My seemingly loving efforts appear to have been~
regardless of my good intentions.
That stupid fucking realization:
“The grass only grew when we left it alone.”
And I then-
Well, I looked at my hands;
each rubbing the other like it would somehow bring the other- comfort…
and I flashed upon a memory…
a memory of my father~
wringing his hands…
Because there’s nothing else you can do when “rainy days and Mondays always bring you down…”
I wished that it was all gaslighting-
I cannot deny my own part in the fire-
that fire that burnt everything.
Everything we loved-
Everything we planned-
All the things we planted-
I am the common denominator who just…
Just brought it to it’s knees and then to a-
To a bitter fucking end.
And everything I thought I knew
and everything I was meant to do-
Was smoldering… kindling~
Left to mildew:
Mildew like forgotten laundry in the wash~
The kind you forget because you think you’re happy;
you are busy;
you feel content.
Then and only then-
do you realize:
you left it;
left it TOO long~
in the rain… and also;
On the line-
and now it’s sour;
That smell can not be washed out.
All the things shed-
to make way for new beginnings:
replaced by ectothermic forces
reflection no longer representative
of the self recognized by Id-
mortal coil bound.
long life lived
for the chance to repair-
the choice to revisit-
the future of a soul
in need of trauma repair-
like mercury retrograde
making all communication
futile; yet needed.
spiral spiral spiral
who do we see when we look?
cracked and distorted
through a looking glass, darkly.
How did it happen-
the only one alone here;
Me. Again. Of course.
Walking the damn line-
Praying for spiritual strength
And fast Benedryl.
How I find myself here
Cutting my mother’s hair.
When I swore we’d never speak
Never give myself the chance
to destroy her…
Like I know I could.
Such a moment of grace
And a realization-
“I forgive her”
And for once,
It’s not about her.
Such an aberrant sentiment-
Unflinchingly given and reluctantly- accepted.
Growth is rarely a comfortable present;
at least not in the moment.
More of a gift to be appreciated when one grows older.
Cleverly disguised truth-
A Postmodern Jukebox manifestation of arrested development,
to be waded through both side by side
and often you taking point.
A partner and a challenge-
a teacher and a blessing.
An organized wish come through,
willed by his hands~
Surrounded by the ever present Spectre of death…
Mortality itself has haunted since the 11th year-
Family & friends dying like the Hemingways and Fondas having a competition…
Addictions and violence permeate a life… a society… a culture.
Supporting those you love,
Facing my own fears;
Tasked with aiding those in grief…
A lifetime of training?
They don’t tell you the right things to say…
Or even the wrong things to say.
“It will always come in waves… they just get further between…”
Weak tea for the knock kneed.
Birth to death and all between;
Beautiful acceptance to righteous anger-
Fuck this mortal coil.
What a compounding thought-
Reflecting on my daddy issues;
My insane need for a father figure…
What I needed was a foundation-
“The all father”
for all intents and purposes-
An education on faith-
Repentance AND reconciliation.
A basis for growth- a reason for service and understanding of trauma-
And finally- a present presence.
It’s not crazy-
To question all of your decisions-
While holding your knees and rocking…
At the bottom…
of a dark closet-
and experiencing déjà vu…
realizing the trauma root to your aesthetic preferences…
synthesizing information, emotions, perceptions, programming…
Understanding leads to despair and experience leads to scripted good guesses…
“Fear is the path to the dark side.”
Leaps of faith…
Crisis of confidence?
Hope being what’s left and hoping because there’s nothing left-
Love or fear, only two choices…
At the heart of it…
Bottom of a dark closet.
beneath the typhoon in my bedroom…
I’m always ok.
it’s not crazy- it’s human, right?
Temporarily tattooed words,
over my heart-
across my breasts.
Mirror opposites for your view,
Though the ink disappears,
all feelings remain.
Redundant shields failing-
and to the victor go the spoils.
Spoils of anger;
spoils of fear; and
spoils of doubt.
There’s no way to plan tactically-
when there is no consistency;
it is like trying to flank cats…
Knowing what we need
also…. communicating it?
Ah…. that’s the secret.
Feelings can be stifled-