Arterial.

And, somehow,
it’s obvious,
raw right now,
I’m dubious,
raised eyebrow,
how scandalous,
I’m over-thinking:
staunch and unblinking,
ever force-feeding,
til this nauseasness,
gets swallowed back down,
And, it repeats again,
its strenuous,
this routine I live within,
life’s tedious,
I ooze falsification,
that’s spontaneous,
I’m unbending:
by extending,
what’s pretend,
every inhalation,
a breathing fabrication,
I know how,
this saga ends,
And, someday,
eventually,
the stain fades,
from visibility,
words said,
defferentially,
in stones marking graves,
these pathways,
to eternity,
paved by anxiety,
are, potentially,
theoretically,
the way out,
of the self-doubt,
raging throughout,
every last artery.

Walk, Talk and Breathe.

Friends that refuse to respect of me,
the smallest of ways that I ask to be,
excused from their own stupidity,
yet – they choose to abuse,
and they find these things funny…
A family turned to the judge and jury,
no hand extended in my times of need,
the after-burn of that first, initial sting,
the day I noticed they were on an opposing team…
Others play the friendly role all too regularly,
to the point it’s obvious there’s no true identity,
behind any of the faces in the places close to me,
just life-sized puppets that walk, talk and breathe…

Anonymous.

“Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.”

~ T. S. Eliot

I believe
that so it goes:
the gift of humanity
is bestowed,
to souls with empathy,
and only those,
a carrot hanging,
a step ahead of me,
ever-dangling,
before my nose;
and not just mine,
but anyone,
from the assembly line,
from which I come,
we’re made to ache,
to hurt – to burn,
from day one,
to ride the wake,
to bend and break in turn,
until our last words,
to be heard,
have finally come;
the world is cruel,
unless you’re blind,
it’s a flea-ridden fool,
that succeeds the unkind,
it constantly bleeds,
sucks up my energy,
drains the tide pools,
swallows the sunshine;
for those like us,
nothing is anonymous,
nothing can ever be fine,
no peace,
as we sleep,
only the fire,
from the front-line.

(Not-So) Ancient Proverbs 32: Stupidity.

“Get all the fools on your side and you can be elected to anything.”

~Frank Dane

 

The problem with educating stupid people was that they didn’t know they were stupid. The same went for curing crazy people.

~Chuck Palahniuk

 

 

Every.

Every last inch of any space I’ve ever claimed
has been taken in turn and never been mine again

every desperate word spoken from my mouth, in vain
has somehow been twisted by negative change

every bone broken and trampled on in rage
has submitted to the ghosts that haunt my DNA

every moment stolen from every hour of every day
has burned my eyes and settled deep into my brain

every childhood need ignored by a mother who walked away
has permitted my adulthood to slowly fade away

every blog post written in attempt to ease the pain
have become the journal of a ghost that still remains

every time I fool myself into believing I’ll be okay
has only been another lie to get me through another day

Legacy.

I have started to write this so many times
Replaced certain words and erased entire lines
the curse of this message is veiled behind
the fact that its author seems frozen in time;

At times its content strikes me as absurd
I lose my last nerve upon finishing the words
the truth of my sadness is vague and obscure
By the time I’m done writing, I’m left feeling unsure;

Yet it’s plain for all to see through such futility
the desperate force that keeps on driving a need
of the author to express certain points clearly
before there isn’t time left to convey such things;

So then, the permanent pen of this sad story’s end
may help ease the hollowness suffered within
may offer release from the binds she’s wrapped in
may turn out to be a good bye to her friends;

Either way, the result disappoints all the same
the unfinished manuscript prevails once again
as a mockery of things too harsh to explain
until I resign and throw the towel back in;

Even so, against the fading of productive days
I strive to somehow put my sorrow into paraphrase
to pull the anchor from my chest and toss it far away
by writing down concisely all this shit I want to say.

Clutch of STFU.

Admittedly
I never found
The time to read
Hitchcock’s ‘BIRDS’
and now
I’m wondering
Was the story-line
About being driven
Bat-shit crazy?
Or bird-shit crazy
More accurately
Because that’s the kind
That pertains to me
And the state of mind
That I find lately
The chirping
The clucking
The fucking audacity
I’ve had enough
Of the finch clutch
Known as the Society.

clutch of stfu2

This Year.

