My mother told me when I was a boy
Son look up, and see it, that grand old sky.
But now I suspect, her meaning was coy.
When I look up, I see that we will die.
This great ordeal will end without a ring.
For I have befallen no matriarch.
Not one coy mistress to dinner I bring.
For life is as passioned as my food's starch.
I don't want a body, merely your heart.
I no longer care, life has lost its art.
and whiskey has become
first and only desk liquor. now
digressing to the Blue Eyed
beauty writ of this the final
page of notebook. and now,
reflecting on this early hour.
an hour when the goat's
head stares thru to soul
with always lifeless eyes. stares
thru this soul with lack of
energy, with entire days'
lack of consumption. and with
ease this one has been long
and gone in falsified attraction
of angelfaced Blue Eyed
matriarch; this one patriarch.
thought entirely conceived. contrac-
epted by reality of situation. by
reality in general sense, yet words
spew unfiltered with lingering hope
behind slanted smile. shying stares,
all the while watching from eyes'
corners. voices of all but her's
fall deaf; vessels otherwise mute to
concerns not of the Blue Eye's. and
here this one finds self lost to rom-
anticized thoughts knowing they can
be found sterilized via logic.
contradicting always, yet
no brass holding finger locked to
joint. and realizations of actual
place spears forehead; spears fore-
brain. disrupting what is preconceived
concerning entangled souls. hair falling
aside temples. point of restraint, this
one must end before depression catches
hold; this one calling abrupt ending.
raised on words of Jesus's bible
given examples to follow from street bible
people in fancy clothes and houses
we were the joneses
the Lords word flowed like spit
with hearts black and cold like real street gangster
raised with loyalty to i am my brothers keeper
together we die
together we ride
together we carry the cross
knew no other way and i believed it to be righteous, the path
joke was on me
what a fool i was
i truly believed, " i am my brothers keeper and they were mine"
believed with my life, soul, blood and, heart
i believed, i believed
walked straight into a trap
was lucky when i fell
i fell on my knees
God carried me out of the misty,cold, dark woods
psalm 23, hallelujah
now i have been blamen daddy for this drama
lets for once put blame were blame belongs
both papa and mamma had mothers, both alive and well
he matriarch of each family
they stood and watch as i was fed to wolves
torn apart i was left to die
of course they had to wait for mamma to die
11/01/2013 God caled her home and open season was declared
God, I never knew i was the trophy
2 years later
i have succeeded in leaving behind the street life
still got mammas husband
a father who love his daughter, but a love i can't take to the bank
i finally got to know the author of the bible and know i'm not alone
i realise in silent moments, to my despair
i may not have made mamma proud
i dropped the code
and i am no longer my brothers keeper
pray for me
Where are we that-
we are so dressed up?
In our best blue scrubs
And white hot, neon light...
Do we dare question
Knowing full well
There's no hope in the answer?
The look in his seasoned eyes
Telling us that we shouldn't ask.
That it never gets any easier...
To whisper letters of expiration.
Watching your skin crawl-
And your hair,
Fall from your head.
A year from your life-
It's twilight now,
And the highlights of
This short time we've shared
Have come and gone.
And I've done all that I could do,
Within our means,
To help you-
Free yourself from your conscience.
I still I feel as if-
"I should have done more..."
You don't have to be strong for us.
You don't have to prove anything to us.
Not anymore, nor ever again.
We all know that we wouldn't be
Half as successful as are now-
Without our matriarch there to guide us.
So this is your time now.
We know the battle for your body-
Is coming to an end.
You don't have to smile and pretend-
For us anymore.
Instead, hold on while you can
And I won't let go of your hand!
Your eyes flicker,
Opening and closing.
Your chest undulating
Which each desperate pull for breathe.
If you can hear me-
Hold on to my hymns
And I'll guide you through the wreckage
To a majestic place reserved
For angels laid to rest!
As always, you're so beautiful...
In sterile white and hospital blue.
You're so brave, and so beautiful!
Even as you cling desperately to your life.
For your last words,
You speak in tones of reassurance,
I don't know if we are...
