Saturday, March 15, 2014

purple prose at its worst

the southern Baptist trinity cries for my father, my son, and my unholy spirit as my body vibrates with elation.  erase “should” from my vocabulary, and with what am i left?  myself.  the trinity of me, myself, and i because i am my own damn god, and no one can tell me otherwise.  my toes tingle with ecstasy, and my head pounds with sobriety. 

because i’d rather breathe in anything but the insipid oxygen this world has to offer.  and martin luther really is an angel.  nothing feels better than gasping for air when you’ve just stood up too fast and you have to sit back down.  nothing teaches you to listen to your body like pumping it full of poison, and nothing teaches you to ignore it like never depriving it of a thing.  because it may take guts and curiosity to get this high, but it takes dedication and creativity to stay up here.  and fuck everyone who says i can’t.  my house is my heaven, and my couch is my throne.  i am the queen of my own world, and no one can take that away from me.  not even death, of which i am not afraid.  if what makes me different makes me dangerous, i am a walking time bomb.

if my body is the piano and my skin is the keys, i only feel good when you are playing me because my organs are the best acoustics this world has ever seen, and no one’s been trained to play the percussion that is me quite like you.  i nap like my father with my hands in my lap and my feet on the coffee table, but i never wanted to wake up because you were the dream and i think best in a state of weakness.  but everything has to go back to normal someday, and it is always too good to be true, which is why i always choose fiction.  ignorance is not bliss; fiction is.  the back of my eyelids have always been more interesting than anything else i’ve ever seen.  maybe that’s why i sleep so much.  when all else fails, suffocation is my drug of choice.  maybe that’s why suicide has so much sex appeal.  i lick my lips more than a dog because i’m hungrier than what sobriety has to offer, and the come down is where my best writing appears.

i was born disappointed with life.  that is why i’d always prefer to be high.  things are more beautiful when i can’t see how boring reality really is.

“i’m watching myself like an old movie on color tv.”

i’m addicted to the come down because returning to reality is so much more interesting than never leaving it.  reality is so much more tolerable when you get to take a break from it, and sobriety is so much less boring when it isn’t permanent.  i never asked to be high forever.  i just asked for a break from time to time.  don’t you ever just want a break from you?  or am i the only one?  is this what insanity looks like?  or is this just raw honesty at its finest?  or at its worst?

most people cry for their mom in their weakest moments.  he cried for his daughter, and if that’s not a father, i don’t know what is.  there’s a graveyard in my head where a field of red poppies used to lie.  do you know how it feels to sit still while your body races?  do you know how it feels to hug yourself from the inside out?

if i can’t be high with you, then i don’t want to be sober with anyone.

i wish my tears were poison so i could finally kill myself with sadness.  i think i’m too far from the ocean.  sometimes i wish i had friends just so i could tell them i’m too tired to hang out, but in reality, no one cares and those words just dissipate into thin air.  i spend my days waiting until it’s time to get back in bed.  the sun shines for too many hours in the day.  i can’t pretend to be happy that long, and no matter how high i get, you still won’t be there when i return.  and too many sunny day in a row is just as bad as an eternity of clouds.  if i had it my way, i’d die from the outside in, and the sun would never shine more than a few hours a day so we’d never grow tired of it because nothing says “i give up” quite like getting in bed while the sun still shines.

there’s no love like true empathy.  i can spend my days validating myself, but i just wish i could fall asleep to your voice.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Self-published for Grey

In honor of the one year marker of Charlie's death, I have compiled my National Poetry Writing Month poems into a collection for anyone to purchase!  The copies are $8 a piece, and I will donate every penny I receive to Charlie's daughter.  Check it out and order your copy here!

Sunday, January 19, 2014

"Story People" Annotated

my version of a love poem used to reconceptualize my relationship with someone who is no longer in the flesh...the italics are from an except from Story People.

I carry you with me into the world,

I carry you with me into the world, and you carry me with you through the world.

into the smell of rain

I can always smell you in the petrichor because Portland rains endlessly, and you cannot visit Portland without developing an appreciation for the smell of it’s luscious, wet earth.
 
and the words that dance between people,

I carry you with me into the love that dances between people.

and for me, it will always be this way,

And for me, it will always be this way.

walking in the light,

But are you the light in which I am to walk?  Is that the reconceptualization of our relationship—you are now the light in which I walk.  I think I can learn to understand and cherish that.

remembering being alive together.

