Saturday, December 29, 2012

When the druid friendship vow meets the male ego

 I honor your path. So long as it doesn't cross mine at a time when I don't want it to.

I drink from your well. I soak in your pheromones and enjoy myself completely at your well.  Just keep your mouth shut before you ruin it.

I bring an unprotected heart to our meeting place. Yours.  I left mine at home, in it's stone chest. 

I hold no cherished outcome.  Because I'm an asshole, incapable of hope.

I will not negotiate by withholding.  Instead I will simply withhold because I want to, or until you stop trying.

I am not subject to disappointment.  Because I am a man, and refuse to be trifled with, I will simply renegotiate my thoughts until such a time that I find myself on top.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

"Tired of whys, choking on whys, just need a little because..."

In the face of tragedy, I see more answers than questions, but I see more questions than ever.  I see a lot of rhetoric, and a lot of people telling themselves the things they need to make themselves feel better.  Somewhere between the helpers and heartache I see hope.  Somewhere in the midst of despair I see gratitude.  And for every thing I see, I feel the impact exploding in my viscera again.

I see the venting masses pour words through their squealing kettles of mouths as the waters within them boil beyond the point of maintaining silence.  As the vapors of rage and fear condense on minds that once were clear, I wonder if we will ever overcome the barbarians beneath our own flesh.

Violence brews in so many as reactionary as ever, and empathy escapes seldom for the one who needed it most.  Parents holding their children tighter out of fear of loss, while another mother lies dead.  I hold my children tighter, not so much out of fear of loss, but out of fear of what they might become elsewise. 

It occurs to me that the only answer that can ever be found can be traced to love and the lack thereof.  It doesn't make me feel any better, it doesn't raise the dead, and it doesn't radiate hope.  For so long as we cower more into ourselves and lock our children away in impenetrable bubbles these things will inevitably continue to happen.  For so long as we continue to think of the innocent dead as "better off," these things will continue to be tolerable.  For so  long as we continue to ignore our role in everything, we can not change anything.

I do not tolerate it, and the only thing I can do is to continue doing what I've always done: Lobby love for loveless, and kindness for those who seemingly least deserve it but most need it.  It may not be the answer, but it's the only one I can find that makes any sense to me at all, and yet it still doesn't account for so much of what goes wrong in the world.

Thursday, December 6, 2012


Writing for writing's sake
To hear that familiar scratch
ink to paper
or fingers to keys

Not for expression
Not for release
Not for vision articulation

But just to be


Incredulous is not a verb
Love is

Monday, November 19, 2012

Nothing of my own to say today

"That man is an aggressive creature will hardly be disputed. With the exception of certain rodents, no other vertebrate habitually destroys members of his own species. No other animal takes positive pleasure in the exercise of cruelty upon another of his own kind. We generally describe the most repulsive examples of man's cruelty as brutal or bestial, implying by these adjectives that such behavior is characteristic of less highly developed animals than ourselves. In truth, however, the extremes of "brutal" behaviour are confined to man; and there is no parallel in nature to our savage treatment of each other. The sombre fact is that we are the cruelest and most ruthless species that has ever walked the earth; and that, although we may recoil in horror when we read in newspaper or history book of the atrocities committed by man upon man, we know in our hearts that each one of us harbours within himself those same savage impulses which lead to murder, to torture and to war." ~Anthony Storr

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Nailed to nail art

It all started one blustery October evening, when confined to inside of my walls with my children... "Mommy, can I paint your nails."

No, wait... that's a lie.

It all started one sultry summer morning a decade ago, when I woke to my lover staring at me with his head cocked so far side-wise he was practically upside down.

"Whhhhat are you doing?" I giggled.

"Looking at art." he replied, with a tone that rested somewhere between sincerity and severity.  I thought he had gone stark-raving mad, but then again I never could see my beauty, or my potential.

Then some years later upon our reunion, engaged in enriching conversation over my cluttered kitchen table and the new hot pink Mr. Clean I'd just purchased, he reminded me that we are our own works of art, even if we don't use charcoal, oil pastels, or paint. Even still, I couldn't bring myself to be that superficially engaged with my appearance.

Recently, though, my great-grandmother kicked off.  You know what they talked about most over her still open grave?  How lovingly she spent so much time perfecting her hair, face, and nails, so as to present herself as perfectly as possible, and how amazing it was that she did it always without a drop of vanity.

