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.

Apex.

The words written,
have me feeling
sickly and un-smitten,
through the text,
be me sensing one
yellow-starred Apex,
“art”, or something,
special status – VIP
gums – bumping,
keep it sloppy,
your literary versions
parties with Pop Queens,
it almost hurt me,
be not for a sudden
void of curiosity,
two masters, one crown,
too many jars
full of HONEY to count,
volume’s up, open trunk
toes tapping
to your wordy junk,
speakers thumping,
I take the trash out at night
blood stops pumping,
and…..so here I go,
paddling my way
to be broken by the sea,
be it one born of saline,
or oceans of lies
it is my serpentine,
and I, its wiry chord,
whatever be it was
to my own accord,
do not folly to believe,
that my yellow star
takes you or your
so-called “poetry”,
in the least bit seriously.

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.

 

 

Notes to Self #445

Dear Self:
1) How many times have you actually carried the bag out your car before leaving, despite its precarious position on the inside of the door-knob to the front door? Time for a new reminder spot, dumbass…
2) While sleepwalking, try to somehow remember that you will be held accountable for the things you’re up to during the early morning hours in the man-cave, by the men who cave there…
3) Over dinner with the parents of a childhood friend (who is now, unfortunately, deceased), try to avoid talking about “death throes” – even in the intended context of the fish on your plate. Talk about awkward…
4) Not everyone feels the way that you feel about certain historical figures, including, but not limited to: Joan of Arc, Genghis Khan, Socrates, Moses and Josephus; sometimes it’s just best to let ignorance override a situation in order to avoid a five-hour marathon of “truth versus textbook”…
5) YOU ARE NO EXCEPTION…not to ANY rule, ANY time, or under ANY circumstances…
6) The VERY gradual tapering off of the use of the air horn you keep stashed under the passenger’s seat of your car DOES NOT truly count as “changing your ways” in regard to ‘Road Rage’…
7) Using only one hand to flip off the dude next you (who cut you off twice) instead of both doesn’t count, either…
8) Again, when you don’t pay your bills – you lose your shit…
9) “All-Day Wear Lipstick” should be illegal for what it ultimately does to your appearance, after only a partial day – you’d be better off smearing wild berry stain inside your mouth and all across your own front teeth…go back to Blistex…
10) Lastly, just because you’ve had luck in the past with training (notably trainable) finches, does not mean that you can start ‘Homing Pigeons’ in your spare time…

Frying Pan.

Choosing never affects a good choice,

only amplifies the neediness in your shaky voice,

aren’t we are all adults playing on this playground,

or had I been mistaken?

when I took in,

all the grown up sights and sounds?

play games like you have power here among our kind,

unhealthy certainty in your wobbly-kneed stride,

I can practically taste the intentions that know are underneath,

like the fat off the bacon,

in the frying pan,

do not kid yourself into believing your own longstanding deceit.

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.

Blood-Soaked Breadcrumbs.

Stopping at

the ledge,

I lean over to see

a life left behind

of you

a future ahead of me

and, it isn’t pretty

not a single thing;

standing out against

a backdrop

of teardrops,

raining down

pelting skin;

Fingers curling tightly,

insurance of

my own grip

chambered,

by my own hand

precisely,

for such a trip

see my footing slip;

crumbling

boulders,

beneath my feet;

have I actually fallen,

ever so blindly,

into the lap

of my enemy?

Loaded gun,

pressed against

a temple,

shots commence –

my heart,

so begrudging –

my eyes,

so disbelieving;

of the stories

that the truth

is telling me;

Leaving trails of

blood-soaked

breadcrumbs

in a soggy line;

it goes behind,

a familiar time

of martyrdom

that unfailingly,

and unsparingly

will stake claim to

whatever life’s

left of mine.

 

Ventilation.

evidenceSome people have too much drama in their’ hearts…not necessarily too much time on their’ hands, but definitely too much interest in wasting the time and energies of others with the absolute bullshit that they consider noteworthy, somehow. I have several key people in my life who are made from this stock of human characteristics:
lonely but unaware of this fact, indulgent in a handicapping superiority complex that is totally unwarranted, absolutely clueless as to the ways of human loyalties, and without a caring thought of anyone else’s needs or desires against their’ own.
In turn, these people have a very poisonous effect on me, in almost any context – regardless of the relationship I share with them or its importance in my life. For example, I have a roommate who is a pompous ass sometimes; he is the one that I refer to as the “good Bunkie” in my blog, a label based on a comparison between he and a former housemate, who was very un-good. This guy is one of my oldest friends and I love him dearly in spite of himself, I really do…however, the older we get, the more impossible he is for me to deal with. Granted, I have my own issues and that’s no secret; but I can say this about myself and my own issues with certainty: I DO NOT CONSCIOUSLY ALLOW MYSELF MISDIRECT MY ISSUES AT UNDESERVING BYSTANDERS.
The Good Bunkie has this super horribly annoying tendency to come home from work with some Gods damned chip on his shoulder about some random ass political or religious bullshit that he listened to on talk radio during his commute home; worse still – he wants to debate and argue over the meaningless garbage with his housemates – whichever one he happens upon first. When he does this to me, at the end of my own workday, I am overcome by an inclination to just fucking bite his face off. I mean, come on! There are people who barely know me that would be able to do that much of my fucking math, for fuck sake; I have REAL PROBLEMS in the REAL WORLD and PRESENT MOMENT…I could give a shit about whatever political or religious horseshit from Talk Radio Republic.That shit is all made up bullshit anyway, duh! Show me some solid evidence behind of the long horse shit that you’re bringing home to my ear, and we’ll debate about it maybe…fuck!

