Doors – A Haiku.

They speak truth when they tell you:

“Closing will open.”…

…in regard to Life’s hallway.

Swan Dive.

I do not completely, and in every way fear you –

Not in the way that he threw a curse upon me to;

I still get warmed up by that appeal, so real and true;

A truth he failed to forever ruin with shades of black and blue.

I’m not so afraid of you – that I have no tendencies, no intrigue;

My body yearns for good sex to magically collide with me;

My brain gradually accepts and digests my life’s reality;

It’s a string of unknown variables: somehow bound to my own destiny.

What I find in a mirror – won’t let my brain truly perceive;

Along with so many pieces of my own history,

I’m a toddler again without a reason to believe;

My environment feels so profoundly abstract and obscene.

The good and the bad – patches of skin: paisley and plaid;

I spent so many tear drops that I now wish I still had;

To cry over the stabs at my womb and the kicks to my head –

There will be time to be held “hostage” when I’m dead.

Unrealistic, sadistic, chauvinistic lovers –

Sociopathic in the street and Pornographic in the covers

But then again, my position in the dark-lit corner;

Not really caring if you do or do not choose to stroll over –

I survived the same ways as anyone else alive;

I can only convey the things that my spirit and soul imply;

I have accepted the truth and jumped over the side;

welcoming the Unknown through a perfected swan dive.

Propinquity.

It is all born
of a unique fact
the long-gone act
of the way we tie
closely together
through space and time;
the closeness defined
stronger than steel
your back against mine;
knowledge of Life
given to us by;
the archaically blessed
and most ancient of divine;
passed along down
a dried-out bloodline;
the circumstance
concocted like potion
of happenstance;
that tickling, vague notion
rolling and bending
like the tides in the ocean;
but never broken
beneath such crushing mass
a written word –
not anything spoken;
the act of
being based upon;
a kindred spiritual root
that grows deep and ever-long;
they tried to bury
something so incredibly strong
a truth they’ve kept in secrecy
and in the midst
of their stupidity,
the feebleness makes them forget
a scary variant
the element
of our propinquity.

Min Ven.

night horse

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
cheers
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
skål
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
seën
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

day horse

Half-Bred Beast.

Through the vastness,
of Human eternity,
scatter all roads,
ever taken by me,
the archaic line,
of woven patches,
sewn intricately,
into man-made time,
indefinitely;
Never in so long,
did I ever meet,
another earthly creature,
one part: Woman,
and, one part: Beast,
muscular-skeletal control,
over walking legs,
that naturally,
upright stand,
very deeply,
mindful,
steeped by,
self-control:
this creature…
‘Sam I am’;
Try traveling again,
without,
the face,
of this friend,
try carrying on,
as if it’s:
all just fine again,
nothing between,
the hearts,
of just me,
and, specifically –
this companion,
has ever been,
happy at the end;
Indemnified,
for she and I,
there’s no limit,
to the blue,
that ever-paints the sky,
no limit to the shading,
of green streaks,
spreading far and wide,
my friend, it’s true:
shooting stars,
are just the glue,
that keeps the twinkle,
alive to our eyes.

Awakening Giants.

A rhythmic, rainy day
Live Oaks swaying;
of wind-blown,
dark-tarnished
antique cutlery,
spoons hung from forks
to a sun-porch –
by disintegrating
fishing string;
the fog clings
a smoldering fire’s
taunting smile;
a veil of mystery
suspending
everything for miles;
thunder rolls –
the molasses-slow
awakening
the Giants
from the Isles;
It’s a well-planned
last stand, tea party,
we priestesses sit,
card-tabled by
light mahogany –
a séance to the dead
and a curse for the living.

Memaphor.

 

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-blindingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bullheadedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

simple_beauty_by_velvetredbullet-d3cqn4d

Adrift (For the Bear Trainer).

This is a piece written for my VERY BEST FRIEND ON THE PLANET (and beyond), The Bear Trainer.

