My mother enters the kitchen, says that her hands
are dripping, begs my father to finish his work
at the sink.  I observe, for a moment, the expression
upon her face which seems conflicted between
a desire to laugh and a need
                                               to feel clean.
I interject that clearly her fate is to have
dog placenta on her hands for all eternity.
Her disgust and amusement seem equally to rise.
After she has washed herself, she speaks of
Ponyo's last intermission between long
intervals of birthing to nap three fleeting minutes;
another contraction gave way to a wriggling
new mole who squeaked and groaned with
bizarre endearment, seizing my heart and causing
its mother's head, after jolting awake,
                                                          ­     to go limp.
Mom says it's sad-but-sweet.  Dear dog
has spent herself six times already in increments
which, as they increase, draw her spirit still closer
to a totally inevitable chasm of fled energy;
as soon as she falls asleep, yet a new indignant mass
of living parts swaddled in loose skin and wet fur
shoves its way outward, forward, world-ward.
Ponyo is not selfish.  Immediately after birth seven,
she begins to lick her offspring clean and nudge it
towards her belly, where it may feed itself.
"Only just got a break, and already she's
                                                           ­         back to work."
I'm one of five children my mother has carried
and raised--and for a human, five are many!
I'm afraid to give birth even once, despite
that a greater want of mine is to hold
my own child someday.  I wonder if that
is motherhood: discomfort and indecision
concerning the worth of the effort in labor,
in birth, in the weak moments thereafter--
stroking one's child's downy, collapsible head
and feeling a need to protect her, to nurture her,
that is more pressing even than the so-
alluring whispers which Sleep may breathe--
and even beyond these moments, when I have said
to my mother that I hate her (because
to me, it was obvious that I did not,
and was too callous, obtuse, and insensitive
to think that she might just believe it)
and then missed church the next day to stay
with her when she felt ill and tired--if this
is motherhood, I wonder.  It must be more even
than I could ever have thought like wanting
to laugh and to wring one's hands
(and even just to go to sleep)
                                                all at once.

There are far better worlds out there
Hazy, unclear , certainly not vivid
in a journey of tangible emotions
where God indeed can sit down
for a game of chess
the result determining
who will hold
the key to the world of unlimited possibilities and endless travel
in time so infinite and uncountable
that the clock hardly ticks.

I would like to think that my every move
on the white and black checkered board
controls the torque in the tug of war
between six people-
death, the priest, the eternal mistress,
the aging child, the faceless warrior and
the pied piper of course.

I would play,
I would watch their dance
go in a trance like state
dream and wake up
wake up and dream
in a night that is always a night
yet there is evening lights outside
rampant wind
and triumphant music.

As my white queen approaches the demolition
of God's black king
I notice all the squares in the board
reversing sides
and either I will lose when I should I have won
or the game will go on forever.
Dreams are a gentle reminder
how absurd reality is.

© Nothing Personal. March 29 2012.

Next time you tell me to go away
I'll show you just how good I am at disappearing
You just haven't stuck around long enough for the
vanishing act
You have the audacity to
say my name tastes like filth
But have you ever thought
that the source of your uncleanliness
was born somewhere in your lung's
and made its way up your throat
I can taste that
when I kiss you
No wonder everything turn's to grit
in your mouth
You have the stones
to say
you're an insomniac
But there's a difference between
not wanting to sleep
and not being able to
And your hands wouldn't shake so much
if you didn't drink so much coffee
and you wouldn't look so tired
If you smiled once in a while
and your breath wouldn't taste
or smell
or look
like ****
if you didn't smoke
100 packets a day.
So you have the audacity to tell me
"Well, baby the truth hurts."
In that southern drawl
With eyes so animated
I wonder which movie star you're impersonating now
After four months of Kurt Cobain
I've had enough of your angst and love letters
And I'd love to lay
my hands against your throat
and let you feel the threat
of life
draining away
But I know you would just smile
and rack your brain
for a quote from a movie you have stored somewhere
away

A simple cry for help;
Unheard
Tears falling in silence,
Before my eyes, years flashed by
You know, I thought you went away
And yet here you stand,
On the doorstep of my mind

Perhaps you are fictitious,
I could will you away,
Except I already tried, you remained
Still able to strike me down,
After five hundred times down this road
You'd think I've learnt my lesson,
But I keep ending up here

I can't say where this is coming from,
I don't know what it is I'm trying to portray
A writer with no point of view,
Only trying to put the same emotion,
Into a thousand different words,
Was that fictitous enough to **** you away?

She faces choice
She wants to be who she was
The torment isn’t gone, she expected it to
Evaporate, over time
Time has passed, and it still resides inside
There is one way out
She wants to **** it all away

Sharp objects, broken mirrors
A hatred of self-identity,
Hate her, Scar her, Erase her
White, ****** flesh, covered in sickly red lines
Carve, cut and bleed
This will erase
All pain

The blade, slowly ripping through
Digging down deeper, exposing that which sleeps;
Within, it pours out of her
The blood cleansing, she slips away
Euphoric, she is the creator
Of her very own
Catharsis

When I first sold myself there were
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All the marks of war
All that searing heat
With all that pretty malice
Spilling Paris in the street
‘Twenty marks’ I called
‘Twenty marks’
That was 1943
And Piaf was doing well

Nurse, do you know what it is like:
To have a man inside of you
that you could never love?

There was, once upon a time, a pretty little ****
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
Lying on my floor
And Maman was starving, and my sister, too
Dignity wasn’t half the tax it seemed before
He gave me a baby, and a disease,
That was 1944:
Piaf was quite successful, then

Doctor, can you fathom:
Having sores all over you?
Yes, down there, and
all up and down your thighs, your body burns.
Can you feel that?

Then, the Germans left, and the Allies came, all
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All of that decor
Fleeing, running out
On the French horizon
Retreat
The Allies were the same
‘Three dollars’ I called
‘Three dollars’
That was 1945:
Piaf was languishing
Paris had died

Jacques, my dear:
Those were our times
smoky cabarets, sculptured croons, fine wines
your rifle on your back could wind my morning with worry
and with my scourges, you took me all the same
but what I remember is:
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
then:

nothing

“Monsieur Boursin - she has passed.”

He sobs,
it sounds like
war.