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.
There’s a reason why Trump’s not welcome here in the wake of such a deadly, longstanding tragedy;
There’s a reason why I want to spit on the people here in the South Bay for wearing face masks, as if we have heavy smoke or bad air quality, in comparison to our northernmost counterparts.
There’s a reason why the death toll continues to rise even so long after the fact when we finally have the fire at 98% containment.
In loving and hopeful memory of Paradise and Magalia, California: two of the formerly best places to camp with friends and family, hide from the law, grow large scale killer weed, or just relax in the buttes.
It’s been 16 long and theiving months of it all; and now that it’s over and my mama has passed away, it feels like a dream: halfway surreal and traumatic, and halfway a street that’s enveloped by fog too thick to navigate.
All I can say is that it’s over.
..and the torment is wrapped up. My mama has lost the fight.
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.
It’s been: the ugliest, of epiphanies; it’s been: hard as Hell, to swallow, such realities; it’s been: likened to both, blown-out knees; it’s been: anything but, thoughts of, a recovery; I am: overwhelmed, by the notions, I’ve denied, admittedly; I am: undertaken, by the actions, others aim, at me; I am: what I am, just a woman, no hidden, secrecy; I am: out of the race, came in last place; I am done: now, out they come, to bury, such burden as me.