…S, you are the entire village that it takes to raise the child – and I honor and cherish you more than you know. ❤

Letting-go21

It’s the incessant babbling,
Of a perpetually invisible stream,
This I do most certainly know,
There is no halting or stopping its flow;
Even when I can’t touch its noise,
It isn’t like I have any choice,
I feel its presence trickling,
I feel its coolness prickling;
A sense of a long, lost something,
A dense and heavy whispering,
I can count the nights and days easily,
To try to measure what I’m so missing;
I can carve notches like lines into trees,
But there’s no accounting your importance to me,
Have you any idea of the weight you carry?
an influence that trumps all, subconsciously?
Near or far – here you are…
to awaken these things that sleep,
I need your heart attached to mine,
if I’m to somehow believe;
the Heavens are darkened by the distance between,
the truth is the anchor that’s unwavering,
the tides wash off the filth of humanity,
when all’s said and done, I have only this one thing;
the notion that resides in the depths of my being,
the unspoken truths attached to our destinies,
when the Universe again – fails to reassure me,
yours is the comfort that mine will find eventually.

Now.

I’ve been going to bed earlier and waking up later…I have somehow allowed myself to detach again…I couldn’t tell you how such a thing is even possible, considering everything that has happened and likely continues to happen in the world from which I have detached…but I have, and it is.
My feelings are not hurting now, not in the slightest; my senses are as far from sharpened or honed as is humanly possible; my thoughts are grey and soggy; my heartbeat exists quietly in the background noise of everything; my memories seemingly evaporating with slow certainty.
But I’ve been here before, it’s not some recovery set out at the edge of the woods; it’s not the end or the beginning of anything else; it’s just how I get through the unbelievable, it’s how I bear the unbearable, and it’s the only thing I know how to embrace without fear anymore.

All My Dirt.

I am randomly typpling (type babbling), yes, I know this… my personal Microsoft Word screen seriously could fuck me with all the secrets and truths it has seen at my hand, fuck it though…transparency is the new thing isn’t it?

I have given up my appearance altogether, I suppose…couldn’t tell you when the last time I looked in a mirror at myself…hmmmm…the possible causes behind this fact aren’t lost on me, either…
Something is happening inside of me again; although I couldn’t possibly describe any of what those “somethings” may actually be in the big picture of things; and I am not trying to find any way to describe it – there’s just a slew of mental data on upload at present; and my mental data down-link seems to be broken, too. There’s just a fuck-ton of shit coming in, and nothing moving aside to make room for it; if that even makes sense to anyone reading this.

Failure:
Failure is something has come to define my every moment of each passing day for me; it began slowly when Boo was put into “residential treatment” almost a decade ago and only snowballed from that point on. The many things that have subsequently gone horribly awry since then have accumulated into a vast and freezing cold tomb; each instance of my own perceived failings stacking up against the previous until the room shrinks. Failure has been something that I struggle with regularly, and I often lose the fight with it because of its overwhelming and constant presence. I go to a psychiatrist based on this failure (and its many facets and faces); he repeatedly instructs me to “just let it go”…
Abandonment:
Abandonment is another key element that is deeply embedded in my marred psychological profile; this element is born of my inability to “just let it go” when it came to my inter-personal relationships with parents during infancy and childhood (most notably a then ever-absent mother). It has mutated the human being that I was born as into a different version of who I might have been in a “healthy and/or intact family setting”; over time, it has warped my perception of others who I feel any closeness to – a mechanism of the emotionally fearful and unstable. I am extremely insecure inter-personally, and it only becomes an exacerbated symptom when I give two shits about the other person involved. I am afraid of people in general; not in a physically cowed way though…I am terrified of interacting with others because of the emotional traumas that inevitably attach themselves to each and every experience with closeness to another human being (or the socially mutated versions of one).

Truth:
Truth is another crucial piece of who I am from one moment to the next; it has come to burn in my veins like molten lava these days, and growing increasingly more important to every nano-thought in my head. Acceptance of truth is part of this element; and as painful as this aspect often is for me, in my own experiences, the truth carries weight that is undeniably addictive to my heart, spirit and mind somehow…
Perhaps after all, “the truth shall set me free”.

Sewn Into Skin.