This year’s irony
Oh twenty fifteen
Has played itself out
Like an old guitar string.

This year’s misery
Been weighing heavily
Been transforming all
And ruining everything.

This year’s changes
Make it quite hard for me
To look up the road
And see any good thing.

This year’s reality
A bullet through each knee
And nothing has successfully
Stopped the bleeding.

This year’s finality
I can’t help but to perceive
As if the tolling of a new year
Will bring an end to me.

Next year’s poetry
will have a different ring
Words to precious legacy
Or some other stupid thing.

Cyclical.

Throughout so much of the apparent bullshit that goes on with each new sunrise of my cursed life, I’d like to share the fact that there are NOTHING but vastly reaching tentacles of even more bullshit that belong to the variants attached to that same fucking existence.
For even when things are on the “upswing” for me (which never consists of anything more than a few not-so-bad things happening), my heart is ever struggling to simply remain above the ring of that proverbial drain; I am not throwing a pity party – anyone who really knows me at all will have no choice but to agree with my longtime proclamation of purely bad karma…it IS NOT “perception” or a matter of any “law of attraction”; it is TRUTH.
1) When my health gets to a point in which I have any room to move freely, my car breaks down with some fucking random, yet very expensive issue, and I get stuck until I become ill again;
2) When I become ill – nothing else matters besides getting better and it is always a fight that exhausts me to the point of near-submission;
3) By the time I “feel better”, I am so tired of fighting to feel better that I am at my own wit’s end with everything;
4) When I finally get my car repaired (a solution that attaches itself directly to MONEY), I run out of money and am again stuck until I get more income;
5) When I am sickly, it becomes all-too-often impossible to work for income;
6) When I get some income, it is already spent because I have been stagnant at home and have had to borrow from someone;
7) When I finally get back to feeling like I can possibly conquer even the simplest of steps in this horribly vicious cycle – my car breaks down again.

Granted, I am lucky to have people who help me, and my step dad loaned me his “spare” car; my own car is very close to being “repaired” once more (with the exception of brakes, which I was set out to pick up this morning in order for my nephew to change them today) – and of course there is no way in Hell that the Gods would allow things to go so smoothly for me, in my own fucking hell-hole life…my step dad’s spare won’t start this morning.

“Don’t freak out, I’ll pick you up and take you to the auto store to get your brakes…”

And nobody gets it…I don’t want a fucking ride to the fucking auto store to get the fucking brakes that I don’t even have the finances to buy right now!!! I don’t want anything from anyone who finds it funny when I can’t start the loaner car I’m forced to borrow because my own bread and butter has failed me once again!!! I am sick and fucking tired of the heavy weight I am dragging around by my ankle over the dread and anxiety of vehicular failure – and I cannot deal with AGAIN it today (with the car that I’m using while I have no car)!!!
I just want a single, fucking break!!! It never comes….NEVER.
The cycle of my existence is what is going to kill me eventually, not anything or anyone else. It will be the long-lived and suffered anxiousness and worry and dread that will finally stop my blackened heart. And to be honest, I can’t wait.

Mud.

You annoy me
beyond description;
your feigned oblivion,
to a situation…
I don’t buy it;
I don’t like it,
I can’t stand it.
The nerve –
you have postured,
the monster –
I’ve fostered…
The one I wish,
I’d never known…
the days pass by,
with your thorn,
stuck in my side;
you have come,
to epitomize…
all things patronized,
all things I don’t like,
by no means will I abide;
you’re a grown ass man,
not a fucking child,
pick your trash up,
and do not expect,
for someone else,
to do that shit;
it makes me sick,
the nonchalant…
the attitude of:
a fucking blue blood…
perhaps you should,
recognize…
what’s what –
and be on your way.
pull your stick,
and be quick
from my mud.

Anonymous.

“Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.”

~ T. S. Eliot

I believe
that so it goes:
the gift of humanity
is bestowed,
to souls with empathy,
and only those,
a carrot hanging,
a step ahead of me,
ever-dangling,
before my nose;
and not just mine,
but anyone,
from the assembly line,
from which I come,
we’re made to ache,
to hurt – to burn,
from day one,
to ride the wake,
to bend and break in turn,
until our last words,
to be heard,
have finally come;
the world is cruel,
unless you’re blind,
it’s a flea-ridden fool,
that succeeds the unkind,
it constantly bleeds,
sucks up my energy,
drains the tide pools,
swallows the sunshine;
for those like us,
nothing is anonymous,
nothing can ever be fine,
no peace,
as we sleep,
only the fire,
from the front-line.

