Torrential Rain.

Mom went back through the ER tonight via ambulance again; she is still in hospital…she is slipping away again. She was reaching out for me this afternoon and telling me I was beautiful. Her body has been doing that recoiling reflexive thing again and she can’t relax her muscles. She has been taking pills she isn’t meant to take when she isn’t supposed to take them…I knew she isn’t right lately, everyone says it’s the chemo…but, no – it’s something more than just that, it’s not fatigue or depression or even a fever…I don’t know what it is exactly that has gotten her so far out there but something other than just side effects of her treatment is at play, mark my words. And in the meantime, she has slipped into full-blown delirium.

I am in the process of accepting that I’ve seen my mama for the last time already, my real mama, at least. This acceptance thing…it’s been difficult to do when my new mama is so reminiscent of my real mama at times, and I often catch myself trying to talk to my new mama like she was my real mama, only to be snapped back to reality by the reality of talking to a human wall that never responds. I miss my mama so much and I catch myself longing for her even as I sit beside her. It’s so hard to see her so weak and feeble, it’s so hard to have the responsibility of feeding her because she will not remember to eat otherwise, she stares off into nothingness and she drools on herself…my mom drools on herself. She made a mess of her room today for no reason, she is so confused and I can’t un-confuse her, it’s so fucking fucked.

Waterproof Makeup.

She should have told you certain things,

like how she hates being on the phone,

how she hates the sound of her own voice,

how laughter makes her stomach ache,

how anything right feels so wrong on her,

how empty and alone she becomes after “good-bye”,

the reason she pays extra for waterproof make-up.

The Sick and the Dying.

It’s been a really hard week; we buried another friend from childhood yesterday, after a long and painful fight we have all watched from the sidelines. He didn’t want to die, and never stopped saying so until the very end: an element that leaves a much more impossibly bitter taste to swallow in everyone’s mouth. In my experience thus far until his death last week, people usually get a sense of relief with the death of a loved one who has been suffering badly in life – but not this time. His absolute unwillingness to die makes it difficult to find that relief anywhere in this specific context. And, it feels really bad.

Jackson is sick; like, really sick with some despicable strain of pneumonia or something and has been hospitalized since last week. Jack saved my life once; he saw it all, while he was still a paramedic in the armpit of America, where I was almost killed by my ex-husband.

Jack is the underlying reason for any of what might resemble “recovery” in my own case. It is often somehow easy for me to forget from day to day: exactly how much I owe this man when it comes down to it. If circumstances had been shifted even slightly in regard to who they sent out in the ambulance to my crime scene, he would be totally absent from my world; in actuality – there would be no world for him to be absent from, because I would not have recovered as I have without Jackson.

The more I think about it, the more it becomes obvious that he truly adopted me on the day I almost lost my life, unknown to my near-dead brain at the time. And the afterwards; well all I can really say about “the afterwards” is that without that man there to assure and comfort and baby me like did (and does), I would have been so ruined by humanity that I would likely be in an asylum. There simply aren’t enough Gods to offer my prayers to when it comes to Jack’s recovery and homecoming. Had I opened my eyes as the maimed and Frankenstein-esque creature I had become to anyone other than Jackson in the exact way that I did, and if even the slightest thing played out differently, I easily could’ve slipped into sheer madness from it all.

In the spirit of rescue and recovery, please send any good energy to Jackson if you’re reading this.

The Cut Throat Club.

Jack, the EMT.

Soup.

Fuck doing what’s right to do
might have to confront the truth
and you may actually
at last, and finally
have to step up and pay your dues
every single bridge
burned down to a crisp
take the drama and dishonesty
as far as you can get from me
I can’t function like this
there you have stood silently by
done your part to take what’s mine
when all is done
and you have no one
don’t come crying to me this time
you’ve helped to construct
a place that is fucked
from wall to wall
trumping any and all
good in the things you should touch
Fuck staying in this primordial soup
this fucking unhealthy familial loop
when I am no more
around like before
who will catch your boot?
Always choose to color me wrong
over and over until the color was gone
but you can’t tell me what is right
you wouldn’t recognize the sight
pull your blade from my back and move along.

Death Throes.

Down breaks all constraint,
dull and numbed out skulls,
talking losses and gains,
in a world over-full,
of colossus domains,
consumption of souls,
with a sickening array,
pulled from pocketful’s,
from martyrs to saints,
from diamonds to coal,
the world that we’ve made,
from the crust of its core,
elements we’ve bled,
‘til they bleed no more,
which circles back again,
to the masses of numb-skulls,
blind to it and talking shit,
being swallowed in the folds,
in an ever-sinking tar-pit,
failing all across the globe,
a state of perpetual bullshit,
encoded in the frontal lobe,
a self-renewing cesspool,
that every one of us calls “home”,
there’s no blowing through it,
it’s right beneath the nose,
submerged electrical conduit,
live wires and eyes exposed,
we have each been told this,
will come to violent close,
safe to say recent world events,
are simply Her final death throes.

Bourbon-Smooth.