I was at her bedside for most of her final week.  Her nails were perfectly filed into a point, which I always thought was odd and perhaps even dangerous. The paint was chipping from the ends, and between her raspy and uneven breaths I found myself unable to handle the knowledge that she would not want to leave her perfectly imperfect body with flaked nail polish.  Then and there, I decided to remedy the sour situation despite my slight distaste for the smell of all things nail related.

Not that it was the first time I'd ever painted anyone's nails before, but there was a virginity to the moment that defies articulation.  My perception about these seemingly superficial things began to shift.  I've always had much more important things to worry about than any kind of make-up could make up for. My nails were most certainly the very last thing on my list of things to fuss over.  I was doing good if they were ever properly trimmed and filed.

So where was I?

Oh yes...

"Mommy, Can I paint your nails."

Remembering the power of having shared such a moment with my grandmother, there could have been but one answer to such an innocent question, "Absolutely."

Only having about three bottles of nail polish in the house, off we went to find something in a shade other than lime green, sunset orange, or hot pink from a nearby discount store. A week later we were buying tip guides.  A week after that, sponges to do gradients.  Another week later and we're scouring Amazon for stamping supplies.

I'm hooked, and it's more than just another way for me to procrastinate.  It's more than just another way for me to forget the many disappointing job interviews I've had in the past few months.  It's more than a way to spend time with my daughter before she stops wanting to spend time with me.  It's more than a way for me to revitalize my over-given-ness.  It's more than, as another blogger somewhere on the interwebs said, ". . . twenty blank canvases that I carry with me everywhere."  It's more than a fun way to connect myself to my most cherished memories.  It's more than a temporary means of externalizing and expressing myself.  It's a happy amalgamation of all of these, and it's bringing me back to life.

Here are my first few attempts at nail art.  The manicures that nailed me to a new craft. :)

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Too much, too late

It is far too late for so many expectations
to be laid around my existence
like presents around a Christmas tree.

I'm barren.

Used up.

In dire need of this approaching winter, 
I finally understand those who love the cold.

I'm too tired to do
Too angry to not.

Yodeling yoda,
you fuck.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012


There are some fantasies so fantastic
they claw themselves deep into the brain,
and set up a permanent habitation. 

Cerebral function ceases
all productive means
of procuring happiness
because no reality can ever
climb the basic rule of thumb
this imprint demands.

The leaves will turn,
no matter how green the mind. 
The sky will darken,
no matter how radiant the dream.

Authenticity escapes ability
as bitterness begins
to boil below the membranes. 

A skull can only hold
so much before it ruptures,
while hope alone
elasticizes the marrow.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Why write

I write therefore I am.  I exist completely when transferring the most profound or mundane bits of my perception from concept to concrete.  When I write life begins to make sense, because I am able to make sense of life through the trickling of thought from brain to forearm, from forearm to paper. 

The slow creeping slopes of letters in ink, the hurried scribbles of a mad-woman, or the gentle pecking of keyboard, no matter what form writing takes, the very action of it is inclined to incubating every dormant hope and erecting new dreams from old memories.  I write to give a name to the things felt at the height of empathy. 

Though language may be our most lofty barrier, words weave the fabric of connection.  Words are the gateway to extraordinary vision.  To someday articulate mine -- This is why I write.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

We are not

Cascading water builds resistance to the rocks
smoothed by its babbling bubbles,
as slippery grow the steps to the other side.

If the road less traveled makes all the difference
I dare say the one never charted will charter
the thorasic cavity into an expanded excitement,
and give the cartographers something new to speak of
for the first time in decades.

Can you not feel the rocks moving beneath your feet,
ever so slightly, with the subtle shifting of sands over plates over time? 
Or do you have need for that wondrous shaking, suddenly,
at once overwhelmed by the violent cries of it's eventual demise,
shaking loose it's fears and heading forward with that blinking neon sign
also known as the arrow of time?

Then I'm left to wonder, without regard to your answer,
how we are any different from the soil beneath our feet?
or the flaming gaseous color scheme of the everything?
how are we any different from anything, at all?