Before you,
there was him;
And before him,
had been them,
a handful of men,
not one forgotten;
Yet, I recall little,
of any of them;
How to begin?
It’s intuition,
something within,
a hidden system,
obsolete and broken.
Little details win,
words said then,
I recall them,
unforgotten,
unforgiven,
sewn into skin.

Horizon.

Again,
My friends…
The evening ends…

Take off
The masks
That help us pretend…

It’s true…
We are…
No closer to them…

Let go…
Of hopes…
Of our salvation. ..

Accept…
The truth…
In all that I am…

Again…
My friends…
Do not let them win…

Stand tall…
Don’t fall…
Keep faith unbroken…

Shrink not…
In strength…
The knot will strengthen. ..

Be wise…
See far…
Past the horizon…

Again…
My friends…
The skirmish begins

Un-Pleasantries.

I could not have known; how could I have known?
that I’d be buried alive and fallen steadfastly asleep,
the oxygen was low, dwindling…
the dirt had filled most of my mouth and both nostrils completely,
this happened within what I then approximated to have been:
about a half an hour,
in spite of my conscious efforts to avoid such un-pleasantries;
but, there I was…
underground, and worse yet,
late for the third scheduled appointment with Death;
and once again,
I will not be able to keep the appointment…
he will NOT be pleased.

Half-Bred Beast.

Through the vastness,
of Human eternity,
scatter all roads,
ever taken by me,
the archaic line,
of woven patches,
sewn intricately,
into man-made time,
indefinitely;
Never in so long,
did I ever meet,
another earthly creature,
one part: Woman,
and, one part: Beast,
muscular-skeletal control,
over walking legs,
that naturally,
upright stand,
very deeply,
mindful,
steeped by,
self-control:
this creature…
‘Sam I am’;
Try traveling again,
without,
the face,
of this friend,
try carrying on,
as if it’s:
all just fine again,
nothing between,
the hearts,
of just me,
and, specifically –
this companion,
has ever been,
happy at the end;
Indemnified,
for she and I,
there’s no limit,
to the blue,
that ever-paints the sky,
no limit to the shading,
of green streaks,
spreading far and wide,
my friend, it’s true:
shooting stars,
are just the glue,
that keeps the twinkle,
alive to our eyes.

Delivered.

I had been complaining about how long it has taken her package to arrive via snail mail just the other day; it had been just about one month…she made the comment that it was okay, that I’d see…the mail would arrive at just the right time – when we were each more in need of the said packages than we knew. As usual, she is right.
Today is Mother’s Day in the U.S.
I have a rough day on Mother’s Day every year because…well, for obvious reasons…
I opened her mail this morning amidst the sadness that I typically wake up to on Mother’s Day…and it made me smile and reminded me of important things that aren’t always so easy to recall during the rough patches in my life: to breathe…inhale and exhale…and everything else falls in line somewhere.
Throughout my lifetime thus far, I have seen many movies and read endless storybooks detailing friendships that seem to be able to surpass the confines of space and time; even life and death through the invisible bonds associated; I never fully comprehended such subject matter until now, more recently in my own life.
There are, indeed, some friendships – bonds – ties – sutures – webs, which are so intricately wound throughout the human elements of the Universe, that even those bound inside the weave do not fully appreciate the depths and heights made available through such cosmic humanity. Those of us who are woven into this fabric know the power and strength to which I refer; those who do not know, can only believe.

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.

Min Ven.

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
cheers
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
skål
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
seën
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

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.

Awakening Giants.

A rhythmic, rainy day
Live Oak tree chiming;
of wind-blown,
dark-tarnished
antique cutlery,
spoons hung from forks
to a sun-porch –
by disintegrating
fishing string;
the fog clings
a smoldering fire’s
taunting smile;
a veil of mystery
suspending
everything for miles;
thunder rolls –
the molasses-slow
awakening
the Giants
from the Isles;
It’s a well-planned
last stand, tea party,
we priestesses sit,
card-tabled by
light mahogany –
a séance to the dead
and a curse for the living.