Halt; I stop, I stand, and I think,

of the ability you harbor, so secretly,

to demolish walls built up around me,

the Bourbon-smooth tickle of Mystery;

 

As you know, I feel your flow,

winding tightly to and fro,

with each and every breath, it grows,

until it permeates through to my soul;

 

With you, comes a sizzling sound,

it’s like you carry seismic energy around,

when you speak, I hear no other sound,

the missing element to the true compound;

 

And, as the time slips by us each day,

against the joke of existence we spend separately,

just know that nobody else makes me behave,

like the dumbass that you seem to cultivate.

Decomp.

Each day’s sunrise shines;
against history’s version;
of what is my truth.

And what is my truth…?
according to Father Time,
it is a sad one.

From one, come many;
more sad truths to give names to;
bloated by decomp.

Skin – whitened with time;
a centuries-old rag doll;
missing arm and eye…

Carried off downstream;
against a fatal current;
chased by my nightmares.

Dark Affairs.

Within this recent stretch of time,
became an expert in the perpetual state,
of feeling thoroughly and totally resigned,
I embraced a prematurely defeated fate…

Each direction I look, I can only see more,
of the darkness that is my shadow,
there’s a sinister, wildly teetering force,
precariously trailing me on its tip-toes…

And, though, my brain tells me one thing,
my spirit has finally been trumped,
my body wants to lay down in the dirt,
and dare my brain to stand it back up…

My own voice carries inconsolably void of life,
thoughts darken like the dim before the movie begins,
a “Survivor” is bound a slave to Anguish and Strife,
until the enslavement finally comes to its end…

By Gods, I have tried to climb the rungs higher,
exhausted any means ever made available to me,
struck the matches and danced through the fires,
dropped from the skies – dove deep in the sea…

these days, I’m too afraid to go anywhere out there,
just a fucked up world full of fucked up things,
deepening the darkness in a dark and drawn-out affair,
full of shallow and cruel “human beings”.

Soup.

Fuck doing what’s right to do
might have to confront the truth
and you may actually
at last, and finally
have to step up and pay your dues
every single bridge
burned down to a crisp
take the drama and dishonesty
as far as you can get from me
I can’t function like this
there you have stood silently by
done your parts to take what’s mine
when all is done
and you have no one
don’t come crying to me this time
you’ve helped to construct
an existence that is fucked
from wall to wall
and trumping any and all
good in the things you should touch
Fuck staying in this primordial soup
this fucking unhealthy familial loop
when I am no more
around like before
who then, will catch your boot?
Always chose to color me wrong
over and over until the color was gone
but you can’t tell me what is right
you wouldn’t even feel its bite
pull your knife from my back and walk on.

Couples and Dogs.

Tell me, Gods –
why it might be…
tell me what,
overcomes me…
in the moment,
of times like these…
when I feel like,
just up-chucking…
at your stars,
on my knees…
especially,
when I see…
couples and dogs,
strolling happily…
it gets me,
to thinking…
of very dark,
long-gone things…
like I start to,
wondering…
kinda hating,
unconsciously…
questions that I,
unfortunately…
am not debating,
from my own history…
where are my dogs?
and where’s my intimacy?

More Letters to a Dead Man.

Dear Dead Man,
Perhaps I should have simply allowed you to do to our little girl, all that you did to me back then…maybe I should have been right in front of her every time you stomped me unconscious, sexually tormented my body, rearranged my facial features, gave me new temporary navy blue tattoos…
I guess after all the bullshit I endured to try and protect her from you and the effects of someone like you on another human being; it mattered not, in the end. If you were still alive and able, I would that you might find your way to where your now grown daughter has landed herself and let the wrath I lived with unleash itself amongst the animals who your little girl sees as worthy of her time and attention – worthy of her own life…one teetering so precariously on the ledge that it hurts my very spirit.
Where are those horrible back kicks, throat punches, jammed guns and fishing knives now Tough Guy?…when your own flesh and blood needs to be protected from guys just like you? After so much shit you spent your entire lifetime talking about protecting your daughters and how they’ll never have to be afraid of anyone…look at her now, you Fat-mouthed Dead Pig…she’s tenfold as bad off as I was at her age, when we were married…
I can almost even make the statement in honesty:
that you might have even somehow been a better creature than those who she has deemed worthy of herself…you might have managed to have a little teeny bit more humanity towards your victims…and, remember when I make this statement you useless fuck, that you cut my throat open in the end, when all was said and done…but you were somehow not as bad as the men who hurt my baby.

Death Throes.

Down break the constraints,
of numbed out skulls,
talking losses and gains,
in a world over-full,
of colossus domains,
consumption of souls,
with a sickening array,
pulled from pocketful’s,
from martyrs to saints,
from diamonds to coal,
the world that we’ve made,
from the crust of its core,
elements we’ve bled,
‘til they bleed no more,
which circles back again,
to the masses of numbskulls,
blind to it and talking shit,
being swallowed in the folds,
in an ever-sinking tar-pit,
failing all across the globe,
a state of perpetual bullshit,
encoded in the frontal lobe,
a self-renewing cesspit,
that every human undergoes,
there’s no blowing through it,
it’s right beneath the nose,
submerged electrical conduit,
live wires and lives exposed,
we have each been told this,
will come to its final close,
safe to say recent movements,
are simply our painful death throes.