He said; He said.

The water of brain
in the pool of her skull
and the endless reverberations of ripples
Ad infinitum
Of a voice she never actually heard
And ever since she put pills as plugs in the drains of her eyes
There’s still two ways in and one way out
But trapped by the tongue
So no way out,
really

“I see no architecture here”

They said that to him too
A variant
(Why the constant connections)

“I see nothing here”

She thought he was dead
And he may be
For the emotions surely are
She killed them
Gagged them
Anything to forget them
Because they were
A constant confusion
Though it was simple,
really

“I see something here”

He seemed to say,
And she had been waiting,
waiting for so long
To be seen.
Not the facade fabricated,
the person of performance,
The Seen Self

No

a gentle thread to a
fragile whisper
of a being
so long protected
it was mistaken for myth

However

Seeming is dangerous,
For to seem is not to be,
And she’s always been
too trusting,
And she’s always been
too hopeful,
Blinded by her belief
in her own doubt and cynicism
and their perfidious proffer of protection
against the hurt of hope
unfulfilled.

Now left with simultaneous aches
from the words said and silent:
An ache to return and remember
and an ache to flee and forget,
She sits
wondering if she would have done anything different
had she known.

 

He said; He said.

Side Effects

The Cure for Curiosity
of the whys of the world is the
disease of distraction
bound by the blindfold of busyness;
and
The Cure for Curiosity
of the whys of the world is
healed by a hope in holiness,
the affliction of arrogance,
bound by the books of beliefs,
and crippled by caring;
and
The Cure for Curiosity
of the whys of the world is the
dispassionate data disorder (DDD),
the sickness of scientific certainty,
and the obsession of the observable;
and
please
don’t perceive these as Placebo,
or the illness as imaginary;
don’t desire the death of difference.
Just be aware
of the odor of obstinance,
the constipation of conversation,
and the
Elixir of Empathy.

Side Effects

/cr\ack/s

(undated journal entry from some time between August and October 2016)

The water of the shower drenches her in sudden insight. The realization of the reason for the sudden and intense need to leave the room trickles through her hair and down her back. The idea percolates through to a place of understanding somewhere deep inside of her – a place the influence of past and unconscious is unearthed beneath the surface of conscious present. This place where the paper is filled with imprints and smudges, the floor covered it eraser shavings and splatters of white out – the remnants of constant battling.

The clay she forms remembers the places it has been touched, mended, and punctured.  Though it does so silently, only revealing these memories later, when tried by fire. Only then do the cracks appear, shedding light on the previously unseen mistakes/damage/mishandling.

She realizes in this moment that she is this clay, cracking in the kiln of marriage. And just now in the kitchen he was not her husband, but her father. And the fear that left her child self hiding in her bedroom some evenings, brought about by his anger, was suddenly cracking her surface.

/cr\ack/s

On Using & Being Used

The feeling of being taken advantage of is one of my biggest triggers

Feeling used and naïve

Whether it is by a friend, a company, a professor

It reminds me of how little control I actually have

Everyone has mixed intentions, I know that

And maybe it is the reminder that I, too, have mixed intentions that bothers me so much

But it almost always comes back to that question I asked my parents all those years ago

That question I have continued to ask again and again over the years:

Are we all just God’s puppets?

Am I just a pawn?

If companies can just change how things run

“I am sorry, but those are the new rules.”

The government can just adjust the hoops that have to be jumped through

“That’s just how it is.”

What power do I really have to fight?

What can I really change or control?

Because controlling my reactions to things hasn’t really seemed to help

Controlling and containing the anger and frustration and helplessness isn’t doing much

Besides making me want to tear down ‘the system’

Break down ‘the rules’

Confront the people hiding behind ‘corporate policy’ and “there is nothing I can do”

And it’s not just those situations…

Because when I really stop to think about it those employees may feel just like I do

Helpless and powerless

Unable to respond any differently because of The Man and The Rules

They’re just doing their jobs

But what about when it is the manipulation of just one person

One boy who just wants you to “come over and go swimming”

With all sorts of ulterior desires and motives hiding under his bathing suit

What about when it is one professor who “really wants you to succeed”

With dreams of tenure and awards floating around in his brain

When it is the one girl who “would love to catch up”

But really just needs money for an upcoming mission trip

 

Am I just a cynic? Seeing through all the motives

Am I being selfish? Using this as an excuse to avoid what I don’t want to do

Am I being hypocritical? Because of course I am no different

Surely I, consciously and subconsciously,

Intentionally and unintentionally,

Jumble my motives

Contaminate my acts of love and friendship

With selfishness and greed

 

So what?

What now?

 

 

 

On Using & Being Used

The Walrus in the Room

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–”

Of who will win tomorrow’s vote
And what the future brings.

And I, for one, am tired of
The choice of evil less
And Neither do I wish to win
For both would be a mess.

And so instead I vote to change
This system from the past,
For these two parties failing us
To come an end at last.

For if they get just five percent
Another could arise
To change the nation’s standards
Right before our eyes

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none–
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.

The Walrus in the Room

Inescapable

Stop.
Please stop.

Their gunshots
like the drops
on her forehead,
Cold and penetrating.
She shut her eyes
and her mind
between each:
bracing herself for the next,
steeling herself.

She had, for a long time, liked to think that her mind was indestructible
But slowly, slowly
she was learning otherwise

She turned the knob, just slightly, so the faucet would slowly and consistently drip fat, cold drops. She stepped over the edge and laid on the bottom of the tub so that her small body would be aligned to let the drops fall precisely on the imagined x in the center of her forehead
drip
As the heat was drawn from her body and her bones became self aware, her eyes no longer saw the bathroom and her ears no longer heard the silence.
drip
She was elsewhere,
this child,
fascinated by torture
And slowly, slowly
she found that a mind,
like steel,
will corrode
given enough water
and time

drip.

And now
their gunshots and you
surfacing in the ocean of silence
A jolt
in a dream
bringing back all the memories and realities
Like an earthquake splitting the surface
simply to remind the world
of its layered existence
sewn together.

Inescapable

Beneath the Insomnia

_20160923_184552.JPGShe paints the same canvas
Again and Again
In her dreams
while they sleep
and it sleeps.
Because otherwise
they never stay still
long enough
to dry
Her tear
drops of paint
That leave trails
of subtle color
behind them
And behind them
previous paintings
also made without brushes
That always end up
painted over
the next morning
to hide the evidence

And the canvas of it all
Is her face
and her fears
For at the core of each night
when stripped down
She will always find that stark white woven surface
of fears and insecurities
whose texture shows through each layer
And whispers to her
between brushstrokes
Reminding her that
There is no escape
For gravity cannot be bribed
And the running never stops because he’s holding death in his hands, at her head, and as the neurons fire she finds they sound remarkably like gunshots and all she seeks is safety and sleep
But she can never find foundness
Awake or asleep
So as she tries to decide which one is less terrifying,
She paints.

And
at the core of each night
mare each poem each painting,
Remains a reminder of running,
is running.

Beneath the Insomnia