Teachers.

your-best-teacher-last-mistake-life-quotes-sayings-pictures

The Misidentified:
a Blood Eagle Rite;
a person who hides
behind
an opaque web of lies.

The Egotistical:
a Wolf in Sheep’s wool;
a person who is cruel
a fool
that never learned in school.

The Dishonest:
a Forged Document;
a person who spreads
darkness
and vomits resentment.
The Opportunist:
Never a Chance missed;
a person waiting in secret
focused
on the potential stumble in a step.

The Self-Designated:
the Power and the Glory, faded;
a person who is motivated
over-rated
by a harem blindly cultivated.

The Self-Assured:
The Most Boring Tale Ever Heard;
a person who is falsely secured
by words
as solid as the bridges burned.

Netherworld.

How this mind
of mine,
constructs a place,
a metallic taste
that saturates;
alive,
by the grace –
of another space
and time.
A Netherworld
just yours and mine
where the thoughts
of you and I;
pornographically
intertwine.
Nobody sees –
just you and me,
just the way
we like things to be;
You feel adored,
and I feel carefree.
A dream belonging
to who
I am when
I’m asleep…
to awaken
in the morning;
to the flushed cheeks
of your
time taken;
just freeze.
Stay locked in this position,
as the rain is drizzling;
nothing outside
of this place
where we hide,
matters too often
anymore to me, at least.
Real eyes
realize…
that time is truth
and truth is a lie;
Happily lost in
the cost
of your eyes,
Rain weighs in
lighter than
teardrops…
and take twice
as long to dry.

“Every rule has an exception. Especially this one.”

Anomalous”, an “exception”, a “phenomenon”; these are all things I have been called in the medical community throughout my recovery from a near-fatal attack over ten years ago.

The “anomaly” came into play during the initial sweep of MRSA that ran through the ICU and burn units, claiming the lives of two patients and yanking many others into the circling of the proverbial drain for months afterwards; I was, once again, somehow spared death at that time as well, despite the many open wounds that left me like a sitting duck for the infectious riptide. Immediately following exposure to the initial strain of MRSA, twelve out of nineteen of the patients there, in my particular unit, broke out with the Shingles (a strain of it that is STILL with at least two of them, to date). Again, I was “unscathed”. It’s important to keep in mind while reading this, that I was unconscious for the better part of 3 ½ weeks straight upon arriving and being rushed into emergency maxiofacial/vasculature surgery – it’s not as if I even had a clue as to what was happening afterwards, in the unit. I wasn’t putting up any conscious fight against anything…that entire period is dark for me, and I carry no recollection of it now. Either way, it was then that I received the medical file label of “immuno-anomalous”; a label that has stuck with me ever since that time – only to be elaborated upon by other surgeons, doctors and various medical professionals in the days to come.

Next was something wonderful: ‘Raynaud’s Phenomenon’.

This is a very strange condition in which cold temperatures or strong emotions cause microvascular spasms in the fingers, nose, and/or toes. Doctors rarely see this condition – it has a very, very rare (identified, at least) occurrence in the world; thus, is difficult to get properly diagnosed, much less treated. I nearly lost all ten of my toes on two separate occasions due to Raynaud’s;

  • Once, before getting it diagnosed accurately, when a doctor came through on his rounds and basically told me that my toes were so gangrenous that they would need to be amputated;
  • Again, before getting it properly diagnosed, another doctor came through on his rounds and said that they wouldn’t need to amputate, because my toes were shriveled into raisins anyway, and would soon “come off on their own” (that was on my birthday, by the way). Happy fucking birthday – you’re toeless!

Either way, I managed to keep my toes – all of them – to the absolute shock and surprise of all of us…I’M still not even sure how that happened without medical interaction – my toes DID literally look raisins for about a week. But – “phenomenally, they bounced themselves back to bloodflow…”, according to the treating physician at the time. And so, was born: “the Phenomenon”.

Lastly, but most sticky, has been “the Exception to Every Rule of Medicine”; a quote, verbatim, about me from a seminary speech made at Stanford Hospital during a retirement celebration thrown for my original reconstructive surgeon – one amazing individual – when he was asked if I was the reason behind his “early retirement”. So many other people from the Medical community were there to hear an esteemed and well-respected old-timer say such a thing, that I will likely NEVER live it down.

