Smokey Blue.

An accumulation of grotesque emotions, throttling anxieties, and darkening expectations has built up inside of me over the period of time in between now and the day in early December that my Mama was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

The earliest days of her treatment were nightmarish; the febrile pneumonia, C-Diff and drop in her blood oxygen level that nearly killed her and kept in the hospital under intensive care over the off and on over the holiday season of the 2016-2017 threshold was an experience that left me in motional shock. My initial intentions of being a staunch ally to my mom were tested and tried (and continue to be worked hard on a daily basis).

An emotional earthquake and subsequent spiritual tsunami have occurred in my soul and mind and heart throughout the best and worst of the newly defined existence shared between her and me, leaving perpetual aftershocks and a flooded wasteland in its wake. The inside of my own eyelids seem unrecognizable to me these days, so hideously changed has the world become since the diagnosis. I am 110% detached from my attachments, withdrawn and withered into a defensive ball colored dark blue to mirror my soul.

I am living inside of a new loop right now:

I long to spend as much time with my mom while I have the chance;

yet, she is so broken down and different from the default mom I still somehow envision and recall, that spending time with her is not pleasant and/or fulfilling in the ways I seek out;

This fact makes me feel guilty and awful, so I typically spend time with her whether it helps or hurts my own state of being, which causes the visits to be those of a highly forgettable, even regrettable strain.

The moments passing by feel like torturous slashes and slices; the time feels as if it is laughing in my face. I know that after she is gone, I will hate myself for all of the things I am doing wrong or not doing at all with/for her; I know that I am letting too many opportunities slip by, but I am can’t do any differently than what I am doing. I don’t have any control over her illness, I couldn’t keep her from starting to smoke again either – which has also become huge tension between us, as it symbolizes things to me that she seem blind to.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that going anywhere with her has become something that my anxiety ridden, ADHD, PTSD brain has to build up to being to do because it is always SUCH an ordeal to go ANYWHERE. And anywhere we do get to, we are unfailingly in the way because of an absolutely and obnoxiously un-foldable walker thing with a seat and handbrakes. She has become resentful towards my aunt and uncle (who have been beyond good to her and taken her into their home immediate family, and daily life. Nothing she does is enjoyable to her for the most part; she told me over the phone the other day that she is ready to die.

This statement hurt me deeply, though I didn’t say anything to that affect. The gist was that despite the grueling and miserable months that I have sacrificed to my mom, and regardless of how many things I hold back and suck up in attempt to ease her reality, she still feels alone and burdensome enough to disregard the miracle of her ongoing existence at present (if that makes any sense).

 

 

Monstrosity.

Sacrificially inseminated,
strung across a radar’s rim,
a sported trophy limb for limb;
artificially accumulated,
with the seed of what’s human,
however, unrecognizable to them;
insignificantly appreciated,
straddled astride the old confines,
mirroring through space and time;
purportedly uneventful,
no changes made to our story-line,
ancient wisdom of the senile mind;
Thunderously silent,
across every galaxy in the sky,
expand the Universe to erase the naked eye;
sheepishly obnoxious,
can’t help but to wonder why,
we encourage each other to wither and die;
Elated taciturnity,
the mad dash at being first in line,
flocked together on the doorstep of the divine,
suppressed transparency,
receptive to carbon-based humankind,
an immaculate conception that’s been streamlined .

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.

Right.

So, I guess I am NOT safe to post my own stuff on my own blog, out of fear of triggering some psychopathic stranger across the country with MY OWN PERSONAL content…people are truly despicable, aren’t they?

When my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, but still somewhat herself, and I decided that I was committing myself to her treatment schedule with her, I was in the process of “getting to know” this person from afar. This person and I had, up until that time, been quite compatible for the most part; we had been growing rather close and spending at least 3 hours on the phone each day. This person had begun to show some alarming behavior just prior to mom’s diagnosis i.e. openly planning to move to my state, getting my name tattooed on his arm, and other things like asking me the question of:

 

“What would you do if I just showed up on your doorstep one day?”

 

And, opting to be overly butt-hurt when I responded negatively to such a disturbing query, to boot. I don’t think he ever quite grasped why such a question made me squirm, either, somehow. He began interrogating me regularly, based on old posts he would obsess over on my blog; he began to constantly swing between hating me and calling me horribly inappropriate names and being madly in love with me and promising he’d love me no matter what I was going through. Then, my mom was diagnosed.

This is the same person who called me “staggeringly cruel” for opting to focus on my mother’s health issues, in his trademark passive-aggressive way, and then back-peddling all over when he realized how fucking out of line it was to do such a lowly thing.

For me, it all died right then and there.