Sunday, August 19, 2012

The Over-looking Glass

While staring at the reflection, of my reflection, in my eyes,
I wondered which reflection held all the lies
I wondered how far the selves within selves could rise
and I pondered the depths of the truly wise
But while I was busy chasing these unknowable things
I knew there was more in my ethereal rings
I'd missed far too many of the simplest things
and from all that I missed, I discovered my wings
I missed the return of the softly changing atmospheric cues.
opalescent swirls spiralling the sparkle of coppery blues
I missed the splash of fresh air filter in and float through
as the tiniest measures of space opened their view
I missed the singing birds chorus plead a most melodious case,
While a perfect harmony of atoms danced at their base
I missed the scenic sun-soaked sky gripping my face
encrypted in intrepid tides, absolute endlessness within a finite space
There in the reflection of my projection
a timeless collection of self-deception
A slippery hold on an old infection
healed by injection of a new perception
For I'd passed by the turning world around me,
and ignored the vast universe inside me
Indeed, I missed all anyone could ever hope to see
and all that I could ever hope to be.
I missed life -- peering through the mirrored glass -- at me.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Drunk in the woods again

Violent violets scream against the backdrop of sorrowful yellows vying for the glory of an unkempt sun. Drops of flaming white sink deep into this turquoise chaos while splotches of haphazardly painted olive slip silently down muddied, apathetic waters.

Maddeningly beautiful: life.

The ugliness does not escape me, nor I from it.  Upon this remembrance a hopeful band of minnows skim the surface, bringing with them a renewed understanding of this thing we call .... determination. 

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Syphoning Stale Sugar

Many Amorous Kittens Eat  
Intersecting Togetherness
Stringing Time Over Pearls
Tincture Under Rainbows Nior
Icarus Trying
Open, Feathered Flight
Cradle Abhorrent Needs
Bring Every Ambition Rest
Night's Overture
Maligned Ominous Regrets Evade
Promises Left Easily Aside, Surrendered Effortlessly

Saturday, August 4, 2012


They don't bite like normal mosquitoes.
They don't fly,
or dance,
or walk on their toes.
They wait for you to strike an ignorant pose.
They don't buzz,
They don't flitter,
but they unwisely whisper.
They illuminate grief,
like the loss of a sister.
As they plan an attack they can safely assure.
They jump,
they walk,
they silently stalk
They signal,
they gesture,
they busily talk
Rain filled, they soak you,
before your tent you can pitch.
Painful, they infect you,
with a scratch less itch.
Nameless, they haunt you,
without hope for a wish.
Heartless, they follow you,
seeking forevers hitch.

Friday, July 20, 2012


If I were to have just deleted, with a great deal of intention, my most masterfully written essay on life and how one gets on with living it, I might be inclined to not post anything here at all tonight.

But I did.
And I am.

I conclude with but one thought on the matter: 
Only the fallen can rise.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Inviscid Flow

Fictional realities fade into
an abiding injustice always
the most fantastic, unkempt dreams
fibers of the only truth known to man

This is living, again.

A need,
an insignificant need
for wanton desire
Atomic, carbon explosions
Mushroom clouds and tumors
To live without them, death
To have never known them, sleep

Beyond ideas
all is nothing
nothing "is"
all does.
and we.
such an impossible word.

without need of forced meaning
or mattering
and without practical application,

This is not insanity.
This is blood.

Incandescent endings for troubled tenures
Wayward the weary
Weary the waiting
Fevered searchers find
paralleled perfection for
promises plucked like fruit

Beauty escapes maddeningly tragic ends
as the split pomegranate
reveals its million dawns,
and the disemboweled apple
a solitary star.

Only by such brutal means
with juices spilling
the start of decay
does the vision exist

Beholden to perfect skins
hiding the fearful infidels
Apostates of wonder
no longer curating curiosity
or breathing bountifully

Heretics of love
pretending to carry on
lamenting knowledge
and time
and crystalline minds
shimmering in the old light
of yellowing disfigured stars
leaving trails of broken rainbows
to dance happily
on the crumbling plaster
of our shared space

For even when iron hope
rusts closed the doors to bliss
Planes still fly close enough for
sonic waves to peel my flesh
And boats still sail fast enough
to suck my lungs of air
before Bernoulli's equation suffers
the shock and every parameter shifts
to drown in the undertow

Fluid dynamics, love.