Boo Who?

“…she really almost died, was closer than not to death…because they had no qualms over torturing her to death…”
(a statement made by a detective to me over the phone this morning about Boo…)

It was times such these that prompted the creation of my blog to begin with…because I have ZERO support in the harsh real-time of everyday Real Life and was at my wit’s well tattered end, and desperate to relate to somebody (ANYBODY!) in regard to my tragic experiences in motherhood. So…with that being out of the way and written, I am once again: thrown abruptly into that very desperation for support.
My daughter has been hospitalized in Arizona; with injuries and occurrences that proved newsworthy (see previously posted article here). She had surgery this morning on her arm (broken in two places) and remains in the ICU at the hospital at present. The most heartbreaking part about her current status of “safety” is that it is as good as wasted on her; she will disappear once more from trauma recovery in the hospital – she ALWAYS does…it will not be long before she finds herself in a newly created but eerily similar situation – it NEVER is when she is left to her own devices, whatever those may consist of, anyway.
For ME – a surviving victim of a near-death throat slashing that ended years of sadistic torture and domestic captivity, intentionally CHOOSING to return to an environment that even holds the slightest possibility for the unfolding of oppressive or violent events is unfathomable and incomprehensible. When removed from the role of her fierce and worried mother, the lack of any lessons learned from handfuls of horrible circumstances Boo has miraculously survived so far becomes haunting. My inability to relate to her thinking or motivations grows by the day and, in turn, so does my dislike for the character she owns. I was almost murdered by her father – I came very close to being murdered successfully by his own hand…but, this was the crux of many unspeakable physical injuries and sexual assaults that I had endured throughout our marriage – it was my own boiling point that is inevitable for any “battered woman” who is hostage to a violent sadist. I saw it coming. I knew it had been looming overhead when it was. I had various emotional attachment elements that I allowed to narrow my thinking and ability…Boo knew her most recent abuser just a few days…
And again, here I am right back at that loss for any figment or thread of understanding…my chest feels hollowed out anew…my struggles feel so in vain…my only child defines a testimonial mockery of my own survival and ongoing recovery from torturous violence and evil (who so happened to be Boo’s father). The contrast between Boo and I in the presence of any self-preservative behaviors is so starkly sharpened that I wait for it bleed me dry.

Alloy-Plated.

A most precious cargo,
as simple as it may list,
alongside of faded signatures,
on scribbly packing slips;
ideas for abandoned projects,
hesitancy strewn between,
teetering almost maniacally,
strung up by unfinished things;
washed out again,
bleeding out,
in a lion’s den,
much too weakened,
to beg mercy of them;
the stars are tired,
the moon is pale,
the pathway ahead,
paves the road into Hell,
a lick for a kiss,
a pump of the fist,
a slug to my own,
alloy-plated breast,
it’s an uphill march,
it turns out,
I guess.

The Empath and the Opportunist – Continued.

NOTE: “The Opportunist” is someone who broke my heart pretty completely about a year ago; someone who I gave too much to, and got little in return from; someone who made it painfully apparent when I failed to present any further opportunity for him that he had no reason to stay.

He showed up on Saturday to watch the fight at the Man Cave with his lifelong friend, my roommate, Dice. I had known he would be coming – they were ALL gonna be coming, I knew (it turned out to be 16 men and 2 women, including myself) watching the fight.
His face told very sad stories immediately upon opening the front door and seeing him: eyes down-turned and swollen, bottom lip protruding out slightly…unable to make any eye contact with me. I knew something was wrong right away – because despite everything we have been through, he has never been unable to look me in the eye. Oddly, before I could even give it any logical thought, I blurted out:
“What’s wrong Opportunist? Is it your Dad?” (Of course I used his real name, though)
He just fell apart right there on the spot. Came unglued altogether. His father has been deteriorating at a sporadic pace from Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s; and has recently become very fearful, paranoid and much like a strange child to his own helpless family. I watched when I was a young girl, as my great-grandmother faded to Alzheimer’s – it undoubtedly broke my great-grandfather’s heart and was the most traumatizing experience that he had ever lived through…I often think he wished he wouldn’t have.
Anyway, the empath in me was alive and well on Saturday; I hugged him, and sat with him, and talked with him for hours – let him talk about the living nightmare that he is currently undertaking in regard to watching his Dad slip away in mind and body. We ended up missing the main event fight altogether because he was obviously in greater need of talking to someone about his Dad. In a house full of his best friends that he’s known since first grade or earlier – I found it striking that it was ME he ended up in the garage with all day and night while none of them bothered to even inquire about his father’s status. I guess that’s just a guy thing, I don’t know. Either way, there we were together.

