I thought I was over it.
It’s been years.
But, it’s not like it’s been years and I didn’t do shit about it.
No, I processed.
I grieved, lost my way, found the map and got back on the path.
(like a machine?)
I don’t want to cry, I tell her.
Like she’s expecting me to.
“That’s ok! You don’t have to. It’ll find its way up.”
(my jaw tightens)
No, but that’s the thing.
This ain’t my first time at the rodeo.
I’ve balled, girl.
Slobbered, face distorted and all kinds of ugly.
(I’m getting tired)
Continue reading “’til you’re ready”
I feel like I can run 10 miles
And then eat a cake, straight out of the singing bowl of Rage
Mind spouting obscenities
How did it come to this?
Why am I shooting off the mouth like a loose canon
spiraling through the atmosphere?
Where’s grace, goddamnit?
It’s about not being listened to
It’s about not being taken into account
It’s about blame
Doing it wrong
Get off –
Continue reading “singing bowl of rage”
When do I come first?
No, that’s a real question.
Is it after peeing and before taking my probiotics?
Is it after my tea brews and before I check email?
Is it once Jackie is walked, pissed, pooed and fed?
When do I show up for me?
After cleaning up the kitchen and before the clock hits 10am?
After taking out the trash and before the rest of my to-do list comes a-knockin’?
Am I worth the investment?
Time for me hits home the hardest when I see someone else doing it.
A “Wow”, a respect, an inspiration; sometimes an anger, a jealousy, an envy – all of those feelings come flying out of —
My heart? My soul? The little voice within?
I struggle with balance everyday. I know you do too.
Call mum (it’s been a while), connect with best friend, look boyfriend in the eyeballs when he shares a story, hold off the worry/panic/stress/concern/time racing. Leave that at the door. For now. This here. A moment.
You can start now.
Full day’s rest.
That’s what I yearn for; sleeping in, steaming soup, away from email.
Oh, don’t you worry, I hear ya.
I’ll give it to you.
You won’t be ignored.
Full day’s rest.
I want rich dreams
With puffy pillows and cuddle-monster chats, and less of this.
I want fiction and other galactic worlds, and Once upon a time’s…
Bones, don’t start to ache.
Wait it out –
’til next week, too much is at stake this weekend.
Full day’s rest.
Close your eyes more often.
Slow down; remember, “in a million years”
You can do it! I believe in you.
Snail’s pace / Nature’s race.
Brush your teeth.
Shut the laptop.
FADE IN: two at lunch.
She: It’s like the texture of smoke.
She: You can see smoke even though it’s translucent.
She: That’s how it felt. It’s there but not.
He: Dark but translucent.
She: Uh-huh. I guess that’s progress, right?
He: I would say. It was way worse before…
She: I know… I still feel the darkness, though.
He: I’m sure that doesn’t go away. I mean, not right away.
She: It can get scary.
He: So, why don’t you call me?
She: I wanted to but for some reason, I couldn’t.
She: Weird how that happens; we’re mute but screaming for help.
He: I get it.
It is tense, concerned and contracted.
It’s early, the air asleep.
We got broken into. The garage.
Jackie thinks, bonus! everyone’s up.
Dude, I don’t want to take you out for pee.
I don’t want to pick up your poo.
I don’t want to feed you.
I want to breathe.
Give me a second.
What the fuck happened?
Holes in the skin, I feel violated.
Like a car crash.
Thank God it wasn’t the car.
Valuables, inventory, a guessing game of what was.
Jackie’s diarrhea is at the ready.
He paces in circles, tail anxious.
Come on people, he wants to say.
It’s on us, all of it.
Hard not to point fingers.
But who fuckin’ cares?
Damage is done.
The lesson came too late.
Diarrhea out. Next step: food.
Jackie circles us expecting the normal routine.
We stand like fixtures
Scratching our heads.
A fog in the brain.
In honor of The National Day of Prison:
M. A. Jones
You ask what it’s like here
but there are no words for it.
I answer difficult, painful, that men
die hearing their own voices. That answer
isn’t right though and I tell you now
that prison is a room
where a man waits with his nerves
drawn tight as barbed wire, an afternoon
that continues for months, that rises
around his legs like water
until the man is insane
and thinks the afternoon is a lake:
blue water, whitecaps, an island
where he lies under pale sunlight, one
red gardenia growing from his hand —
But that’s not right either. There are no
flowers in these cells, no water
and I hold nothing in my hands
but fear, what lives
in the absence of light, emptying
from my body to fill the large darkness
rising like water up my legs:
It rises and there are no words for it
though I look for them, and turn
on light and watch it
fall like an open yellow shirt
over black water, the light holding
against the dark for just
an instant: against what trembles
in my throat, a particular fear
a word I have no words for.
1982, Arizona State Prison-Perryville