I know the secrets of women…
Their real secrets -- not girlie gossip
of who’s doing whom
or what she think she wants
for her birthday.
I know the secret algorithm of her heart
the hidden code that programs her
that curls her toes
and sends shivers through her womb.
These secrets were never told to me
only whispered in subtext
embedded in smiles
encrypted in curves.
I know her secret to be safe
to hold and be held
to nurture and be nurtured
when to throw caution to the wind
when to stir dust storms with her hem.
I know the secret of her seasons
the blustery winter of morning hair
the spring of a new dress
the endless summer of a good novel
the fall of a midnight snack.
I know the secret her sacrifice
the secret of her patience
the brilliance of her child rearing
the snot wiping, the soccer games,
the recitals, the chauffeuring,
the miracle of her multi-tasking
from the terrible twos
to the thankless teenage years.
I know the secret of her grace
as she weaves seamlessly from
lover to mom to matriarch
to the moment
she lifts her newborn
and sees her mom’s secrets
unfurled like parchment
in the furtive smile
of her daughter.
She was rich and had money saved,
but he was poor and hunger craved.
I remember her toil, and scraped every bit of her fiber working.
He messed up his work, and caused more wrecking.
She gave all to support her kids
But he took all to money bids.
Where did our money go she exclaimed.
I'll beat you down he proclaimed.
Argument became physical, and last thing I saw was her on the floor.
Beaten, battered, bloodied mess on the floor.
Will you believe me I was only two, but I can vividly remember.
I remember we lived in a mansion, before misfortune became our common member.
Severely hurt the mighty matriarch who had everything,
and lost everything in a nightmare of a marriage.
It did not matter, she still toiled, and she pressed on to regain the lost riches.
It did not matter, what she had lost, she wanted to rebuild with her niches.
Moving many years forward, both worked 2 jobs in the United States.
It was never enough, because he had not learned from his mistakes.
Money was sent to a bottomless pit, and they still worked multiple jobs.
It was hard watching both work so hard, but he did not learn from his mistakes.
We were driving in a slow traffic, and argument filled this road trip.
She was crying and asked him where were our money?
He yelled at her telling her it was none of your business honey!
Out of anger and rage she opened her passenger door,
and the vehicle was still moving while she stormed out of her passenger door.
Out of anger of lost control, he yelled at us kids to pick our crying mother.
Such sorrow was deeply felt, and depression of her toiled were faced with his folly.
We kids wanted to keep being a family, too afraid to accept the breaking family.
We begged and begged for her to come back to the vehicle.
Eventually she came forth, but stayed silent through the trip.
In anger he man handled her in the vehicle, and the silence was not in this trip.
This was not a pretty trip, and he was more feared through out this trip.
To be continued.
It’s one thing to say that you’re not preoccupied with death and sex and family,
but it’s another thing to live it— and I’m not sure I ever could. I’m too self-aware.
I’m only my worst days, and even on my best ones I don’t want to get old.
I already know that I don’t want to hit seventy five unless when I am there
it turns out to be a more beautiful year than seventy four. I refuse to live in
a time when I am not allowed to walk unencumbered through a city without
people mistaking me for a skeleton or a relic or a sage because of the wrinkles
that muddle my neck and eyes, and I know how people like to put their women
behind a thick, comforting layer of looser clothes and thicker makeup, and then
thin blankets and assisted living walls. I know how women get when they are old.
I refuse to be quiet or turn loud and bitter. I will stay curious, even though I know
I could be made to become a symbol or representative, even if I find myself wearing
combat boots and some idiotic set of ideals, just like I did when I was still considered
a girl. I have made a promise to myself that as a matriarch, any hurt I have managed
to keep sleeping in my belly will be hoarded jealously, like family pearls in a back closet
that someone said you could wear just as soon as you shed those last few pounds, and if
you do finally ever get that light, and they are satisfied, the look of the pearls on your neck
makes you sick and hungry and proud. If my love has only made me lonely, and my mistakes
have made me hard, I still don’t want to pass the kind of advice that leaves my daughters
to feel like they have lived too much or too little, or that I will disown them if they become
hard in spite of me. I won’t mind if my babies end up the kind of liquor and lace women
that dye their hair in dive bar bathrooms. I won’t even mind if they are great poets and scholars.
