Another Successful Day

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I was kind of torn whether to post this whole thing or just the best sections of it. Usually I just post the best section(s) when I end up free-associating a mess like this. But I think it’s entertaining as a whole, maybe you will too. At the very least you can get a sense of my poetry process… or lack thereof.

And yes, I was feeling extra crazy yesterday. Gaze upon what low blood sugar has wrought.

 

And so it goes

And so it grows

Another day

Another flaw exposed.

And everyone

Is digging in their toes

They don’t get

That shit just overflows.

 

Put a bird on it.

Fffuuucckk

I’m writing this bit for me

I’m writing that bit for him

And this one for her.

And who the fuck are you?

Well

Have a little piece of my soul

I’m not using it anyway.

 

Why does the devil want souls

I think he’s in some kind of an arms race against god.

Once he gets more souls than god

he can begin the war?

Well maybe it’s his pride

maybe this is all about

His stupid ego

Like he wants a bigger business than god

But surely his business is bigger

Everyone says it is

But fuck that

What do they know

They want to think themselves the persecuted few.

 

I don’t want it

I don’t want it.

Take it back with you

I don’t want it.

Give it to your wife

You crazy sick bastard

Tell her it’s from me

Tell her I said

I think she’s pitiful

And I pity her

For being with you

And drowning in a pool of lies

She doesn’t even know she’s dying.

Like a frog in a slow boil.

 

People hurt

People steal

People love

People heal

People kill

People die

People always

Wonder why

People win

People lose

People live

What they choose

People give

People take

People bend

People break.

 

You are different.

You can see.

You are not like others be.

You don’t struggle as they do.

They don’t seem to have a clue.

You are far removed and free

You are pure and

Okay you’re just a fucking sex addict, who are you kidding.

 

Give us a kiss.

Give us another.

Give us three.

Kiss deeper.

Deeper.

Let us tongue you.

Let us inside.

Let us inside you.

We want what’s best.

We care.

Let us take care of you.

Give us a kiss.

 

How to just not.

Here’s how:

…..

Mostly that.

Also if you want to join the revolution

Don’t forget to pack the sandwich I made you dear

And be back before the street lights turn on!

I don’t want you getting a cold

Have a nice time.

Shoot someone for me!

 

And so passes

Another successful day

I didn’t kill myself.

I got some work done.

I made bread

It turned out better than I’m used to

And I didn’t kill myself.

I snuggled the cats

I didn’t kill myself.

I drank some tea

I got ice cream with Hannah

Two flavors!

I thought about something stupid I said eight years ago

And I didn’t kill myself.

The weather was really lovely too, all day.

Trees

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I didn’t write anything last night! Narcolepsy won.

So here is another of my old poems.

 

 

I remember the giant old tree

In the courtyard of Trinity college

In Dublin.

It was all gnarls and moss.

It drank hundreds of gallons of water

Which would otherwise have ruined the college’s foundations.

It was clearly alive

A sage of its kind

With character all its own.

I can see how the Britons might fancy

Their trees to have spirits

If they have such trees as that.

 

American trees, Missouri trees especially, are

Young

Scrubby

Sweet

Weak rooted.

American trees don’t know frost or hardship.

They know small things

And think them large.

American trees are children.

They are flexible and joyous and green

And they shake their leaves in laughter

At their wise older cousins.

A Question on “Fading”

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I wrote Fading because I’ve been thinking about this lately:

If we lose our memories, do we also lose our coping mechanisms?

If I lost my memories, would I revert to self-harm? Would I forget to lean on the Tao, and struggle against what everyone needs of me? Would I go back to being a supercilious intellectual? Will I go back to repressing? To unfeeling depressive episodes? To crushing self-loathing?

Will all these decades of personal growth be reversed in the final years of my life?

Maybe my story is too cynical. Maybe even when the memories are lost, the habits which are strongly engrained remain. Maybe a coping mechanism is more of a habit than a memory.

What do you guys think?

Fading

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I am an old woman.

I have a history. I have had a beautiful life. It’s made me the strong person that I am today.

We went hungry. For a while my husband and I were eating roadside dandelions and bad cheese from the deli garbage. During this time I got pregnant. When I found out, I cried.

I had four miscarriages and four children. A soul lost for each gained. Our marriage survived it all.

I got a job selling tickets to the movies. Ten cents a pop.

Then my husband got a good company job. I quit working and spent more time taking care of the kids. I watched them grow up. Watched them make mistakes, fall in love, get jobs, fail out of school, neglect their health. I watched them gain scars as I did, earn wrinkles as I did. One of my sons nearly lost his leg in a motorcycle accident. We held his hand in the hospital. My other son got arrested protesting. We bailed him out. My daughter married too early and fought with her husband, until my grandkids had to go through a divorce. They lived with us for a while.

Every day my husband says he loves me. Every day I make him breakfast. He fixes the plumbing. I remember birthdays. We take care of each other.

My scars make me who I am. I have seen so much. I have lived a full, rich life. Everything I’ve been through has given me a bottomless well of strength. My arthritis is painful, but I don’t really mind. My hip is like fire. Some days my hands ache so badly, we just eat store bought muffins for breakfast. But I remember the old days; we are lucky to have this food. It’s an easy life. Pain is part of living, and every day I have left is a blessing.

 

I am an old woman.

My memory isn’t what it used to be. I write down birthdays, but they keep slipping by me. It’s hard to keep track of what day it is anymore. The calendar is always marked up wrong, I get tired of fixing it.

My husband is very patient. Sometimes I forget to make breakfast. Sometimes I am so full I suspect that I made us two breakfasts, but he doesn’t say anything. The kitchen is a little more disorganized than I like it lately.

My children don’t visit very often. They always protest and say they do. Maybe they do. Maybe I’m just complaining. I don’t want to be any trouble so I try not to complain too much, but I can’t help missing them. I want to see their bright little faces. I heard one of them got married? I’m not sure which. I get them mixed up when thinking back, but when I see them it’s alright. I just haven’t seen them in so long.

My husband looks a little worried. I think whatever’s worrying him is aging him too fast. I hate to see him suffer. Maybe I’ll cook him something nice tonight; that always cheers him up.

 

It’s frustrating, living in the house with this old man.

He’s like a warden. Today I was done visiting and went for a walk back to my own house. I know it’s in this neighborhood. He chased me down and brought me back here. Nothing happens, I just get so antsy!

The kitchen is in disarray. He rearranges everything. Nothing is where I put it. It’s like living in someone else’s house and never getting past the house tour stage. What kind of devious person would keep moving the silverware drawer? I want my own house back.

My hands hurt. My hip hurts. Sometimes I forget and move wrong, and then the pain hits me, hard.

I miss my parents. I miss my sister. Sometimes people visit me, people I don’t know, and they claim to be family. I pretend I know them because they seem so sure, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

I cry a lot lately. Nothing makes sense. I yell at the old man. He laughs like it’s nothing to him. What a bastard.

 

Ah…

Who is this holding my hand? An old man… he’s crying? And a few other people.

I am hooked up to machines. It’s hard to breathe…so hard to breathe. I must be sick.

Oh no. Everyone looks so sad. The old man is crying for me.

Don’t cry. I don’t want you to cry. I hate to worry anyone.

But I can’t talk. My breathing is too weak; I’m wearing a mask over my mouth and nose.

I don’t know how to handle this. I can’t take it.

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