Downshift.

We had drawn up this road map so grand,

the highlighted route to the ending we planned,

the flutter of cards as they dropped out of hand,

the calling of Gods in dreams we understand;

poor odds follow close, wherever I am,

fleeting as granules of time-whitened sand

fickle and pickled in the spices at hand,

between promise and oneness,

that same ol’ ominous numbness,

parlor tricks performed in a deserted land;

peopled with embodied nothingness,

void of all the sugary fluffiness,

where you are is ever where I am,

when I’m asleep that’s how it stands,

I dig in the deep with my polished hands,

driven mad by a fiendish hologram;

dropped from the attached strings,

to your heart’s working guillotine,

you never came back for me,

left me miserably, deservedly

just as I am.

He Versus I.

Had I not already been neck-deep in the execution of self-sabotaging the thing between me and a particular (possibly) impossible person whom I have been trying to let “court” me, when he opted to get pissed off at me (for the very first time) and wrap yesterday up by dumping me, another Valentine’s Day might have become memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Luckily (and I say luckily with a heavy and exaggerated roll of my eyes), I was well into that familiar, contradictory and counter-productive pattern of “seek-build-destroy” when it all happened – so I wasn’t too heartbroken.

I expect such things anyway, Hell, I create them. I tried to tell this one from the start, too – how we seemed to represent like, Polar Opposites at the end of the day. We have very little in common besides work (yes, we work together) and physical attraction. He literally left me with my mouth hanging open when he asked me to go out with him because I had previously imagined him as a total yuppie that travels for fun (he’s very worldly) with season tickets to the Warriors or whatever. Like many men from “the clean side of the tracks”, he was intrigued by my roughened edges, I suppose.  When I told him that I thought we had nothing in common with each other, he said something like,

“Just let me surprise you on that score.”

A surprise that I am still waiting for…

 

He:

is too normal (he reads the newspaper and drives an SUV)…too well-maintained by scheduled workouts and personal tailors…too condescending without meaning to be…too hopeful and focused on The Big Picture.

I:

am so fucked up in the head that I can’t get close to anyone (the more I want to, the harder it gets to actually let happen)…too unbalanced and paranoid by a lack of human interaction…too defensive without meaning to be…too traumatized to exist outside of One Moment At A Time.

So What Do You Do?

What do you do when the knowledge finally seeps through?

Can you enjoy your freedom with the enslaved watching you?

What do you do when you have too many mountains to move?

Will you dirty your own hands trying to dig up the truth?

Can you worry about only the things that you pick and choose?

The trivial nuisance of something like gum on your shoe,

the convivial looseness of someone who means nothing to you;

What do you do when the call has rung loudly through?

Can you hurry out and scream about things you must do?

Will you fizzle out and fade away like so many before you?

What do I do when it’s time to reach out and grab onto,

The material rips, my fingers stick with pin pricks of VooDoo,

the unusual fits that linger and stick in the thick of the shit you do.

Not How It Was Meant To Be.

My mom’s cancer diagnosis has turned into my own waking fucking nightmare in every possible way. In the beginning, In the very beginning, I committed myself to going through her treatment regimen  with her, as a supportive and constant and compassionate presence for her to depend on. This was when she was living at home, before she got pneumonia, when she was still fairly physically mobile and very mentally capable. Since the ICU, everything about my mom’s situation has been altered abruptly and uncomfortably for me.
Suddenly, she can’t go home to her own house because it’s not safe for her to be there for various reasons respective to her ability to heal from chemo and now, pneumonia as well. This doesn’t even take into account, the C Dificil infection she is barely recovered from, either. Nor,  does it mention the 12 tanks of oxygen needed at all times now. I haven’t been able to sleep for going on two weeks already, and I feel like tonight  (the night my mom is released from her scary hospitalization) marks just the beginning of a fucking living hell. It has already begun. I am sitting in the kaiser parking lot fuming while the pharmacy fixes the nurse’s fuck-up on my mom’s meds so that we can finally get the fuck out of this horrendously miserable place. But its not as if that means anything to me, though, as its the aftermath of all this fucking bullshit that’s probably going to drive me to fucking kill myself, or die of a massive fucking coronary. The stress and pressure of so much misdirected responsibility is fucking immense, and I do not appreciate any of what’s happening at all. After this absolutely chaotic and miserable experience of becoming a full-time caregiver to a mother who is meaner now than she ever was, I will no longer be willing to be the compassionate person I wanted to be. I no longer want to bring my mom to all of her appointments and support her like I committed to, not when I’ve somehow been forced into becoming a fucking full time caretaker. This is fucking horseshit. I understand people cant prepare for things like cancer, but I am absolutely disgusted by the absolute lack of planning whatsoever for simply the event of a serious medical emergency or basic aging. As a result of her poor choice in a “mate”, her total lack of any kind of organizational skills, and her obsessive compulsive lifelong  hoarding, I have suddenly and completely been thrown into the very unwelcome role of being THE ONLY person to CONSTANTLY care for her like I am a personal fucking nurse. The worst part about all of this is that my mom is in full blown denial about everything. She is delusional. She is mean and shitty to me as I bend myself into a pretzel to not leave her on her own, as she will be without me. THIS is NOT how I want to remember her; I did NOT want to grow even more embittered and resentful towards her at the end of her fucking life. But guess what? It didn’t matter what I wanted when she was healthy; and it matters even less now. My stepfather literally disappeared, she cant find him and he has not seen her once since she got put into ICU. She suddenly wants to divorce him (though, understandably) but who do you think has to take care of all that paperwork and emailing, lawyering and mailing, etc? Mom sure can’t. My brother has been useless, as have any and all of my mother’s siblings save for one, who is only around at random and when her hair looks good or whatever; she does this so she can rub in my mom’s face how healthy she is. I don’t really like her, never have. And really, she hasn’t been here to help with my mom at all when I really think about it, she went ahead and had Xmas at her house (a 45 min drive from mine) and insisted we come, which was Hell. She says things like,

“You are so capable, you can do this, you don’t give yourself enough credit…”

She says these things to me from the other side of her champagne glass with her pinky finger stuck in the air, standing in her massive kitchen, built on a sprawling winery property that she owns. She says this to me as I am worrying nonstop about how I am going to pay rent this month, as I have not worked since my mama’s diagnosis, being so directly tied to her treatment and subsequent rapid decline.

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.

 

Incredibly.

How incredibly,

Transparently,

lacking in activity,

honest creativity,

how obviously,

attention hungry, 

for sympathy,

and comforting, 

the familiar retreat,

to the military,

all the online freaks,

come to the pity party,

that is, apparently, 

the brand new trendy,

recovery  thing,

held at your address daily,

carried out blindly and gaily,

with what you call sincerity,

such a dull redundancy,

the unpaid toll of mediocrity,

isnt at all earned honestly.

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.