Memaphor.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-bendingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bull-headedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

Propinquity.

 chaingang university

the act of being tied

closely together

through space and time;

the closeness defined

stronger than steel

a back against mine;

a knowledge of the divine

passed along down

a dried-out bloodline;

the circumstance

repeating itself over

of happenstance;

that tickling sense, a notion

rolling and bending

like the tides in the ocean;

but never broken

beneath its crushing mass

a written word – not one spoken;

the act of being based upon

a kindred, genetic root

that grows deep and long;

a truth they’ve kept in secrecy

overlooking completely,

an element of our propinquity.

Damages.

gandhi_just causeThey have already officially tried to block me from the courthouse today; they are using the ol’ “she does not cooperate under the code of the law” bullshit…which is true, I do not cooperate with their destructive plan to ruin Boo’s life, and never will. Despite the fact that there is not a shred of evidence that would back the pathetic social worker’s attempt at keeping me out, there have already been red flags raised up over my presumed parking spot, downtown, across from the courthouse where Boo is as I type this.
I will go anyway, and I will park there anyway, and I will get out by myself and walk into the courthouse like it’s my job, because it is.
They cannot keep me from a public courthouse or courtroom unless I am held in contempt; which hasn’t even come close to happening yet…
All of my friends and cyber family:
TODAY is a BIG BIG DAY for Americana and Boo, please send us your good energies and/or prayers. WE NEED THEM.
Here goes nothin’….

Postcards From Freedom! *A Population Study*

POPULATION:     Not Enough.

POPULATION:
Not Enough.

Knock.

What it was, it wasn’t really there;
There weren’t any late night whispers,
No fingers through my hair;
What we were wasn’t really anything;
There was never any meaning,
To the words you spoke to me;
What I thought, it was totally absurd;
There was nothing more to it,
Than just your lonely, empty word;
What I wanted, you refused to give away;
There was no red dress I could wear,
To bring the words you wouldn’t say;
What it turned out to be, in the end of it all;
There was a knock at the door,
And you took the call;
What I didn’t know was that your heart is gone;
There’s no ticking or beating,
Yet you somehow drone on;
What is surprising to me above all else;
There is no one on Earth,
That you love more than yourself;
What you haven’t thought of, ahead of time;
There is no way in Hell,
That you’ll take anything of mine;
What it was, that it never could be;
There are too many like you,
And hardly any others like me.

Evolutions…

“Take off your shirt, please…”

The Orphan’s handsome face begins to form a look of defiance, but suddenly reveals his sense of trust in me, as he eases his t-shirt up and over his head.

My eyes swell with tears and I am overtaken with pride for some ungodly reason…he has meat on his bones once more!!!

“Atta Boy, Rock Star!”

I punch him playfully in his washboard belly and wink blatantly up at his now-blushing, chiseled face.

“Why are you crying?” he is seriously wondering out loud at my over-expressiveness…

“Because I can so vividly recall what you looked like when you came back to live here…when I picked you up from the airport the second time…” my head is slowly shaking from side to side as I speak to him – looking him in his lighter colored eye (the left one). He’s been gone for a few days and I worry…but he always comes home and makes me feel stupid as hell for ever thinking he can’t handle himself.

 

Impact.

my hero americana

When One of Your Heroes Thinks The Same of YOU…

 

 

When I first opened my blog up and started writing about Boo – she was still missing at the time (again, I should say) and I was likely the closest I’ve ever come to pure insanity, there was a person who seemed to reply to most of my heart-achingly honest and obvious hopelessness. In all truth – if I’m going to be honest here with this post – I initially opened my blog because I wanted to write down my own versions of things for my estranged, delinquent daughter to read someday, after I had given up on the entirety of the situation that we are held hostage by and removed myself, somehow. I wrote down all of the most shameful and regrettable parts of my trials in motherhood that I’ve never been able to tell her myself, for various reasons, simply entertaining the idea that one day Boo might find closure of some sort from this blog and it’s content, if she ever comes back around close enough to catch it.