XVI.

Anyone who throws tarot regularly will know that certain cards stick to each of us; from the first time we touch a deck, a handful of cards carve out an affinity to the hand that throws. I have seen it over and over again. One out of four cards that has remained near my hand without fail – and has again become very prominent lately – is
The Tower:
One look at this card, and you know that shit is about to go down.
The Tower Tarot card is all about change; usually very sudden, not-so-pleasant change. Changes in life are typically gradual; this allows our minds to acclimate. When a sudden, cataclysmic change occurs, such as the Tower card suggests, it is a triggering of a chain of uncomfortable (at best) events. When we are so entrenched in our daily lives, or stuck in an inflexible way of thinking, a swift and jarring motion is sometimes necessary in order to move forward. In order to strengthen, one must strip down to the skeleton and start anew. This is exactly what the Tower card represents; it represents an unexpected cosmic slap in the face, for lack of a better term.
The clouds are rushing, fire is thrashing, waves are crashing, people are falling, everything is at high-speed motion except for the tower; meaning that the signs have been all around us. However, we continued to sit in our “ivory tower” blindly while the storm brewed. So in actuality, the changes foretold in the Tower card aren’t sudden, we were just too pre-occupied to take heed of any warning signs. The presence of the Tower card in a reading is nothing to sneeze at; but by identifying your “ivory tower” of illusion and acting accordingly, a lessening of chaos may be possible.
In short, this is NOT a very promising or encouraging card to see on the table.

That all said, I feel as if this card and I most certainly have an affinity with one another, and pretty much always have. Out of the Tarot, it is definitely the card that would best depict the personally relatable expression of “waiting for the other shoe to drop”, or my seemingly perpetual lifestyle as a “storm trooper”…it is surely the “the shit has hit the fan” card – very appropriate in the context of my story thus far. I have a love/hate sentiment in regard to this card because it is also supposed to be a spiritual prompt to learn a lesson…and I sometimes am not able to pull any more lessons out of a given circumstance…and I get frustrated with all of it.

Big One-Eight.

lock_2_by_prophetharm-d7u8tmt

The day that lands on May thirteenth,

will be a very memorable one, indeed:

after all these years of waiting separately,

my little girl finally turns the ‘big eighteen’;

The anticipation that grinds behind her release,

is stuff that’s enough for the death of Yours Truly,

my heart pumps to keep up with the thumping beat,

but it’s barely enough to keep my blood flowing freely;

Her entire life, we’ve talked about its eventuality:

silly things she and I would do on this day, specifically:

create the biggest ruckus seen in recent local history,

roll around with the windows down in a rented limousine;

We’ve joked about obnoxious face paint we’d be wearing,

the gaudy jewelry that I brought to her from New Orleans,

spend hours doing nothing but her very favorite things,

truth is: I won’t even get to see her – and that’s our reality;

She will take her newly granted wish of finally being free,

and run with it as far and quickly in a direction away from me,

it might be years until I see her face again, if I’m so lucky,

her lack of any self-esteem or worth keeps her far, historically;

My little girl exists within a place that she can only be,

the pages of the Missing Persons reports, filed repeatedly,

the hours between the sunset and the next day’s dawning:

she’s in there somewhere trying to find any kind of meaning;

This day has long been a source of a most primal fear in me,

the burdens carried so long will either hold or break clean,

from the chains that have rusted around them quite solidly,

the very last of my chances to find the daughter that I seek.