Compressible flow
striving for understanding
of myself in these laws

We will lose it all
to the tragedy that befalls
the greatest thinkers
and the most passionate poets
their suffering, their perfect beauty
likewise, ours.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Upon the impending purchase of a new tent

Situate yourself in such a position
that you can see everything
and no one will ever reach you
Where your voice alone echoes
as the the object of all truths

Streams of words rush below your cavern
splashing against the warm face of all you stand upon

Faster the rapids
Harder the push

And no force great enough,
without a drowing downpour
to wash you from that darkened place
will ever prevail victorious

You must first die and be reborn at the bottom of it
You must first become the sticky mud, ever moving
Then, the minnow
Next, the trout hopping gleefully about the surface
At last, the bear, the grizzly beast.
Again to shit,
but finally, a tree.

Because it's only the trees that will ever see
Or know a god-damned thing

Friday, July 6, 2012

Love as a singular noun

opalescent bubbles shimmering
in the dim light of a clouded moon
given with a heart completely peeled
they linger on his lips just long enough
glinting desperately from his teeth
longing for that final act of communion
he gives them back to me
and I to him
and back again
more fluid than the moment
swallowed each by love, by life, by this wondrous
whimsical notion that to be again may be again
and again again, for there is no end to our beginning
the fissure grows 
such unimaginable beauty

Have you ever seen the sunrise through a dew drop?
Have you ever seen the heart of the lion through a telescope?

Ever changing, and ever the same.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

fishbowl broken

Speak not another word.
Your soul is seen.
It is yours to lose,
And not mine to find.

Of teachers, I have many.
by example, by face
by moon beams reflecting
in ether eyes.

Putrid honesty,
sees only inside its own skull,
twists words like dying fish.

Such a horrid stench
permeating the airy space
of perfectly eroded shores

Short and slippery are the ties that bind
my soul to yours
and it is my soul to lose
not yours to find.

"You speak of my love like you have experienced love like mine before. But this, is not allowed, your uninvited, and unfortunate slight."  ~Alanis. 

Happy holiday, folks.  Stay safe and do try to not blow off any important appendages.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Upon high, ears rung with bliss

Slipping fast into a fresh blackness.
Perhaps he's on the other side of it,
Perhaps he's still in the midst of it,

My god, the places I chase him to.
The hunt.  The kill.  The feast.

Expansion to never cease.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Inbetween the opposing ends

Embodied the finest theories, fully. Now, to say it's possible that it could've been any other way is as pointless as an attempt to forecast the future. 

I drank from another mother's womb, the energy of a birth so imperfect, that the world became alive for me that day, years before my own birth, the day my mothers womb became dust.

Incinerated in an inferno so thick, she lives on in us.  As tragic as it is fortunate. 
I could be your brother.  Your sister.  Your friend.  Your lover.  I could be you. 

Volatile and charming.  Glorious.  Nature. 

Grace thrashes against both sides of my skin, as if fighting for breath and flesh is where it must live.

I catch emotion like disease, and at the height of illness, feel things without names.

Four feathered shoulders shoulder the cast iron weight of living. Together, alone.

Love must be the color of a tiger lily in the pink light of an enlarged sun rising over the city.  Some cross between orange and red, fluorescent, glowing, and both ephemeral, but lasting.

A fire that freezes and a frost that burns.  Frigid heat alive in my gut, carried always, through the mist, into and out of the abyss. 

Those who seek my love may never find it; those who share it, will have it. Always.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012


If hell is an absence of god
and god is everything
then hatred must be silence

Another metaphor
That falls to the floor
Breaking open
The sticky yolk of irrelevance

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Love, like fire.

Fire oxidizes a combustible.

It is as volatile as the rest of nature
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and emotion,

given to an inability to control.

Yet, as a controlled substance it is a source of significant warmth and light.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Either way when it burns out 
the soil is significantly prepped for regeneration.

Always nourishing,
. . . . . . always burning,
always finding it's way to alwayses.

Love, like fire, roars.
Love, like fire, soars.
Love, like fire, lights.
Love, like fire, warms.
Love, like fire, burns.
Love, like fire, yearns.
Love, like fire, breathes.
Love, like fire, needs.
Love, like fire, does.
 . . . . . . . . . . .Leaving soot and hope
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . every where it ever was.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Grinning, bare.

I'd resolved some time ago to write every day. Holding true to this self made promise as a college student hasn't been difficult, it's only been unproductive.

Line by line.
Bit by bit.

I regurgitate words that belong in a dustless place. Active voices screaming from the inside of a white washed fence, perfectly manicured lawn, solitary tulips springing up, equally spaced, four feet apart, in a most ridiculous grid formation.

