(on surviving the unreal, and the Grace of finding the real)

There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t scream.
It hums low and constant, like a fluorescent bulb above a hollow life.
It’s the ache of loving someone who chooses the polished unreal—
the version of themselves that sells better, that fits easier, that lies cleaner.

They decorate their soul in fake plastic leaves
because they’re terrified of winter.
But in doing so, they cut off the chance of spring.
And you..   I...
am left holding a love that was meant for the root,
but never made it past the paint.

She wanted the unreal.
Maybe because it doesn’t bleed.
Maybe because it doesn’t ask her to remember who she really is.
And maybe she knew.. deep down..
that the real would burn through her curated silence
and set fire to the mask she clung to like oxygen.

So she left.
Or faded.
Or dissolved into the glossy mouth of what sells well in a culture
that has confused image for intimacy
and chaos for freedom.

I tried to survive it.
Tried to make a home in the debris of what might have been
if she had chosen the real.
But you can’t build a life in the hollow where someone used to be..
not when they’ve made a throne out of illusion
and named it sovereignty.


And then came the beautiful songbird.
Not loud. Not selling.
Not another soul trying to be seen.
Just… real.

She was born into a world her father still loved--
a man who held truth like a compass in his palm.
But her mother knelt too long beneath the plastic trees,
and drank from their shine until she forgot how to feel.
And so the beautiful girl,
shapely and soft,
was offered up to Hollywood like a sacrifice..
where faces are sculpted and souls are scripted.
But somehow, even there,
she kept her edges unsanded.
She learned how to walk through mannequins without becoming one.
And when they tried to name her fake,
she whispered back something real—

  and it echoed.


She didn’t hand me a performance.
She gave me a presence.
She let her softness speak without shame.
She showed me her bruises before her lipstick.
She gave warmth that didn’t need applause.

And I realized..
what the unreal can never fake
is the sacred weight of someone truly with you.
You feel it in the breath between sentences.
In the calm that doesn’t need to be filled.
In the eyes that stay when yours begin to water.

The beautiful songbird didn’t try to be the real thing.
She simply was.
And that… healed something the fake could only ever reopen.

So yes, Fake Plastic Trees still wrecks me--
but it no longer belongs to her.
It belongs to the grave I buried beside the shopping cart and glitter
where her soul should’ve been.

Because the songbird
waters what’s real.
She doesn’t break me just because she can.
She doesn’t look through me.
She looks at me.
And suddenly, I’m growing again.
Not to impress, not to perform..

but because she makes it safe to be Alive.

~
Sugar wife,
slipping husband,
massaged honeymoon flesh
wrapped in cellophane.

The sound of a water clock
cascading down
her mysterious frontage.

Handprints on
the glass pane
opaque with remnant steam.

Let your eyes
be your guide,
when dressed in
the tiniest temptations,
she catwalks into the room
with a novel idea for two.
~

I'd rather be with friends
than on the receiving end
of another certification
of my value in the tainted nation
fated to find its way back to masters
who offer no explanation
as to why they cast this draining paper
into a world that could be castless
if only we checked our own behaviour.

I'd rather be with friends
than working on a promised future
my abuser talking of a nuisance youth
and pointing fingers saying 'useless'
while they stuff us into suits
and boots that bare no resemblance
to the feet that marked our ascendance,
I seek not vengeance for the things we lost
I simply wish to reduce the cost
of being what we've become
cold and lost
and to continue what we've begun
to press on despite the cost and animosity
and all the atrocities
despite this we strive to build a world
that tempers its ferocity
and lets me be.

With friends.

It hit me the other day
Not the smell of fresh tea
Nor the steam that hissed out of the spout
Spraying droplets into the air
But of the infinitesimal
Interconnected this of it all.

Even in this teapot a small ecosystem brews
Unaware of its function
I stared at my own reflection
And back it stared
It's eyes glassy
Or was that the sheen of the lacquer?
The smooth ceramic just was
yet my reflection was anything but
In it's simplicity it made a stranger out of me
I am a stranger to myself it seems
And yet I must be a teapot to others
Simplicity or duplicity
Equally deceptive yet difference in kind.
So let's drink tea you and I.

We would be the best looking couple on the beach.  
You would be continually dragging me into  your
condo bedroom to **** me hard up against the wall..

and then dragging me back out onto the beach
to slap me under the cover of the breaking waves..

where no one can hear me crying like a little *****.


Only to become overwhelmed within the emotions of it all;
and dragging me back into your condo bedroom..


Ah, **** Babe..

We are empty,
Half naked.
Our bodies meet the eye,
The room is quiet,
Sacred.

You slowly walk,
Our eyes talk,
Your lips,
They quiver.

Your voice,
Makes me shiver.

I am smaller,
My body polluted in sweat.

For one magical move ,
And I,
Am now undressed.

I think you may suspect the rest.

Slice the sun
Wield Its nucleus
Feel the throbs
Of its light
That's me
Part of you
No half-life
Me and you

You've made yourself  miniscule ..

in order to fit in to my Bloodstream
You are unsure..  not knowing

That there is a  chamber  within me
that has been carved out   solely

     for you--

The warmth of blood-flow,  caressing;
Bathing,  the you that feels you can't..

  That feels  there isn't..

That believes  there can never be
  A Home such as this--

       .. for you ;;
Residing, in the central part
    of me.

Alone  in the  chamber
  of your room..
You can't understand  why

things are different,  now;
..Why  everything you do

and everything  you say

   Feels so incredibly,,

   Incredibly  Warm

At dinner,
I give her my peppers
she gives me her celery,
and this is how we say I love you.