One Last Tax Season.

nerdsniffing

It is officially “Tax Season” in the US – my “busy season”; yes, it’s that time of year when I am deprived of my already minimal patience with my fellow species, altogether. During past tax seasons, I have unfailingly learned major life lessons between the lines of the mundane data entry.

During the off-season, my firm specializes in audit reconciliations, global funds tracking, forensic accounting, and representation of our clientele before the Internal Revenue Service in defiance of its claim to their’ assets. This is what we love to do, and this is what defines a difference between Enrolled Agents and other professionals in the Tax/Banking industries. The Enrolled Agent, as I have talked about in the past on my blog, is a separate kind of legacy from other public accountants of any type – our tiny little collective are the only US Tax Preparers enrolled with the Federal IRS and Franchised Tax Boards in each state, and that can personally stand before these entities in representation of a client. CPA’s, MBA’s, or every other type of professional Tax Preparers/Financial Planners does not have this legal right or ability in any context. What this means is: anytime that ANY of those other types of professionals have a significant issue between a client and the IRS and/or any of the fifty State Tax Collection Agencies, they have to come to an EA in order to deal with it legally and soundly.

In the off-season (which is really our favorite time of year, as we can focus on forensic accounting), my firm is typically still in consistent demand by these various professionals for such issues, as we have never taken such requests during tax season for obvious reasons – – – we are too fucking busy cranking out tax returns day and night for our truckloads of highly successful and thus – highly high maintenance – regular and long-term clients.

SIDE NOTE my beloved boss is getting old and refuses to fully retire like he should have done years ago (another common characteristic among EA’s), and has become rather senile over this past year or so.

When he made the announcement at Christmastime that he was going to keep the doors open for forensics throughout the upcoming tax season, all of us just kinda laughed it off as something SO VERY OBSURD and IMPOSSIBLE, he must be joking – despite his total lack of any sense of humor. We were dead ass wrong. This season, he has chosen to allow a gods damned three ring circus parade to permanently take up residence in the drawer of my desk, and those of my co-workers. We are each hard-working people who bring our own unique piece of FUCK YOU to the tax table; we are each tried and true capable of making IRS field auditors shrink away through our hard work and dedication to the foundation of our profession – DISALLOWING THE MAN TO STEAL PEOPLE’S ASSETS.

target3I work in very well-respected and pedestalled place, professionally. My boss’ private firm is chock full of the best of the best, no joke – we are a shining example in our industrial realm. But, here lies the growing issue now: we have been taught be the best – my boss, who is degenerating with age and confusion. The past few seasons have undoubtedly been held up by his staff, alone – – – as we have been forced to begin to check his work for a change due to various serious errors he’s made. (A FIRST)

Anyway, we are all already at the end of the collective rope when it comes to his decision to allow the other finance professionals to continue to bring their’ work here to us during tax season, plus having to check his work in secret when he isn’t looking, which feels wrong as Hell. But it is with the best of intentions, on all of our parts. This tax season is already grueling, and it’s barely just begun. I am reminding myself constantly however, despite the chaos that my boss has brought upon his crew, that it might be out last season together this way – and so I’m enjoying as much of it as I can…but damn it’s CRAZY here now!!!

cartoon1

Moonlight and PTSD.

What might
tonight’s
insomnia-ridden,
wishes for dreams-
of happy things…
eventually lead me to do?
I may end up running uphill-
away from me,
begging for you;
Might I find myself
in serious need
of emergency help,
when my heart
stops beating by itself?
Possibly, my PTSD
will create so much anxiety,
uncertainty,
lack of any sense of safety-
such a nightmare to fall asleep.
Shhhhh;
pretend I do not breathe;
play dead inside
of my own head,
when will it be morning?
Perhaps, the chaps
who bait the traps,
will wait down by
the creek for me;
but then again-
I can’t stand those men,
and none of them
can easily tolerate me;
What was that noise?
The Man and his Boys…
tumbling around inside
of my stoniest weed;
arched backs,
slash-hacks,
unstable,
in tailored tweed;
Flip the book pages,
lock-down the hatches
infomercial orgasms
while playing with matches;
finally…
when the skies are pink,
and my fearful mind
bangs itself to sleep;
I will sleep, somewhat
Though rather fitfully…
wrapped
inside of the quilt
that I intend to
steal right off your body.

Bah Humbugz!

Bah Humbugz

Bah Humbugz