Chopping Block.

Once I,bowed,
my head down,
and I,
at long last
really looked…
through and passed,
all the rest,
at the ground,
my body’s distress,
blocked out,
the noisy sounds,
the hive buzzing,
crowds humming
shouts coming,
from all around,
head swimming,
thoughts shut-down…
the dark of night,
the flash of light,
forcing open eyes,
I was surprised,
at myself,
with what my eyes found,
a shock,
still felt,
within me now,
heads scatter the ground,
trumpets blaring,
The chopping block,
once a daring,
reddish-brown
its surface wiped down,
all scrubbed off,
blood-free and clean,
of the guillotine,
…somehow.

Bad Seed.

What were you expecting
by reaching out to me?
a disapproving stranger
without any sympathy;

I have nothing left to give you
you’ve stripped my being clean
Put that red hand back in your pocket
when you’re in my vicinity;

Your struggles and your sadness
are not lost on what I perceive
The creature you’ve turned into
was somehow born to me;

Yet, in spite of such genetics
you remain a foreign entity
I may be your mother
but my daughter is deceased;

People blame and name me
pass judgment cruelly
And perhaps, I am a failure
I don’t deny these things;

Whatever I stand up for
in the end of such tragedy
I will not be standing
for what you’ve grown up to be.

Mama.

“Are you okay, Jake?”

(My mother’s nickname for me is Jake)

Hmmmmm…I don’t know, Mama…

let’s review, shall we? How shall I respond to such a painfully dense query? …

Maybe by throwing myself beneath oncoming freeway traffic…

Or peeling the fucking skin from my face with a smile…

Would spontaneous combustion count as a reply to your stupid-ass question?

crying-woman‘Am I okay?’…

fuck no, I’m not okay…come here and I’ll show you.

floki nooooooDear Mama,

I’ve NEVER been okay, and, as my blood-mother – has it ever occurred to you that you should know these things better than anyone? It hurts me so deeply that you take such little interest in knowing me – never have much cared about WHO I AM.
The irony here Mom, is that I am everything I am because of you, essentially, despite your ongoing carelessness and cruelty throughout my entire life. You will never understand me because you don’t care to; you will never hear me because you don’t listen to my words, and never could be still long enough to…do you know how much that hurts me? Even now after all this time I’ve had to accept who you are, it still just doesn’t sit well with me to know that your only daughter is wasted on you, and always was. You’re ignorance has always wounded me deeply, Mom.
Please keep trying, I will too.

Papa always told me that if you are crossing a bridge and become tired, you have only two options:

1) To sit down in the middle of the crossing and die;

2) To go back or forward until you get to one side or the other…

but you don’t just sit down and die, you keep going.

Vessel.

No anchor,
been thrown,
no line,
being towed,
a vessel’s ghost,
defective lifeboat;
it’s a truth,
indeed,
to behold,
adrift,
afloat,
a dead pirate’s,
stronghold,
beloved,
lifelong sailboat;
tried and tied,
only by,
the darkness,
of the bays,
skippered,
by the lies,
of yesterday;
anyone who,
thinks he wants to,
try to sail in,
and be made,
to look a fool,
on location,
will only ever see,
this vessel sink,
into the sea,
or over the,
horizon’s brink;
can’t quite ping,
my position,
most secret,
of traditions;
alone,
all gone,
no rise,
of the sun,
moonlight,
shines strong,
my metaphoric,
aquatic tombstone.

Thoughts.