I will whisper things in their ears when they are getting ready to sleep, little prayers that when
they dream, they are imagining a world where things are safer, and men’s hands are nothing to
be afraid of next to the power of their resolve to keep loving. My curse is that I need to keep
screaming into the void to keep my blood slipping through my veins at any pace, but since
living through high school, I have never wanted to make a name for myself by telling stories
when I know I've already done such a handsome job of getting other people to carry my name
on their tongue and spill it from their lips with such familiarity that they don’t even smile
when it slips out anymore. I am a swear word, I am a deity to lost girls, I am the comforter,
because I am the friend who shrugs when you tell your war stories. I have known things rougher
than you have, and if you feel dirty and you can’t find the which way is up, and you were told
that this last love would cleanse you, and you are taking water in your lungs, and they’re sick
of trying to sort the oxygen from the salt, I’m your girl. I’m your embassy in a foreign country,
an ambassador to all of your fears that you are not being the right kind of girl, and that you
deserve the things you are doing and allowing to be done to you. You figure if someone else
has flown just a foot closer to that dangerous, self-destructive sun, you can look at your wings
and see that they are not that melted, and you can keep teetering on the tenuous brink of
maybe being okay and glorifying your mental illness, and popping the occasional recreational
Vicodin. My middle name is Ann because all of my great grandmothers were named Ann, and
the one that died before I was born spent her whole life nervous, flicking lighters on and off,
snapping at her daughter, and she ended up with psychotic Alzheimer’s, sure that someone
stole her good pearls, and that she needed them because Reagan was coming to pick her up
for dinner. This makes a sad kind of sense, in the way that the universe sometimes rewards
our neuroses by delivering us to hell in a handbasket, and making us the kind of shaky women
who go from so worried that we have clawed at our skin like we are trying to escape damnation
to being worried for by the same people who told us to unclench our damn jaws. Like babies.
I will hold on to my independence, because I know the secret. I can love myself better because
over the years, I have started to specialize in embracing my own broken parts, and I don’t need
to pretend that makes me any less fragmented to know that I am whole, but darling, if you can’t
even dream of shaking the hands that wait in the tunnels, or of loving yourself like the skeleton
that lurks beneath your young, beautiful body, holding you, are you, then, more or less afraid
than I am? If I cry when I hear about Ruby’s husband, and the knife, and the man he said he
couldn’t stop, does that mean anything? For all I know, I am just writhing from biology,
my internal clock wailing at the reminder of its finite function, and my childlessness,
and my daily headaches, and my animal craving for red meat, my body crying for my blood,
and my anemia, which runs in the family, just like I’ve heard mortality does.
For all I know, I’m crying like a toddler, like after April died the whole world
became my twin sister, leaving me low when other people hurt—
but I can’t call it empathy without wasting a lie on myself. Studies have shown
young children cry in chorus not because they have disposal of some innocent understanding,
but out of fear, because they do not realize their physical body is the physical boundary of their pain.
Even when we all learn what shape we are supposed to love or torture our bodies into,
we ignore our most primal needs, letting our shoulders lock into unfamiliar shapes,
our bones fill with carbonation and smoke, weakening from lack of impact.
Humans are unique in thinking that they are not confined
to their bodies until they are ancient, and they are wrong.
What are we without walking or fucking? We are such arrogant animals, to fantasize
that science will someday be able to strip us of our inconvenient vessels,
and we will find ourselves in a cold nirvana where we have sacrificed our need
for virgins and arthritis medicine, for rug burn, and for college tuition, and
ultimately, for the messiest mistake of the human condition—the need for love.
What are humans without our beer and factory houses and churches?
You can find any heartache you want in Pittsburgh, and isn’t that more beautiful
to know and experience than any sterilized comfort that closing up could offer?
I’m not a brain stem in a fleshy cage. I am a product of my vessel, and I am proud.