There was this one follower – this Cyber-Saint of a human, who is the type of Survivor that my beloved Triple S is: A Nurturer. This blogger was my third follower, and has been with me (seems like most of the posts I make, she’s there to validate me somehow, even with issues that I was certain no other human being has ever struggled with) SHE’S TITANIUM in my personal blogosphere. Staunch. Solid. Respectable and brutally honest in her own recovery from abuses so unimaginable and long-lasting that I often find myself wondering how it’s even possible that she’s able to offer such unwavering support to others who write of similar experiences and their lasting effects. She was that one HUMAN BEING who SINGLEHANDEDLY got through to me in regard to my hopelessness as the grieving and helpless Mother to a highly self-destructive and unruly teenaged daughter. MANDY has been the one to renew my once-fading HOPE for something – anything – better to look ahead for when it comes to my relationship (or lack, there of) with my only child. A few months ago, Mandy sent me a link to the page she maintains called Heroes in My Garden on her blog; and I was dumbfounded to find my own name among the bloggers whom she’s helping to grow there in that special garden of true Survival.

It wasn’t until last night sometime, as I lay awake in the grips of my beloved insomnia and the zillions of thoughts that it streams through my tired mind, that the garden finally made sense to me – that her intentions behind it are so GOOD and NURTURING – it brought me tears in the dark, all alone.

Mandy is conveying her own projection of healing and nurturing to the many broken bloggers that she stumbles across in her reading here on WordPress; she has created a cyber garden in which she can “plant” people she feels are worth the effort and help them to “grow” through her natural gift of NURTURE.

She is most certainly one of my most admirable HEROES too – in more ways than I could even begin to describe in words. Honestly, she gave me a thread to hold onto when I first arrived in the blogosphere, and she has helped that  thread grow into a thick and calloused vine over time.

This is my THANK YOU to a VERY POWERFUL SURVIVOR in my recovery and ongoing survival process – MANDY of HEALING BEYOND SURVIVAL.

No Mandy, YOU are MY HERO....

No Mandy, YOU are MY HERO….

Postcards from Freedom – Smile Again Someday.

Smile Again.

Fuck It.

fuck it

Snuffed Out.

Easy Now

 

I sit here, chilled to the marrow of my bones, wondering if another innocent will die today.

In this war that rages against us, our powerful adversary has built armies of robotic, light-switch lovers who pose as the ones we commit ourselves to; who play the roles of the people we can trust and depend on – only to be remotely detonated from afar the instant we embrace them.

Will I lose another comrade today? Will I have to drag his battered, broken and lifeless body into the foxhole with me and try in vain to breathe his beautiful life back into him?

The war cries are slicing all around me as I watch, transfixed on his moments of truth; unable to turn away from my enveloping and morbid fears coming true before my eyes. Does he know he has removed his armor? Is he aware that he is a sitting duck, so vulnerable to the enemy only inches from his heart?

My body wracks with tremors of negative anticipation, my eyes pour tears of loss and pain down my muddy cheeks as I strain through the blur created by them; I am compelled to watch this macabre sacrifice that my comrade feels inclined to.

I silently pray to the Gods from my hole in the ground, pushing out all of the deafening sounds of warfare and death and destruction and despair:

May the Gods release my comrade from this gravitational pull he is caught in? I will do anything you ask of me, should you grant him safe return to our hole…he is special, he is rare, he is necessary to so many others in this battle. PLEASE CARRY HIM THROUGH TO THE LIGHT AND SAFETY.

My own spoken words startle me as I realize I have been hollering my prayer into the blackened skies overhead, at the top of my stinging lungs – in desperation. My comrade still stands too far from me, the distance between us – too great for my weapons to aid him at all. I am helpless in the hole we shared not long ago – helpless to force my comrade to survive through this epic battle of his…and I find myself tearfully asking the Gods:

  How could you snuff out such a beautiful light?
 I don’t want you to…

 

Riddles and Lies

Image

Blood: yours and mine

drowned-out war cries

dance through the air; above, around.