Theoretically, last night should have brought me the best sleep that I have had in some time, after hearing a jury’s guilty verdict of the man who ruined my daughter so long ago.
As I lay there in darkness with buds tightly squeezed into each ear playing Ben Bonetti’s “Hello Spider” meditational gig, I began to think about the Pedophile’s family (he has a wife and two children the same age as my own), and was overcome with grief.
Over the last few years, I’ve seen his wife various times in passing- on the news, and other places associated with the common denominator between us; there are ill feelings in the air during each of these instances, almost naturally. I have watched the Pedophile’s aged and decrepit mother hobble up and down three floors with her cane to trial so many times I couldn’t count them if I tried; I have seen the toll taken in the faces of his kids as they have become young adults, just like my own has; I have watched his family disintegrate into dust amidst the chaos of what he has done.
These things do not give me a sense of peace or fairness in any way…two shocked and completely torn children who stopped showing up at trial days altogether about halfway through…the jolly smile gradually fading altogether from his ancient, crippled mother’s face…the last string of hope attached to his poor wife’s perception of his innocence just falling away into nothingness…
the many scenes that would undoubtedly be enacted most dramatically for a movie; the parts in which the viewers would be pumping fists and shouting “Yeah! That’s what they get!”
But reality tells me differently now… “they” don’t deserve this at all. They have been victimized also (especially the kids) and have been also been permanently damaged and traumatized by the actions of their’ Pedophile father. His wife, who stood by her man for years before finally becoming so jaded and embittered by the proverbial “bag” that she was left to hold after her husband was arrested, she has been traumatized as well by the causes and effects of her husband’s Pedophilia; she has truly been changed in many ways by this circumstance – and I am not even someone who knows her, but it’s that apparent, even to a stranger, how heavy her burden weighs in on her back – it shows in her face, her disappointment and shame…and, that isn’t fair – she isn’t the Pedophile. Last night, I found myself wondering about her; about what she was doing in response to the news that lifted my spirits to new heights yesterday…what thoughts was she spending her night playing through her mind?
Anyway, I am obviously relieved beyond words that he has been convicted of many counts (not just Boo), but the verdict and its permanence holds many more facets to its shine that I had originally been prepared for, I guess.

Blood-Soaked Breadcrumbs.

Stopping at

the ledge,

I lean over to see

a life left behind

of you

a future ahead of me

and, it isn’t pretty

not a single thing;

standing out against

a backdrop

of teardrops,

raining down

pelting skin;

Fingers curling tightly,

insurance of

my own grip

chambered,

by my own hand

precisely,

for such a trip

see my footing slip;

crumbling

boulders,

beneath my feet;

have I actually fallen,

ever so blindly,

into the lap

of my enemy?

Loaded gun,

pressed against

a temple,

shots commence –

my heart,

so begrudging –

my eyes,

so disbelieving;

of the stories

that the truth

is telling me;

Leaving trails of

blood-soaked

breadcrumbs

in a soggy line;

it goes behind,

a familiar time

of martyrdom

that unfailingly,

and unsparingly

will stake claim to

whatever life’s

left of mine.

 

Psychopathic Bringers of Justice and Peace – Part 1

Hr. Hyde of A League of Extraordinary Gentlmen

Hr. Hyde of A League of Extraordinary Gentlemen


 

Today’s morning post has been inspired by – yet, another sleepless night for Yours Truly.

As I was tossing and turning for hours on end, in a bed that I spent way too much cash in vain on (in hopes of it curing my insomnia-esque night time routine), I was thinking about Edward Norton Junior. Okay, well about his character in Fight Club: the narcoleptic corporate IKEA geek with a dastardly alter-ego that pirates control of his sanity for a time. Then I was thinking about Jim Carey’s character “Hank” from the movie Me, Myself and Irene. (In my defense, Hank is actually not a character I like – nor was Tyler Durden; it’s the innocents attached to these fuckers who I find myself relating with time and again…)

BLAM! It hit me in like a soap-sock to the back of the head; and it only tail spun my thoughts from there…

Floki of Vikings

Floki of Vikings

Many of my most endeared and beloved ‘Heroes’, in real life and in the movies, are actually characters defined/depicted as villains, murderous warmongers, savages, psychopaths, head-cases and many other types of negative typecasts. They are ALWAYS the underdog; they are ALWAYS broken and damaged and unable to communicate properly. BUT they are also each individually AWARE of the shit that’s changing them and warping their’ existences.

Daryl Dixon of The Walking Dead

Daryl Dixon of The Walking Dead


 

Let’s review some perfect examples of my heroes:

 

"Pawn Shop" of Man from Nowhere

Cha Tae sik AKA “Pawn Shop” of Man from Nowhere

 


My BELOVED Lucian the Lycan of Underworld

My BELOVED Lucian the Lycan of Underworld


Ed Norton's Character of Fight Club

Ed Norton’s Character of Fight Club


Lisbeth Salander of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Lisbeth Salander of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo


Michael Corvin of Underworld

Michael Corvin of Underworld


Wolverine of X-Men

Wolverine of X-Men


William Wallace of BraveHeart

William Wallace of BraveHeart


Selene of Underworld

Selene of Underworld


Charlie of Me, Myself & Irene

Charlie of Me, Myself & Irene


"The Shrike" of The Hyperion Cantos

“The Shrike” of The Hyperion Cantos