(I am my wide hips and my last name and my mink’s nose. I am my large brown eyes.)
In my nightmares, we are old, and we click, and we sleep in separate bedrooms.
If we will all get ugly in the end, why not seek out fresh bodies with impossible cheekbones?
Why not revel in marking each other up with new clusters of broken blood vessels and
fingerprint bruises, like carving names in each other’s trunks? Why not love?
I’m not embarrassed to admit you make my palms sweat, but I am not a girl who begs for attention.
I just get it. My great grandmother wasn’t either. She wore lipstick that stained the filters
on the cigarettes when she smoked with her car windows the whole way up, because she was always
cold, always feeling some draft that seemed to follow her personally, and her alone.
I’m cold, too, but I am not afraid of the wind. I have something she never did--
I smell like summer, not cigarettes, and I know there are other wolves,
sharpening their paws hungrily into tree trunks, waiting for me,
carving my initials in the forest. There are beautiful boys and girls who know
how to take care of someone like me, scratches and all. I will be young as long
as being young keeps me sated, and I won’t pretend to know things I don’t,
and I’ll make you a deal: unless you’ve come to give me the kind of love I’m looking for,
I’m going out to be hunted.
In the heavens was written the mandate for the oldest child of the Sun and the Sea.
She the princess, oh nobly born, the oldest of three, was the model for the universe for elegance and wisdom of compassion as the philosopher child.
As she suckled on her mother, the volition of the sea, the philosopher child embraced the light of her father's wisdom as a vessel of beauty that all across all lands and in heaven adored to see.
As a gift of divine creation, the philosopher child, as written, taking form, a sage for humanity, was intended for she. The princess of innocence also loved her little sister and brother with the tenderness that is so special as she.
Upon reaching the age of wonder, her father fashioned a chariot for her to ride, so that where ever she were to travel, she could stand on ethics and scruples and not false pride. Her mother gave her horses the spirit of her volition so to pull their child across many unknown tides where on the chariot their child would be safe from contempt, dismay, envy and lost lives.
The philosopher child crossed the lands of question, where deep in its valley of many masks, politicians made laws of convenience, allowing one to wear many as one could, impromptu, they could choose to decide. She saw, that there, things could be fashioned for popularity where the vital balance of nature, being ignored, was foolishly thought not to reside.
But where ever she traveled, her father as the Sun, her mother the sea, felt safe that their daughter the sage as the philosopher child would learn the cost for compassion, and as wisdom would fill her heart so to eventually bless humanity with its redemption, with her kindness that was deep inside.
One day the princess arrived at the dark forest where the midst was thick and deep. Creatures started to show from everywhere and reached out to hail her arrival. They said - please step down off your chariot, so to join us, as up there you are so far way and hard for us all to see as we are so low to the ground where the earth barely allows us to be.
In the kindness of her heart of compassion, trusting when she did, they then replied, that you are no better than me. The foxes chuckled in grin as making her feel as if she had to apologize for being the philosopher child. They stole her chariot and wasted her horses who cried out in fear in their terror; but yet not to be heard over all the panacea and glamour afforded in the foxes swift tide. The foxes insisted that their familiarity with her was not a contemptible form of their false pride.
In making her way across treacherous lands, she wondered deep in the dark forest wishing to make peace with all. But each who she met could only offer her the blindness of their limitations and deceit where calling it truth and where she, if to wish acceptance, was not given a choice to decide.
This tore into her father’s heart, as being the Sun he could barley shine as years of this went by. His beautiful philosopher child had suffered the evils of pedestrian false pride. The child’s mother, being the sea, wept as wanting once again to offer to suckle her with the vital elixir of life the way it use to be.
But the creatures of the dark forest, as ruthless as they were crafted to be, had already poisoned her with the devils blood, as it hardened her veins unless she continue to drink just to have a peaceful blur of the memories in her mind’s eye. This is while many after taking what they wished from her would then cast easily her aside.
As a great dragon her father took form to swoop down from the heavens, when she could find no longer any quarter, so as to lead her to the great tree.