An intangible fabric of pain; tangling

binding my spirit to it’s sound.

Aware: acutely and perfectedly

senses burned back to life;

unexpectedly.

A brightness whiter than a wormhole’s eyes;

swallowing my body, licking up the slavery from my mind.

Envelopment: wrapped tightly;

in the chaotic static, nothing’s automatic;

handed to you, nice and politely.

Movement: an evolution beyond my own DNA

bet you’d choke on your tongue if you saw me this way;

maybe you will after all, someday…

make a choking sound that will resonate;

across the soil of the places you’ve spilled your hate.

I can keep going past the side-show now;

I’ll swim on by,

I’ll fly right on by;

no nets attached to my broken, battered wings;

old rusted hooks

removed from my nooks;

scars are so beautiful, compared to those things.

 

 

Horror Movies

“The difference between Terror and Horror is the difference between awful apprehension and sickening realization: between the smell of death and stumbling against a corpse.”

–          Devendra Varma, The Gothic Flame

 

People often ask me about my ex-husband – and then are horrified and wish that they hadn’t asked; and in all honesty I think about “Mr. Americano” quite often, too. Even now – almost fifteen years later, when I think about my ex-husband I must admit that I have the tendency also: to become horrified by my own recollections. I feel horrified by the realities that swim like invisible, but heavy sea-lions around my life. I can get overwhelmed with horror and shock when I recount my own history – many of the people embedded in my past, included.

Horror, so they say, is a safe place to look at ugliness from…a fortress existing in a time and place after the awful experience of one’s recollections.

Terror, they claim, is the anticipation and knowledge – of expectation of the horror to come, the dread and anxiety attached to fearful emotions prior to the awful memory. Terror is no longer allowed here, so that horse is dead and buried for me. I can honestly say that today, here and now, in the present moment – I could stand in front my ex with no weapon on my hip or big brother behind me – and regardless of the circumstances or outcome – terror would not have a place in my perspective of it. I have forgiven Mr. Americano for what he did to me, truly. He is a product of his own horror-filled environment, like the rest of us, and I pity him for being a monster. He doesn’t want to be, but he is. Sucks to be him…

So I run with that theory;

 …and I said, “fuck it”: Then I proceeded to let the horror out – however, wherever, whenever – I can.

Turns out, my best type of “therapy”, always came naturally and in its most raw and pure forms when I was mothering my child on my own, as a single parent to a Hellion with the face of an angel and the voice sounding like it originated from a helium tank. I was “yard duty” at her school; I was “classroom Mom”; I brought fuckloads of craft shit to her classroom every Mother’s Day and would spend weeks with the kids, making stuff for moms and stepmoms, grandmas and surrogates. On April fool’s Day when Boo was in elementary school still, I went into her class and instructed thirty-seven 9 year olds how to dump glitter and glue all over the carpet (the carpets were being torn out that evening and replaced, and the teacher was in on it with me) but damn, the kids all loved it and even now – once in a while, I’ll bump into one of my daughter’s grown up schoolmates –  they always tell me nice things they remember about me from back then. The horror here is definitely in retrospect, indeed from a safe place – years away from the memories of which I am describing – realizing that my own kid surely doesn’t have those nice things to say about me, certainly doesn’t even have the ability to recall such minor details of the childhood stolen away from her so long ago. Horror is definitely what I feel when I realize her losses; when I admit to myself: the role that I play in the movies on her mental reel; when I imagine how she must perceive me in stark contrast to who I am and always have been. Horror comes along with every fleeting thought, miniscule in its own right, of my deepest, most embittered fear:

That despite my stand against her father and the reconstructed existences for me and Boo in a safe place, the Horror that haunts Boo, in her case, confines her to an existence – most unsafe.

Regardless of how much I work at re-wiring my brain into that of a non-hostage’s, to remold myself into living within a freedom-based state-of-being and thinking; as strong as I may be when it comes to standing my ground atop the things that I believe are rightful and just – there is one element that I still can’t truthfully say that I’ve recovered from my ex-husband’s former lair inside of my head –Horror.