During the initial days of the diagnosis, amid the shock and associated dysfunction on my part, this person found it necessary to blow up my phone with cruel and hateful messages regularly, in spite of his awareness of what I was dealing with. The selfishness and cruelty of this person shone through brightly, to put it simply. Everything and anything that had come before between us went out the window.

He continued to comb through my entire blog daily, as a creeper without ever liking anything or letting his presence be seen anymore; he literally wiped clean every single sentiment he ever dedicated to me prior to that, too, like a light switch. He obviously wasn’t able to see beyond his own neediness and immaturity to NOT internalize the things that were happening in my life. People can be so unbelievably blind when it serves them to be.

Next, someone pointed out to me how this person was coat-tailing my readers, I didn’t and still don’t give two fucks about this. Then, someone else talked to me about the new direction that this person online presence had taken (a charity case), and I still didn’t really care too much – – – it’s none of my business what this person does. Go for it, dude. Right? Wrong.

Yesterday, I posted a poem that I wrote several months ago about someone I know in real time (many of my long-time readers can likely piece together who it might have been written about, I’m sure). I can’t write anything fresh at present due to my total lack of attention span (note: all the recent re-blogs in place of newly written content). Somehow this person completely took my post out of context and once again mastered the art of making MY PERSONAL CONTENT all about HIM, somehow; he then proceeded to totaling attacking me and striking out at me (totally out of nowhere in my own perception, mind you). Basically, just more of this person behaving like the buffoon that he so obviously is at heart. He again chose the route of sending me paragraph-long text messages insulting me in every possible fashion and acting all holier than thou.  He did this knowing that I was sitting in the fucking ICU with my mother as she circles the drain (he even said, “don’t try to give me a guilt trip…” when I reminded him of my location and circumstances. His accusations and self-projections made absolutely NO SENSE AT ALL. Why would I write a poem about him at all, much less – right now, so many weeks after my feelings changed for him? If I wanted to talk shit about him and what he’s doing, why would I start now? Why wouldn’t I have done it already like when his cruelty still stung? Right, I wouldn’t. I have REAL problems to deal with. Why should I care if he wants to be sponsored by some anonymous strangers online? For the record, and for ALL to read: I DON’T.

 

Ditch the Flock.

Let’s be like herded sheep, shall we?

and stand in line for centuries,

like in mind to the dullest ancestries,

let’s evolve without changing anything…

now, we all line up without questioning,

spend money on shit that has no meaning,

nothing to show have we “sentient beings”,

besides the bombs we can blow atomically…

we watch the World News from home on TV,

bump our gums about what we’d do differently,

but at the end of the day, that logic is shifty,

coming from a cesspool of such inactivity…

Let’s line up overnight to see a premièring movie,

then trample each other with the doors’ opening,

we each do what we like without ever considering,

how the rest of the sheep want other sheep things…

and sadly things will only become more trifling,

because sheep are too stupid to know anything,

unable to think on one’s stand-alone feet,

we are all doomed ‘til we stop acting like sheep.

 

 

 

Ancient Offspring.

How many distant stars,
have we pondered in all,
with your eye from afar,
for your mind to recall,
In search of a meaning,
When our earth is bleeding,
And it never stops seeming,
to be ready to fall,
How many soldiers attacked,
for the voided sake of it all
Desert Storm, the Gulf, Iraq,
Our veterans come home to Hell,
Walk it off with the whip’s crack,
brainwashed to think all is well,
Nobody seems to consider how,
It’s our own liberty under assail,
We like to throw our weight around,
We chase around after our tails,
Its great, a truly amazing thing:
The way our melting pot,
Has become a brew of slop,
Along the way, I think we forgot,
To keep a common identity,
Because look at us now,
Bitter and segregated
Unsure, full of hatred,
of the differences in things,
Defined in the lines between,
The Black, the Red, Brown or White,
The price of the filthy green,
Lets take back our ancient offspring,
We’ve let it slip too far from our reach,
We are supposed to be human beings,
We represent a global family,
We need to somehow learn to see,
That every face is a precious thing.

Time To Wash Our Hands.

Tried and true,

a historical truth,

a universal attitude,

that breeds,

indeed,

self-servitude,

self-plenitude,

and greed,

Godspeed,

Devil’s due,

for his advocacy,

take heed,

break bread,

with the living,

for the dead,

decrepitude,

ineptitude,

all around,

snarls and frowns,

eyes looking down,

at the phone,

or the ground,

but we’re not alone,

born of one womb,

we shared a home,

before we learned,

before we burned,

and proceeded to sever,

possibly forever,

the connective compound,

the protective playground,

but it’s all gone now,

wow, we’re not so clever,

after everything,

not now or ever,

will we come together,

to en devour to  mend,

our mother is dying,

our father stands still,

women,

and men,

every color of skin,

stand back up,

get up again,

it’s time to wash our hands.