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.

 

Mercifold.

I fold, you win…

I guess each element of the person I am,

stands here stupidly in firm opposition,

to the overbearing, sobering obsession,

the patience of the pen worn paper-thin,

I fold, you win…

took note of the tone to certain questions,

shined the light in the face with interrogations,

combed over the memoir with keen attention,

full to the brim with such jealous affliction,

I fold, you win…

spoke freely all things without hesitation,

forfeit the highs for the lows once again.

I fold.

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.

Dawn.

In the dark I smiled as his sleepy voice said,

that he wanted to kiss my toes to my head,

that he wants to stay here all day with me in bed,

no, not to have sex, but just hold me instead;

 

In the past he crafted 3,000-mile-long words,

that he was most certain would never be heard,

that were perpetually in vain, his brain was assured,

no, like a boomerang they’d return again, undeterred;

 

In the same exact spaces of time, never mind,

that I searched for words to fall out of the sky,

that I oftentimes spied the dimmest flash of light,

no, it was gone before I wiped the tears from my eyes;

 

In the sunshiny rays that warmed my face,

was the thawing of ancient gears frozen in place,

was the gnawing of rope til the final thread gave,

was the spawning of hope with the dawning of days.

 

 

The Midway.

I don’t pretend to know,

which dagger of mine to throw,

you know, I’ve built up an arsenal,

the ubiquitous, carnivorous carnival;

 

the sound of a broke-down calliope,

worn through that last shred of sanity,

drawn to the worst magnetically,

out of the huge crowd of humanity;

 

but before you sink your fangs into,

such a back-stabber’s dream-come-true,

help me decide which blade best suits you,

to wear forever as defensive scar wounds.

Squint.

After so much slippery time,

You stand atop these toes of mine

You act like everything is fine,

You live as if your eyes are blind.

 

After the fracture of my extended hand,

You turn out to be just another manifestation,

You stamp out the pathway to my salvation,

You cover the tracks that lead to where I am,

 

After the half of me seething with blame,

stands the half bleeding out buckets of shame,

too broken to remember my own given name,

the darkness that comes to numb my brain.

 

After so much weight born begrudgingly,

comes the doom and fate of Eternity,

too willing to designate the fatal decree,

the blinding sunlight squinting back at me.

What Else?

I think you nailed it without meaning to,

how you said you lived somewhere arctic,

and that I would absolutely hate it there…

…what else?…

I think you spilled the truth over the brim,

how you put the blame on my poetry,

for inspiring your meaningless expressions…

…what else?…

I think you must have known from the beginning,

how you singled me out with your destruction,

because I seem so strong and hard to break…

…what else?…

I think it was a drill that you run regularly,

how the floodgates opened and flooded the course,

with a new mental illness and old childhood issues…

…what else?…

I think you must feel happy with yourself,

for being a weak wolf in a hokey sheep costume,

at least, I hope you are.

 

 

Offering.

I offer up
no apology,
for the wounds
that I leave,
like the moon as it hangs,
so mockingly cruel,
in a swoon from the pangs,
so hungrily fueled;

I rebuff the
hypotheses,
that claim to love
everything,
like a beast in a cage,
such disparate woe,
through a ill-induced rage,
I see the face of my foe;

I will erupt
eventually,
boiling over
from the heat,
like a kamikaze bomb,
so much emptiness,
in the place I’m from,
it all looks like this;

I request
no sympathy,
for these wounds
bleeding perpetually,
like the neck lain upon,
the guillotine’s blade,
here, and then gone,
without a final word said.

Me.

This villainous fiend that is me,

the shadow in firelight,

the beast waiting to spite,

such villainous things I perceive;

this slowly emptying sea,

the waves that break,

the breaths they take,

what a fucking tragedy;

this temper tantrumming,

the punches at air,

the utter despair,

such a childish identity;

this condition that’s underlying,

the highs and lows,

the last to know,

such a burden is mine to carry;

this unforgiven monstrosity,

the one under my skin,

the one who I am,

such a hideous monster is me.

 

 

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”.

