made,
can’t seem to get that grasp,
of the continuity needed,
the
regular  maintenance schedule
good loving
requires

oh hell, part lazy,  the origin of most of-my
manifest manifold
m a s c u l i n e mistakes, permitting
a dario daily “i love you” to get rust covered
by routinization, poor pronouns and missy pronunciation.,
forgetting that
we us and ours  
are the foundational
cornerstones of the best love theorems
that were poetic uncovered in Ancient Persia,
or were writ in sanskrit

certainly borrowed by the Bard,
and will this
not be numbered in their
midst

gonna reread some Hafiz tonight
when she asks what do you want
to watch tonight, and maybe if
I am feeling gracious I will reannoint
myself a Reader
as well as a
writer of only love poetry

meanwhile accept this scrap as a sacrificial
offering, to be a burnt offering, consumed
entirely after just one reading

with luck
I will be posting
of flood conditions
tonight

a bio hazard
to be relished
or in the guy
parlance

oh  yeah!

I regret every bad thing I ever said,
I know you regret that you ever met me.

I’m so sorry for so much I did
But not alot; relatively speaking.

I had so much more spite to spill
but I bit my tongue after you said you didn't care anymore

and it was clear that you meant it;
I still hope you enjoy the rest of your life.
I accept that we will die as unforgiven strangers.

I felt it
When I spoke
To the judge,
For my son,
Years of shell work
Encasing fear and sanity, cracked with each glance, falling away. Everyone listening.
I was left lost
Like a snail losing it's shell
Mushy and vulnerable
A Pulpy mess.

Was it enough
That I said
Or too much.
So much was left out
The Russian Roulette admission
The thoughts of jumping 15 floors from his hotel
So many letters making up words and paragraphs upon paragraphs
of 15 years.
Throwing out a gun
Into the city trash.

How could I be anything more than a mother
Who let the saving flatten her out of existence. Incoherence and pulp.
Will it be discarded
All that effort
To keep him alive
At my expense.
Is that what mothers do?
I'll never get to return. Life doesn't
Let you.

MY LIFE



So now I see life for what it is, a crazy collage of feelings, events and emotions we all endure. Today I saw my mate in Ward 10. Don’t you know that he nearly died as infection gorged his body? They took half of his insides out and he’s hanging in there. I have a truly eventful life – meeting pilots, gothic singers and tattooists. I have tried marriage, promiscuous ***, Class A drugs, reckless driving for that crazy buzz of madness – the wrong way to find happiness. The beauty of a delta wing killing machine floors me, and names like Mirage and Mig lift me to the heavens, for I have lived and seen many things in this **** up called life which now seems to last forever but in reality is only a second. Debbie was my soulmate for a short period; every moment was times by ten, in intense excitement. I know it didn’t last but that’s the way it goes, in the game of life – my life.

I like to think that when you left me, you went straight to church. you listened to the sermon, but you couldn't stand up when the congregation sang.
I like to think that someday you'll stop trying to wash my scriptures off your hands with holy water.
I like to think that I'm that old mattress you had when you were ten; you always said it held the same familiarity as falling in love with a stranger.
the mattress' holes from falling asleep with lit cigarettes match up perfectly with my alibi.

I'm not to be trusted. I'm an angry human.
I grew up with broken glass in my lungs and cracked ribs.
something inside me snaps even further when the sun shapes your body into a shadow on my bedroom wall.

I want to redefine the word 'fire' with your name, and light candles with you. I want to make my walls sweat. I want you to burn up my ****** clothes. I want you to set my books ablaze. I want you to realize the hardest part is never letting go, but forgetting you ever had a handle.

you can't be the flame and the wick.
you need to leave me to burn down, like the altar candles in the front of the sanctuary, for everyone to see.

sometimes I think god hates me; I'm just a pawn in his and satan's chess game.
small and insignificant in value - I almost want satan to win.

after all,
if you are fire,
hell will feel like home.

but then I remember that I'm tired of controlled burns and scrubbing your soot off of my hands.

so I like to think that when you left me, you went straight to church. you listened to the sermon, but you couldn't stand up when the congregation sang.

and I like to think that Saint Jude called me out of your blaze, and that I left you there with all of your confessions and your communions in your own personal hell.

either way, it's not my cross to bear anymore.

with a throated frog
  i re-digest
    my sickness' exhume

(a thing i did
  when piloting
   a conversation
    most polite)

Turning in this day
Turning over in dismay
For here, as I lay,
Comforted in these sheets
A chill turns to a burning blaze
My mind trapped in a dizzying haze

Aching muscle and raspy tone
Weakness cripples every bone
Shallow comes each breath
That escapes my parched lips
To countless others it foretold death
Filmed in countless clips

But, not for I
Not in this day, not this time
Not in this peculiar rhyme
For here I shall not die

To recover
To grow stronger
Prepare for what may come
The war is not yet over
With hope, it won't be much longer
For this great disease we shall overcome.

- Jay M
June 3rd, 2021