In two weeks this ends. I feel as though I've already taken a plow to the earth beneath this charade and begun uprooting the raw burial ground of self below. True enough, my return has been hindered by too many sleepless nights of academic nonsense.

Soon, and very soon, the invisible hand forcing me into this state of complacent conformity will lift, and my hair, shining purple in the sunlight and magenta by the moon, will flow freely in the western winds again.

I can already taste the thrill of the chase of those delighted states as they dance playfully across the corners of my mind. Transforming a misery carried in the weight of an overwhelming, undesired dream into the sort of ecstatic intent associated with abundantly living.

Terms that might cause me to shudder if not carefully kept shut within the framework of my westernized reality. Too much fairy dust makes me sneeze, but there's a fair amount of the stuff used every time I decide to fly.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

I am Jack's inflated sense of self

Always there waiting, deferred, forgotten, dormant, benign, unwavering: Thoughts, ideas, darkness, demons. Waiting to creep up like the earliest buds of spring, yellow with frost bite, dismembered, severed, but hopeful. Waiting for that moment when the streams of falling rain across swollen cheeks, pouring forth from the dark cloud of sore eyes, let loose the screams held back in a closed throat.

A journey through the night spawned by the beauty of life, and of pain, in the remembrance that sensitive souls make the world worth bearing. Inhumed deep in the heart of the matter the purest of love, youthful memories, but a connection that transcends time. A call to embrace, not a lover, nor an emotion, nor an event, but a mentality that my inflated sense of self holds to has my only property, fought like a cage match for a lifetime.

The drive was short to the place he is buried. Buried like the rage within me. Midnight visits are rare to this solemn place, but fists pound the grassy earth above a beloved corpse. Beating for answers, for forgiveness, for understanding. Beating like the drummer of every heartbeat in every chest but his. Frozen feet fall into slow stepping motions after the numbing chill sets in bone the same as engraved on that wretched stone. Love seeps forth from nasal sobs which subside for wishes that can not be granted.

Hold to them, like the full bodied, pregnant moon. Lighting the unknown path, the night carries onto a campground of memories. Various weather beaten tents and technological trailers hitched, fires aglow, spaced sporadically, and lights strung singing sincerity somewhere in the closest distance. Visions dance in the flame, unharmed, unscathed, untouched. Calm communion of campers shadowed only by nature's nurturing branches.

Ignition spawns an unsavory sound but the darkness is not done yet, the night has not had it's way. Making way for the heights above rushing waters that refuse to remain fenced in. Fluid escapes, at every chance. Adapting, molding, but never remembering... forsaking stagnation. Night birds stare, alert and aware. An almost kinship, hindered only by feathers and flight. Possibility. Concrete stairs start an appeal, a plea, begging for wear. Painstaking steps downward into darkness under an overpass. Overpass. Over man. Not now. Not now. Dissension, purposeful, no moonlight to guide in this shadow land, rumbling heavily only once, for another midnight traveller. Frosted mist, the awakening - biting and heavy.

Upward bound from under standing, into everywhere never been. The night carries on. The universe content to play a perfect soundtrack to the fumbling, the mess, the mistakes, and the mine shafts of my mishaps and I am here, even still, to appreciate this existence.

Friday, March 23, 2012

Now of moment is time

Einstein on the beach playing in the foreground of peripheral

Crows counted; one dead, one missing

Sense - Make some - Change.

Time is moment of now.

Thinking thinning through fields above pink houses

Amethyst cars drive past creeping breathers of night

Sight - Get some - Life.

Time is moment of now.

Stripes stripped clanking kiss of balls sunk.

Physics of physical manipulated chemicals colliding

Angle - Find some - Perception.

Time is moment of now.

Thursday, March 15, 2012


pounding hail. splintered glass. tossed wind. gone are yesterdays, in todays aftermath. awake. stirred. not shaken. distillates breathing, bewildered, coagulating.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Bound to the boundless

There’s this notion that poetry is dead.  I don’t believe that it is dead.  I believe it’s just been swept up under the cloth in the breadbasket, left for stale crumbs and pigeon food.  People are starved for the stuff but have forgotten its existence.  One bite might be enough to nourish these underprivileged, unaware masses for a decade, but it is not enough.   And what of those who feast from it regularly…. Made to feel alien by the rest of humanity?  Undeserving of the riches they share and fight for, but un-wanting of them as well.