Here he said is the tree of life, where the archetypes as the branches and leaves you can relearn to see. Care for the matriarch as she has always loved you; respect this sacred ground and as a place of refuge, you can always return to, to rest, protected and safe from the world that still must be redeemed as you learn to rebalance the flow of your chi.
A little time past as all seemed to be relieved that the princess was now safe from treacherous beings,. But then on a clouded day a toad then did come by. Costumed as a monk with the guise of truth, sincerity and purity, he said - you are very pretty and do you remember me? We had met some time ago, but I have been away up till now where some others must go. But explanations of my absence need not be.
He made her laugh. He made her feel light hearted as saying, lean on me. Forget all else, as all you need to see is just me. Whatever you wish to say, need not worry as I will fill in the words for you; and if you need to lie to get by, just remember that you can rationalize it as why should you really care why. In this way you can be as care free as me he did say, and I will teach you cunning facades, as there is really no upside in truth, and especially when you do not want to pay when you only want just to get by. Praise Buddha as I say to fools, as then they let me just slip by.
I will show you how in my own way in how I adore you. I will put pictures of you everywhere for all to see. I will hail how great you are and that you actually belong to, and then make sure to associate you for the legitimacy of me.
We will have a future you and me, the way I had with others before, but as I have hollowed their souls, and with no longer their money, they have become to bore me.
But rest assured, you are different, and you are special in being brand new. For this we can have a future, but you will need to pay for it now, as currently I am a pulpier in practicing as being my own form of monk. But once I was rich as I can easily claim that again someday I could be. Perhaps Iwill pay you back then, but let’s see.
But you need not question anything I say, but just drink the devils elixir regardless if it blackens your veins. Then magically I will appear as that special prince for your eyes in their blur will to see. Do not question me, as in handing your fate so cheaply to over, I am the only one to now approve of thee.
That tree of life, he said, must be really nice. I hear the matriarch is a brittle as can be. Perhaps she will crack before too long where then you will give it all to me. I have stayed here and there, and now as your prince should you not offer me this place to now reside. After all it is yours isn’t it, and you should express your rights. Do not worry as pettiness is acceptable way of life, and I want to carve that tree in the vain image of me. Sacred what, family who, roots of you? All this means nothing to suit the convenience of me. You should not regard these things as being as important to you as me.
Cast everything that had meant something to you before aside. It is now time for you to make all the room for me. I will give you everything you need, so don't worry. As I promised before to others, as long as you seem novel and new you will be able to laugh every day. This is the happiness which you can count on from me.
The philosopher child’s mother did weep in seeing this toad to claim to be a prince. Her tears as the sea awoke the child’s father once again. As the winged dragon he then swooped down once more from the heavens. With fury in his eyes he said, they who trespass these sacred grounds, the fire of my breath will incinerate. No mediocrity will pass unto these sacred grounds. This you can be assured, that in awakening my fury, your life then will mean little to me.
Deep down inside, although wishing to ignore a pulsing tone, the princess being the philosopher child could in her dreams hear as she slept her soul speak - what has happened to thee? Oh nobly born have you forsaken everything in life that heaven has written for you to be. Be fooled not by the toad of warts, as he can only be a prince of fools and not worthy of thee. Have the courage and strength to come back to the divine and shimmering form that you use to be.
Have faith as you can be the great sage, the elegant thinker where your beauty is assured. True princes will then kneel one after another to offer their hand in marriage to thee.
Make no excuse, as all can wait except for the matriarch for thee, and be 49 days in solitude with your loving father and mother as the transformation of thee.
Be removed from the trash that has subjected thee. Eight of these days are first required to free you from the devils blood. This is so your heart once again can start pumping again the true spirit of volition that your mother had meant for thee. Use the remaining of the days for your rest, repose, solace and contemplation where in the land of no demands no pressure is put on thee. You can face your mirrors so once again to recognize the cherished roots that compose thee.
Oh nobly born fear not and come into the light of wisdom of your loving father who in his tender love has untangled your matted snarls of your life before.