To remember being alive together means ripping off the emotional scabs of your memories so many times that your skin never gets the chance to heal into a gnarly scar.  But I don’t want you to be faint scar on my heart, so I will gladly tear that scab off every chance I get if it means remembering you

Saturday, December 28, 2013

what do you want?


i've moved on from this but i wrote this not too long ago when i was struggling with deciphering what it even meant to have desires after tragedy:


do you remember what we wanted?  i don’t, but i know we had it.  we never even had to articulate it.  i don’t think i ever put it into words, but we had it.  we had it all.  without ever having to ask for it.  that was the key, because desire doesn’t fit into the confines of language.  when i had no idea what i wanted or how to go about getting it, you showed up and gave me everything i never knew how to ask for.  that’s why i get so frustrated when people try to tell me the only reason my life is not how i want it to be is because i don’t focus enough energy on manifesting my own reality.  fuck you.  if my reality is all in my head, why does it suck so bad?  don’t you think if i had any fucking control over this piece of shit reality i would have exercised that control and made some goddamn changes already?  if i really only exist in my own mind, why can’t i think myself into nonexistence?  why is my masochistic mind so set on creating some sort of hell on earth?  if i really only exist in my own mind, and my mind has obviously collapsed, how am i still here?  it’s all bullshit.  everything.  everything i believed.  everything i thought.  everything i knew.  everything i loved.  and the fact is, if my mind were really powerful enough to create an entire reality, it would be powerful enough to destroy it too, and if that were the case, there’s no way in hell i’d still be walking this wretched earth.  if i had the power to create my own reality, i’d be living in it with him right now.  don’t you see that?  don’t you see that there are things that rest outside of our control?  our minds are limited.  we cannot change the order of time.  we cannot fly.  we cannot breathe under water.  we cannot we cannot we cannot.  our endless limitations assure me this reality is not of my creation, and if one more person tries to make me feel better by preaching some new-age hippie bullshit about choosing my own happiness through intention and meditation, i will throw up.  how dare you sit there and tell me it’s all in my head and i have the power to change it.  do i have the power to bring him back to life?  because if i don’t, then i don’t see what good all this mental power does me.  and the worst part is, for the first time in my whole fucking life, i can easily articulate what i want, and there’s no way in hell i’ll ever get it.  i want to be his wife and the mother of his children.  i want a future with him, but no matter how much i meditate, i cannot change the fact that he only exists in my past, and no matter how hard i try, i cannot live there with him.

conceptualizing relationships with the dead


in sæcula sæculorum

we experience our own existence through five, common senses: 

to hear—
i miss your voice.  i miss the melody of your stories, the rhythm of your breath, the beat of your heart.
i hear you in the vibrations of every subwoofer, in the “om” of my singing bowl, in the crescendo of your daughter’s laugh.

to taste—
i miss your lips.  i miss the sweet elixir of our saliva, the mac ‘n’ cheese you used to cook me, the chemical burn in back of my throat.
i taste you in the smoke of burning herbs, on the lips of other lovers, in the back of my throat.

to smell—
i miss your sweat.  i miss the faint scent of your aroma lingering on my pillow, the sweet pungency of your natural body odor, the intoxication of your pheromones.
i smell you on your dirty shirt, in my armpits when i wear your old deodorant, on my smoke-soaked sleeves.

to see—
i miss your face.  i miss the faded green of your eyes, the arabesque shape of your smile, the maze of your freckles, the veins in your pale hands, the hair on the back of your neck, the way you used to look at me.
i see you in the flicker of a yellow candle, in my kitten’s face when she watches me cry, in the eyes of those i love.

to feel—
i miss your skin.  i miss the electricity between our touch, the heightened vibration of our energies together, the ecstasy of contact with you.
i feel you on the back of my neck with your arms wrapped around mine, in the stillness of meditation, in the siren song of sleep.

but we also possess a sixth sense that extends beyond the limitations of the physical manifestation of our existence: 

to love—
i love you now, then, and always.
i love you past, present, and future.
i love you here, there, and everywhere.

as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end.

let this be a warning

"Whatever You Do, Don't Do What I Do"

Whatever you do, make sure to get sufficient rest and exercise and fill your body with nourishing food cooked with love.  Whatever you do, don’t run on empty and definitely don’t replace sustenance with substance.  Drugs may erase your hunger, but underneath the chemical façade, your body cries like an infant in need of milk from its mother’s nurturing teat.  As a baby develops during her nursing period, her mother’s milk also develops, adapting to the baby’s dietary needs.  First, the milk runs thick with vitamins and nutrients, but as the baby grows and begins the transition to food, the breast milk changes to provide the baby with whatever nutrients she doesn’t get from the food she eats.  No breast milk is the same, and every time a baby latches onto her mother’s nipple, she drinks a new variation of milk, whether it be thick or thin, sweet or bitter.  But when a mother weans her child off her breast, she trusts that her child will soon learn how to care for herself, nurture herself, and adapt to her own changing needs.  Weaning begins the process of growing up, and as the child grows, she learns to cook for herself, clean herself, and take care of herself without the help of her mother or her mother’s breast.

