there’s something remarkable
about the magical realisms
between the admixture
of writing and driving.
of course, it’s a difficult task
to literally write while driving
and I don’t recommend it
to anyone but the ideas you
can come up with in your head
become evidently transparent
like a clearing through the fog
and if I was given the chance
with a reliable car, a mixtape of
good tunes, a decent amount
of time to road trip from
Portland Maine to Portland Oregon
and getting lost in the
reverie of elucidation
and neglected dreams
along the countryside
and over the mountains
and through the Great Basin
I could easily write an overkill
of poems in my head and if I
could just get them down on
paper would be a
magical realism
in itself.

To poetry,
There is all kinds of women out there, women in the physical form, it’s only their personality is there difference is & where I value, soft spoken voices, touches over poetry curves, breathes & gasps, eyes like stars I gaze upon, addiction to romance, lets us talk in deep discussion, if not, let me glare deep in the eyes that you own, experience life together, let me experience you, love is a deep concern of mine. But such concerns I cannot commit to pen & paper that produces poetry. Love, bleeding into one soul as neo-enlightenment.

It was a tough time to beat. 19 seconds? It’s actually faster than getting hit by a car. Reeling lights are flashing and suddenly all of it makes sense. Every piece of thought dismantled and was put into its rightful place. There was no beginning and end, only Now. This is where Time rests and Truth is one with the stars. 19 seconds and everything shifted. Blink once, stand still, and look up. Tell me, what do you see?

I seem to reward myself for bad behavior, and while others don’t understand it to be bad, it gnaws at me. Grows like a tumor, because even if an accident, or happenstance, I still seem to shrink, but not before my body rebels and solidifies into making me gorge on fiber until I lose the nerve and rush to other means. I’m not supposed to do it on purpose, not like Lori, and I hold myself back, convinced that my weight-loss is not an extension of my personality, but I cant help but admit I’m obsessed with the scale. Obsessed with an anti-me. My therapist doesn’t see the pattern, and maybe she is right, but I am too busy worrying about becoming obsessed that I have become obsessed with being obsessed. A hundred and seven pounds, and I have had to seriously fight to control myself not to create harm, and when my stomach doesn’t seem to want to let go of food after days, I can’t help but go to my medicine cabinet, find the laxative, and let my body suffer in such an embarassing way.

I watched Lori do it, and I swore I wouldn’t. But I am, even if for the sake of relief, of release. And I swear it’s not a habit, but that means nothing come every Monday when I have to be the beacon at the group weigh-ins, to mark some kind of false sense of hope for others. They call me an inspiration, and even if not intentional, I feel like I have been cheating.

My grandfather asks me every time I tell him about my weight-loss, “Are you sure you aren’t hurting yourself?” and I am reminded of the decades of humiliation he wrought upon me due to my obesity. What right does he have to ask of harm when he helped drive me to four hundred and more pounds? Maybe this is punishment for all the times his words cut deep enough to make me keep eating in anguish. Maybe I’ll just keep losing long after I hit my goal until there is nothing left– not even dust to be carried along with the wind.

Thoughts like that make me worry that it has evolved from lifestyle change to pure, unadulterated obsession. The kind I have seen time and time again.

My family has always been riddled with addicts.

being squeezed like strawberries
red and porous
until the juices come
squirting out of us and
we must retire to our
fantasies of escape
because we’re choking
choking on self-involvement
choking on lack of confidence
choking on bad commercial music
choking on stupidity
choking on laughter
choking on living
choking on media
choking on stress
choking on words
choking on the dread of work
and just when we gasp for  
a breathe of fresh air
there’s always gonna be
someone to approach you
and tighten down the pressure
around your neck again
with their fingertips
and if you can’t breathe
you can’t fight
and become more docile
and subservient
to the hard pill of
commanding superiority
to swallow

supervisors and managers
are like road construction
on summers break,
making it more difficult
for you to get to where
you wanna go when
things are already
running smooth

I’ve seen too much enforcement
and not enough leadership
to last a lifetime
and I no longer
care