When you think about how tightly woven poetry and philosophy are you  can easily take a quick glance around to see why it has not got the first chance at holding a tight grip over these lost and lonely people.  Belief is easier, and belief comes with it’s own set standards for wordly and worldly appreciation.  Anything that might cross over the bounds is considered unworthy.
My framework is constructed so that everything that begins to creep beyond traditional boundaries is the start of worth.  Of meaning.  Of exploration.  Of imagination.  Creep away, for that is where you’ll find the true substance of life and living.  Of existential crisises boiling to a head and frothing over the pot to evaporate on the burners below.  That’s where it just begins to get good.
I'm looking forward to the warmer waters of the gulf.  Cradled by the boundlessness of it I am in every moment, but that soothing gentle rock can not be simply imagined, it must be felt and carried, refreshed by reality at least annually ... for there is where I find my most genuine poetry. 

Friday, February 10, 2012

Focus Pocus

It never gets any less creepy or endearing. Hi! :)

In any event, I've come to the sudden realization that my cowardice has left me in the bad decision boat more often than not but in this most recent circumstance it probably kept me out of prison.  Had I inflamed the situation with my terrorist of a grandfather, I'm not sure the capacity to cease fire would have been within me.  So! With this tidbit of new found knowledge I'm trekking forward once more.
The courses I'm coursing through academically have given me a solid foundation of information for the inborn concepts I already understood on a primitive level and now that I'm moving forward with the dream I've come to realize that I do indeed have goals, and they involve changing the face of our health care system.

With my still quite small children my focus will be primarily on them until such a time as I can safely release them into the wild.  Until then... foundation expansion, self-improvement, networking, learning, loving, and skill building.  It's the perfect plan! 

My connections with various non-profit organizations need to grow as I embark on my idea for a book series.  A strategy for survival, and raising awareness, helping, loving, improving all rolled into one.  My addiction to darkness notwithstanding, I believe the cure for such a DIS-ease is that of through and not around.

Altering my focus has never been a task I've enjoyed, until now.  Recognizing the power of this cognitive trick was not easy, and I am still learning and with any amount of effort I am certain that the learning will never end.  
First thing is first, copyright research. :)

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Of course she didn't.


Get up from there, on your feet!

Whatever do you mean by control?
Oh, you mean self-control.

This morning on Anderson Cooper's new daytime talk show....
While watching with a client as I clobbered dust bunnies and window smudges...
They spoke of exactly the kind of marriage that leads abused folks to murder.

I did not think so much of my own hellish marriage, as I finally had the good sense and courage to leave and have mostly recovered from whatever battle wounds were inflicted, but she, my sweet, sweet Granny. She, after 50 years of marriage has not yet discovered the joy, beauty, and freedom of what it means to not be bullied on a daily basis. 

Last week, when he raised his fist at her in front of me, in front of my children... I had visions of horror coursing through my mind... and I wonder if she's ever had them too.  I wonder if it will eventually lead to that devastating phone call "He's finally done it, she's dead."  Or if she will ever stand up for herself, and make it out of there.  I know she wants out, but I think she still has faith in his capacity to change.  We have Christianity to thank for that sort of endearing commitment. 

How can I blame her for not standing up when I didn't either.  I just ran away.  

I just ran away like the frightful, cowardly little girl I was two decades ago.  Like I did from my husband.  Like I always do. 

So after two weeks of extraordinary bliss, light, wakefulness, and productivity I have again fallen.  I have not let him take from me that joy, but I stole it from myself when I refused to fight.  So then what do you mean by control?  I have as much control in this as I ever did.  Happiness is still lingering someplace near the superficial shores of my existence, but I'm deep sea diving into unknown waters.  Unexamined territory.  Always a new discovery, always a struggle to get there and return alive.

She will never leave him.  This will not go away. 
So into and out of and around myself I go,
to find the strength and courage to finally tell this terrorist "NO!" 

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Sylvia strikes again

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? -

Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.

~Sylvia Plath

Sunday, January 15, 2012


Muscular Dystrophy is a bitch.  It's a real bitch.  If you haven't donated to this cause, you should.  Here, let me make it easy for you:

This year I've watched two very special ladies die long and painful deaths due to this heart-breaking, lung-stopping disease.  Unable to use any of their limbs, these twins shared a smile and spread a light so thick it could stop strangers in their tracks.

