up and fight, despite the anticipation of the worst possible outcome and effect.
Survivors appear at all ages and in all forms and descriptions – you do not have to be the literal survivor of a sliced throat, such as Yours Truly… you just have to foster the essence of a surviving human being up against tough odds.
I would like to acknowledge more cut-throat members publicly and am soon adding a page to my blog strictly for our stories; I believe it is a piece of our survival to connect and heal. I strongly encourage the support of my readers in this award and its distribution around WordPress and abroad.
Food for thought:
Being a survivor of traumatic or violent injury isn’t a happily-ended “wrap”; in fact, the survived incident is the easy part of becoming a true survivor. The aftermath of physicallysurviving is the harrowing and daunting part of the survivor’s status. Nothing is as it was prior to becoming a “survivor” in a former life that seems obscure and often wastefully spent. The regular trials and tribulations of everyday life are still there, born anew each day for each of us – everyone, even those who aren’t cut-throats – and these trivial elements of living can weigh heavily atop a pyramid of questionable concepts to the cut-throat mind. As most of you know, I am a survivor myself, one who tastes gratefulness with each inhaled breath of oxygen that I get since my own survived, very near-fatal assault, sometimes I have days when surviving feels like it was a mistake on my part, even now. It’s impossible to convey with clarity – the way I sometimes find myself resentful for having been made into a Freak of Nature for two years out of my survivor life, unrecognizable to family and friends and the reflection in the mirror, the way I used to just lie there and wish with all my might that the morning just wouldn’t come once the meds TKO’d me. There were times that my appearance literally instilled the fear of God in children at a convenience store or the gas station, and I would be overcome with some strange form of jealousy of them, because they had a mommy to run and hide behind to block out my maimed face from view. How could they have known my gig though? That I had once been Homecoming Princess AND Queen consecutively; they couldn’t be aware of the fact that I used to have “the most infectious smile humanly possible!” according to a news anchor who interviewed the non-maimed childhood Me on the local news. Back then during the reconstruction phase of my cut-throat membership, there were honestly more days than not that I spent wishing for death, wishing to be done with this torturous aftermath of surviving the injury of having my throat violently sliced open…wishing NOT to survive after all.
It is because of these reasons, that this “award” and its acknowledgements are so meaningful to me; because I am fully aware of the anchor to the ankle – the second thoughts, the macabre curiosities associated with the other possible outcome of that life-altering day when I became a cut-throat, the day my survivor was born. If I hadn’t survived, what would that make me?