Let’s review just for fun:

1) Do I seem like a fucking church-goer to any of you? NO.
2) Do I put off the vibe that I am a fucking Republican? NO.
(Sorry, to any of my Republican readers)
3) Do I send out a message of being partial to the Rich White Folk? NO.
4) Do I seem like someone any of you would even WANT to argue politics with? FUCK NO.

So, yes…it drains me emotionally when this person who I share hearth and home with repeatedly comes home and tries to start in with his completely disinteresting, circus freak, political garbage debate with ME, of all people! The end result every time is the same: as soon as I recognize his shit, I say something like,
“C’mon seriously? Spare me, okay? I have no interest or desire in even having this conversation; I don’t need this bullshit on ANY day of ANY week, dude…fuck off!”, before shutting the door to my bedroom behind me as I go back in. Now I realize that anytime you have multiple people sharing a living space, things get a little edgy sometimes; that’s not lost on me by any means; I also try my damndest to stay out of everyone else’s way as often as possible for this reason – as to avoid unnecessary tension. That’s just how I roll: I mind my own business.
I am most often closed up in my room with earbuds in; I am typically the “house mouse”– this behavior of mine is nothing new or groundbreaking in my household, either…it’s always been this way. The Good Bunkie knows the cause of my PTSD, and has been more than “understanding” and “supportive”, for lack of more fitting descriptions – he has no appreciation behind the psychological mechanisms involved that have a physiological reaction attached to them – but he pities me because of the drastic changes he openly recognizes when he compares the ME of my youth to the ME that is now his housemate. For someone in my personal circumstances, having a roommate who is also a friend that I have so much water under the bridge with – is priceless; I am aware on a subconscious level that he poses no physical threat to me at any time. This is an element that I do not fool myself into thinking that I could find or cultivate with 9.5 out of 10 males in existence. I share it with my other roommate, The Orphan, as well – though for very different reasons and not as solidly; our friendship is young, in comparison. Point here is that I am for the most part happy as hell with my situation, but when this type of shit happens, it literally drains me of energy which isn’t healthy for me to be exposed to, especially so fucking unnecessarily and regularly.
I mean, I would NEVER go out of my way to instigate an unnecessary argument with him, or The Orphan for that matter…and it bothers me that he, especially given our longtime friendship and his knowledge of my current status in the fucking world I live in , DOES.

Apex.

THWAP! THWAP! THWAPPP!

THWAP! THWAP! THWAPPP!

The words written,

have me feeling

sickly – un-smitten,

through the text,

be me sensing one

yellow-starred Apex,

“art”, or something,

special status – VIP

gums – bumping,

keep it sloppy,

your literary versions

parties with Pop Queens,

it almost hurt me,

be not for a sudden

void of curiosity,

two masters, one crown,

too many jars

full of HONEY to count,

volume’s up, open trunk

toes tapping

to your wordy junk,

speakers thumping,

I take the trash out at night

blood stops pumping,

and…..so here I go,

paddling my way

to be broken by the sea,

be it one born of saline,

or oceans of lies

it is my serpentine,

and I, its wiry chord,

whatever be it was

to my own accord,

do not fool yourself to believe,

that my yellow star

takes this seriously.

Notes to Self – Note 492

Absolutely Molotoved.

Absolutely Molotoved.

Dear Self,

Not sure how many times we will have to go over these things… but here we are, again…

  • Once a snake, always a snake. This is the naturally embedded law of the Universe, you KNOW this. Why do you struggle so?
  • Moisturize! Moisturize! Moisturize! You’re lookin’ beat up.
  • Just because sea lions “play” with you in the water sometimes, doesn’t mean that they:
    • a) actually like you.
    • b) will remember you on land.
  • You need to look into what turns you into an instant asshole on the beach, it’s very unbecoming. Not everyone is at home in the water.
  • Continuing to hold on to the notion that you still look good in your swimsuit from over four seasons ago is doing you no justice.
  • You are paranoid; this is a fact; act accordingly.
  • You do not have to publish every piece of poetry that you pen.
  • Sometimes, it’s just better to eat the Gods’ damned casserole and then either retch or digest afterwards. You lost out on $50, dumbass.
  • Perception is key; the key to a door which you may or may not want to unlock and swing open, depending on the circumstance.
  • Fuck you. Yes, you are wearing the bridesmaid’s dress and cfmp’s…it’s your brother’s wedding for fuck sake. Suck it up and be a girl once in a while, “it’s good for you”, so they say…

Why???