However, when we experience trauma, our brain has two choices:  fight or flight, but it isn’t always quite so black and white.  Trauma takes time to overcome, so our brain faces the fight or flight question regularly during our time of healing.  Some days I fight, and some days I flee.  Unfortunately, although I try to fight most of the time, a part of me fled so far away it reverted into infancy when the trauma first hit.  Therefore, I wake up everyday and put on my armor and grab my weapons and prepare for battle, but a substantial part of me stays behind, curled up in the fetal position, crying and desperately searching for the teat I left behind decades ago.  Some days I can’t even open my eyes.  I just feel around for a warm, full breast to latch onto but I find nothing.  My mother’s breasts have long been empty, and I have had years, decades, to figure out how to nurture myself.  So how did I forget?  What happened to me when he died that I lost the ability to satisfy my physical needs?  I used to be so in tune with my body, but now all I feel is emptiness, deep sadness, and fatigue.  My body starves, but I experience no hunger pains.  I ring out my body like a washcloth when I cry, but instead of becoming lighter and more weightless, I only feel the temporary emptiness of the deep well of sadness inside.  When the well fills up, I am filled with sadness and tears.  When the well overflows and I cry, I am a deep, hollow hole that echoes for eternity.  I am either overflowing with emotion, or I am empty.

some stuff i forgot

i'm realizing i've been writing a bunch of stuff but neglecting this blog so here begins a bunch of posts of some things i've been writing...some of it is super old so i'm not sure how much i'm even in that space anymore but it's all worth sharing i suppose:

The Mess

I loved the mess, and I think I miss the mess most of all.  What is the mess?  The mess is the numbness in the back of my throat.  The mess is the ecstasy and unexpected love.  The mess is the sleepless nights and dirty money.  The mess is the evil inside me that cannot seem to give up or give in.

We were heathens.  I liked it that way.  But lawless lives lead to loss and listlessness more often than not, and ours was no exception to the rule.

But I cannot help remembering the universe favors entropy, and what is entropy but universal rebellion.  We can keep our houses neat and clean, and we can sweep our streets and lock away the rule-breakers, but at the end of the day, chaos always conquers order.  Chaos is human nature because chaos is universal nature.  We do not have vacuums and brooms to spread dirt or create disarray; that comes naturally.  But we do have to work to keep everything clean.  We take showers or baths when we stink; we brush our teeth when we eat; we brush our hair when it gets tangled.  We live our lives in a constant attempt to wipe our existence clean of nature’s attempt to mingle with us.

We are missing the point.

Get dirty.  Get stinky.  Get weird, because weird is much more normal that whatever it is we are doing now.

Some might deem my current endeavor to study the law ironic given my above declarations, but I think it makes perfect sense.  See, the law almost got the best of me.  The law is what stops us from enjoying the chaos of nature, but it is also what stops (most of) us from killing each other and violating each other’s rights.  Chaos may be natural, but it doesn’t exactly lead to a harmonious existence amongst human beings.  That’s because, although evil may not be the nature of the universe, it is so engrained in the nature of humans it might as well be law.  And because most of us recognize the risks our evil nature impose on those around us and ourselves, we recognize the importance of enough order to keep a society functioning.  So we build laws because chaos, much like nature, is inherently dangerous, and we as a species, are afraid.

But I said a long time ago that I fear nothing, and I will live and die by those three words.  And what eliminates fear?  Knowledge.  I do not fear nature.  I do not fear death.  I fear society.  I fear people.  I fear laws.  Therefore, in order to eliminate my fear of the systems society has put in place, I must educate myself about those systems, i.e. the laws.  Law school will empower me to fear nothing, not even my own government.

And once I accomplish complete fearlessness, I will be free to enjoy the chaos because what happens to OCD when it’s no longer driven by a fear of chaos.