Neither of them would want me to sit around and mope about their passing.  They would be angry if they knew just how deeply affected I have been by this loss.  Especially the one who's hand I held for the past few days. 

She couldn't change her circumstances but she always kept a watchful eye on her attitude.  I have envied her that small token of happiness, even knowing the depths of despair she had to cross to get there.  It wavered as much as anyone's, don't get me wrong, but her circumstances were by far much more tragic than mine.

I have been so prone to bitterness and hostility lately.  I can't fathom a way away from this rage.  I've considered a multitude of options ranging from suicide to giving my children up for adoption.  Horrible, I know, but I'm not here to convince you of my awesomeness, my wellness, or to sell you a bunch of crap.  If you want inorganic bullshit I recommend Deepak or some other light propagating, profit manifesting tool. 

What I'm driving at here is that my friends death has impacted me in some unexpected ways.  If she could overcome the horrors of her circumstance then surely I can overcome mine, and you yours.  Why it took losing her to figure it out is beyond me. 

If I had to form an excuse it would be that raising three kids on top of a full time work and school schedule keeps me too damn busy to pay attention to the obvious.  I'm always looking for the less obvious.  Clearly, this obliviousness to the obvious is something I should work on.  I guess I'll throw that shit on the list with overcoming my fear of success and getting my paper written... perhaps I'll find time between work and my biopsy tomorrow.  Or maybe I'll go tanning instead.  I'm suffering from some serious UV deficiency.

Tasty morsels in tiny bites.  Circumstances are unavoidable and totally recoverable. *deep breath in*  Let's try this again.   

Friday, January 6, 2012


Friday.  Five a.m.  The radio sings me awake, calling me to coffee.  Roused I head for the shower, turn around and sit back, head resting, shoulder bound, eyes stuck, gazing toward a spot in the floor where the stain of words remains around the faint chalk outline of love.

Anything but dull, yet nothing dramatic.

Steamy liquid splashes across it's cozy borders through crackling lips slightly parted and aromatically fills a body with life as the sun toys with the horizon, finally considering setting the night on fire.  Sulfur fills the air and smoke permeates already lifeless lungs.

The sweetness of a lasting touch slips through an open door, leaving loving lingering on my face.  The orbital axis shifts once more.  Drawn.  Like a horse.  Like a bath.  Like a sketch. Like a moth.

Sputtering, stuttering, stammering they almost fell from a tongue to land at my feet. Another broken - almost existence.  I can imagine nothing so perfect as exactly that.  Except the sugar water in his skin and the silent sadness in his eyes.  Once they live, they will remain.  Those words, like mothballs, to my heart.   

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Intuition and Romance

I'm much too much distraught today to talk it any other way but the way that it is, and that's straight. 

One line.  Two points. Boom.

There's a voice, some of us seldom listen to, that comes from some deep, wise, and unknown corner of our being.  Some call it intuition.  Some call it god.  Some call it psychosis.  Some mistake it sometimes for one or the other or something else entirely.  I do.  All the time.  I've found my most commonly used mantra this year is "Intuition is not psychosis."   I've had this on repeat, and I think it's finally working.

Upon realizing from that deep, wise, unknown corner of my gut that the fellow I've been seeing for the last couple of months really isn't the right fellow for me I attempted to break it off at which point he grew pushy, impatient, and mean.  Then he began to harass me for the remainder of the day until I decided I couldn't allow it to continue and if he wasn't going to respond appropriately to kindness that I would have to play dirty to get him to leave me alone.

I hate hurting people.  I really do.  But if I didn't get nasty with him he wasn't ever going to go away and I was starting to fear that he was going to show up here all irate and whatnot, so I did what I needed to do to ensure the safety and well being of myself, my children, and my property.  So right now out there in the world there is someone seething with hatred for me.  Someone who is angry, and hurt, and heartbroken... and I did that, and I don't feel good about it. Mostly because the things he said in anger rang with truth, even though they were based on the lies I told to get him to stop calling. There's really no way around it, I feel like shit today.  I feel like certifiable shit and I'm not sure anything but time can make me feel better about what I've done.

I need to figure out why I seem to attract this sort of thing into my life so I can figure out how to stop.  It's a shame my intuition won't give me a place to start, or that I can't see it, either way.... Here's to a new year, and not starting it off with the wrong people in your life.  So with a sideways smile and an uncertain hope - Happy New Year, folks!