Allow the volition of spirit of your mother to once again suckle thee. In this time, in self reflection then you can become reborn again, and transformed, the philosopher child, as divine in being, to bless humanity in the scripture you write that the heavens will then publish for thee.
All across the earth will gather then to be blessed by the warmth of the shimmering light of thee. Great princes that are destined to be great kings, who, in having searched before everywhere, they will know then where to find thee.
having the origins of a spy
using a charming appeal-
the appearance of clarity, like water
-le down her throat
making her think she’d be made
clean, free with just
taste of you
on her lips
(until she choked)
she bought everything… “your sou- i mean, $13.99 please, plus tax”
model-material for anger
o, but you wouldn’t try to work your way into our lives
so that one day you’d show your true colors and
cut, cut like a knife… no, you’re just…
a white tavern for the lonesome travelers,
to help all the weery has-beens
(who should be leery of your could-bes)
well, she started to lose sight—
of what was true and right
seeing red, seeing red
you raped her far worse than either
of those boys could come by when she was
(still trying to be)
you were worse than her father,
her merely a product of you
than you— a product of all those bottler-uppers
she wanted a break…
and then she broke her back-
so she slowly decided to take you back
step on a crack, break your mother’s back
walking on eggshells… but i was once her egg, now scrambled
she, she, she thought she was moving on,
“let’s work together, work together”
but she was stal(l)in(‘)
holy communion, holy communion
she’d tell herself if she went to church
every sunday, 10:01 AM on.the.dot
she’d be saved
drinking up your 80 proof…
mon-sat, evening to wake
she’d drink his blood, eat his flesh
you’d drink her blood, eat her flesh
she’d drink his blood, eat his flesh
you’d drink her blood, eat her flesh
mother, may i…
(as you hit her, she hit me
with realizations of your [/] her intentions pending)
i give you everything
… fetch a pail of…
you ungrateful bitch
she, your passenger, strapped in—
but she wasn’t when she decided to let someone else take the wheel…
stiffness,blinders,she couldn’t turn her head
(away… from you anymore)
grab life by the horns?
no, she grabbed you by the neck instead
and then, o brother-
she received a call…
her(,) matriarch saw the light
forgive your mother seventy times seven times…
she wasn’t even.. 49.
the bottle you were contained in,
that she craddled like a newborn—
fell to the ground
in the beginning, you saw her lying there, crying there— confused
but you didn’t see her in the end,
when i saw her lying there, dying there
from your careless abuse
→ is that what you call power?
there was never anything inside her
bloated, distended belly,
her skin the color of a light hue of
spread out orange-marmalade jelly
(until)the eighteenth of january, two thousand eleven.
the hell she(we) felt when she was convinced she was going to heaven
Need to clear my head
On the cross-over of insanity
Words and emotions running rampant
Pulling in all possible directions
Scratching at the door
The main personality is under threat
Turmoil created, but clarity is needed
Paper my only solution
Mums ashes disturbs my beauty sleep
My aunt is withholding it from me
Or can’t face the truth
It was just a task to be taken care of
Her front is empathy
When I needed it the most
I saw evil with a smile
Claiming to miss and love her sister
I am her image and legacy thrown with garbage, away
Someday we all will have to give word for our actions
Grandma took a whole year to die
She fought dying to the bitter end
Indeed the end was overly bitter and painful
This happened because she had no peace
To die you need peace and forgiveness
Was a very controlling woman
This was her downfall in the end
The same will be the fate of the last daughters
She was not tough on them
Today they are spoiled women trampling the family children
Their children is paying the price
God works with generations
For me healing begins when I share these words
My family used mum when alive
In death they give her no second thought
I miss her dearly because I was dependent on her still
In the least, the rest can honour her memory
My dreams are coded messages
My maternal grandma didn’t like me much when she was alive
In death she visits me by dreams, angry facial expression
The dream fills me with negative emotions
Why she visits I do not know
I am afraid to find out, but curiosity is my master
I do miss her, but I do not miss the person she became in her senior years
Mean, isolated and bitter
The matriarch I revered, allowed favouritism to bring divide in her family
This is my in heritage I have to build on