Notes to Self – Note # 41

Dear Self,
• How old are you, again?…
• Really, I mean c’mon…you:

a) behave like a two-year-old at an after-school daycare birthday party
b) be a bigger pothead than Spicoli ever was – and forget important shit
c) insist on impossible things – rendering yourself impossible to please

• If a guy has been in your company for 48 hours and only then says something along the lines of

“You know…? You’re fuckin’ hot…”

Time to go ahead and take another inventory of things
• If the same guy makes the seemingly random suggestion of “painting your bedroom” or “gardening” the instant he comes over for the first time, take another inventory of things
• If someone posing as a “poet” seems UNABLE to leave the topic of themselves for very long, they are likely full of horse shit
• When a man believes that he needs lifelong reaffirmation and/or reassurances as a result of being let down a few times by a parent, or being cheated on by his ex-wife – GAME OVER. GET OUT.
• The above described situation is what I refer to as a “Conflict of Reality”…nobody wins
• It’s really too bad it isn’t physically painful to be a fucking sniveler – I think there would be far fewer crybabies in the world, if it hurt
• Plotting to kill someone while you are doing yoga or jogging or swimming still totally counts as plotting to kill somebody; doing it while engaging in healthy activities DOES NOT change anything about that

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.

Most Hated of Them All.

I hate her.
I hate the way her face displays,
all the things she hides from me;
I hate every breath that she takes.
I curse her smiles;
I make it rain all over her parades,
I saturate her blankets,
and every clothesline that she hangs.
I feel sick;
every time her victory banner is waved,
those with hearts as dark as hers,
do not deserve such good days.
I cast catching nets;
to halt the successes she’s made,
all the good she’s accomplished;
from within a questionable Human state.
I hunt her;
track marks in the mud from her chains,
her pace has picked up now,
but her attempts to escape are in vain.
I watch her;
watch each line appear in her face,
along the tip-toes of the crow’s feet,
so I step away from the mirror again.

The High Speed Wobbles.

Anybody who suffers from an “anxiety disorder” will know the wobbles well, most likely.

It happens to the very best of the best of us; no matter how far into ‘recovery’ and/or treatment we may be – it never completely leaves us for good, it always returns to remind us again…we have no control. It happens on a good day, a bad day, a day you never even make it out of bed at all.

For me, the wobbles tend to come out of nowhere, typically blindsiding me into submission to an emotional tsunami of anxiety, malcontent and paranoid fear. This seems to truly wash over everything – the thoughts in my head and heart, the feelings I harbor in general, my level of energy, my attention span, any motivational element in my life at a given time; I become consumed very quickly and completely by the anxiousness when this occurs. I become paranoid of my surroundings and the people in them; I lose any sense of reason. In turn, what usually happens, is that I trigger my own reflexive fight or flight response through the sudden increase of adrenaline and serotonin coursing through my body – and I react as if I were being attacked in a corner.

I know, it’s fucking disturbing…but true.

I have a roommate, I’ve written about him and his lack of understanding surrounding the details of the things that I struggle with from day to day, in regard to constant fear and perpetual edginess; he likes to scare me. He finds it amusing, which in all honesty, makes him NO DIFFERENT from 9 out 10 dudes that I know, unfortunately.He likes to hide in the shrub near the front door and wait for me to walk passed in the dark after work…he likes to pop out of random closets and spaces that I’d never be expecting him to pop out of. It’s unfortunate.

AS, IT’S DOES NOT AMUSE ME.

When I am startled by someone, in the moment, I do not see. I do not recognize you in the slightest, in spite of being only inches from your face and looking dead at you, I do not see you. I am not there. Somebody else must be; because it is during this slice of time after being startled by someone that my subconscious should recognize but doesn’t communicate such to my conscious mind, that my body honestly seems to just take over and do what it thinks I need to be doing in the moment that I get startled. As my roommate is learning  slowly, but ever-more surely – my typical reaction to being startled isn’t to run, after all…shocker! I’m a fighter! And apparently, I go for the eyeballs and face…we are mapping a pattern.

He doesn’t (and by all rights really couldn’t, anyway) get angry with me for physically assaulting him when this happens, he didn’t even hold a grudge four times back – when I pepper sprayed him, reflexively…

He cannot say that I haven’t warned him, and he cannot say that at this stage of things either – that he doesn’t have a good idea of what he’s looking to get into every time he shimmies himself between the shrub and the drainpipe when he hears my car alarm beep beep…so, I no longer feel in the least bad when I have to eat across the table from him when he bears a smeared nose or scratch marks into the corners of either eye. He asked for it.

A Different Line.

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.” – William Shakespeare

While you can be fine

there are still words left

unsaid, of mine…

I can keep going

into a different sunset,

down a different line…

And I can be good

with so many nickels

made of wood…

I can just disappear

and let you be

like I probably should…

So you can be free

away from the fear

that’s made a hostage of me…

and I can believe

that you’re coming back

to find me, eventually…

Then, you can be strong

the way you’ve always

remained, all along…

while I can continue

to drunkenly scream

the same ol’ love song…

As you start to know

that I’m ever come –

and never go…

and I fail to realize

that my key no longer

fits in the door.