Oh my fuck. Why? Why?

Ugggghhhhhh! Why?

Does Anyone Remember “The Opportunist”:

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/05/21/rubbish/

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/05/29/on-this-door-the-opportunist-knocks/

https://americanainjustica.wordpress.com/2014/04/13/do-not-mistake-my-weakness-for-kindness/

So I just received a text from him – out of the clear blue – after over six months of not a single word – that says:

Bambi,

I don’t know if you still hate me or not. I wish you didn’t. I think about you all the time. I’m so sorry for the way shit went down between us. You made me very happy while we were “together”. I should have told you more about what was going on in my life back then so that you didn’t have to draw your conclusions. So-and-so and I were just friends, still…and nothing else was ever going on between us like I’ve been told you were thinking. I should have reassured you when you asked me to and I’m sorry. I hope you are well.

Opportunist

WTF???!!

Notes to Self – Note #99

REPEATED CHALKBOARD SCRIBBLING OF THE DAY:

I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.
I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.
I WILL NOT RIP THE FUCKING ANTLERS AND RUDOLPH NOSES OFF OF OTHER PEOPLE’S VEHICLES AS I PASS BY.

 

 Dear Self,

Yes, you’re still an idiot.

We’ve gone over this before, Self – you need to master self-control a little – No, a lot – better in the days to come.

Your lack of any “Holiday Spirit” DOES NOT entitle you to destroy public (or private) property and get yourself arrested for a brief time, afterward.

Yes, you’re still an idiot.

Just because you have some mutant-esque allergy to alcohol (rendering you 110% unable to physically stomach the shit) doesn’t automatically slap you on top of some tall horse that stands over anyone else; telling one of your Mom’s sloppy, drunken, bartender ex-boyfriends that he “missed his calling in life” was probably a little much.

Yes, you’re still a mouthy bitch.

Fuck It.

fuck it

On This Door the Opportunist Knocks

Image

Yeah, well – not this environment, not this time, not any more.

The VIP has left the building, Ghost…without you.

 

All else aside, I realize what it’s been that has held me up over this most recent ugliness spewed at me by the presence of a disguised opportunist – previously in very close quarters to my life and heart – I see what has been bothering me so much about it all: it’s the metallic, residual taste of blood in my mouth;

the sobering fact that once someone stings me – once another unwelcome reality punches me in the throat from out of nowhere to remind me that ‘Hey Stupid! You Can’t Trust Anyone Not To Betray You Eventually!’ – I begin to warily pick apart each and every relationship left standing – I grow cynical and defensive and suspicious of the people who haven’t yet abandoned me: my friends and family. I start to do this mindfuck loop in which I question everyone and everything as a direct result of the betrayal of one single maggot who was unworthy from day one…

I don’t care that it’s all over, I am starting to see that the douche bag did me a favor by showing such vivid colors in such undeniable hues; I have already sensed the calm easing its way back into each day from morning to night (no early morning dramatics; no more hours wasted on the equivalent to free therapy sessions beginning with my first cup of coffee); I already feel the tension unwrapping itself from around each eye and loosening its tightly wound grip from my shoulder blades…

Whatever it was, that “thing” I imagined up between us – it had become unhealthy very quickly for me – it stopped feeling good a while back – only felt bad when it felt like anything at all for months leading up to the final breaking point: the day that the line was drawn distinctly in the sand between he and I, permanently.

If they aren’t lifting you up, they’re holding you down…I had ceased to be lifted up any more…

But I knew leading up to that day also, deep down I knew I did not like who he is, what he is – the type of individual that he represents…I knew that, I had already seen and recognized, even communicated that fact to him.

“I don’t like two-faced people…” I declared one morning as he insistently talked shit about somebody who I, personally, happen to love quite fiercely – someone who he is all sugar and spice to in person, face to face. “I hope you know how telling it is that you would say those things about __________, given the circumstances; especially since you have no problem turning around and smiling to his face ten minutes later…”

Image

He somehow assured me way back then that I was wrong about him, about what I saw. But on some level deep down, if I’m being honest here, I have known since that time that he was no good. And I ignored my own instinct in order to suit my own more immediate needs: Human Closeness and Intimacy. How fucked up is that? Because in the end, he totally duped me and walked away snickering, finishing off that last mouthful of cake with victorious gulps…but I have truly learned a few new things from this otherwise worthless and useless exercise:

1) I still have major abandonment issues that I need to deal with.

2) When someone burns me, it burns…and it sets into motion cause and effect whether I like it or not.

3) I am still the Bigger Person, despite all of my efforts not to be.

4) I’m okay with my longstanding sentiment of:

If I am out of line for feeling for another human being (especially after considerable lengths of time in close quarters together), shoot me.

I don’t want to be a mutant human being all shallow and fake as Hell, wtf can I say?