houses so close you can’t have sunlight without voyeurism
but how can one resist this air of night’s invigoration
her thick ankles can be seen through the lifted shade
next to the beer and rumpled magazines on her coffee table
it is 7:30, the kids are in bed, the husband, who knows?
it’s pull-tab night at the corner bar,
he likes that young girl who sells them
flicker, it feels good to sit down
how ironic that my long awaited silence feels so lonely
flicker, maybe if i bought that he would look at me again
flicker, do i even care anymore?
*** is more work than it’s worth sometimes
flicker, Jacque and Lisa keep me company, maybe
i DO want the deluxe faux ruby necklace and earing set
flicker, i wanted to be a ballerina when i was little
my god this house has awfully low ceilings
flicker, all this thinking is making me tired

For fifty cents
we bought ten eggs

For fifty cents
we bought a kilo of oranges

For fifty cents
we drunk espresso
in a coffee
across the street

For fifty cents,
at the flea market,
they were selling
at the car hub,
Jacque Prevert’s
- Charmes des Londres…

We bought that too

………………………………………………………………...
Jacques Prevert wrote “Charmes des Londres” in 1952.
*Grocery list for the market 15.02.2003.

I am from noise.
From a womb that was too crowded
and a million hospital wires
In a tiny broken body.

I am from laughter.
From towering Christmas trees and squash soup.
(Bright orange, it tasted like warmth)

I am from music.
From constant choir chants and piano fingers
Scrambling and hurried, excited.

I am from Michelle my Belle
From a full hectic house and gravestones
That never made the cut, no matter how artistic.

I am from a rusty fifteen passenger van.
From Rodgers and Frere Jacque.
Dancing bare feet on the cold white cement.

I am from Roots and Wings
From “that’s my girl!”
And “I’m sorry for your loss”

I am from hot cinnamon skin,
Glistening with sweat.
From a hard day’s work and “If you get better”

I am from squinting eyes and skeptical looks.
From the big oak tree leaves you could touch if you
Reached high enough.
And screams echoing everywhere.

I am from footsteps getting the laundry
From black and white movies that a child
Should never watch.
And gingersnaps with a hint of smoke.

In a black bound notebook,
Covered with crayon marks crazy
Within every lined page are my days I lived
My horizons are laced with uncertainties
I hide them under my pillow
Listen to ghost footsteps
And cradle Sunny to sleep.

While the world
And I
Mourn Kobe's passing,
On nearly the same day
Jihadists invaded villages...
West Africa,
Burkina Faso,
Alamou.

Villagers ordered out
Into the open areas
Gunned down,
Slashed,
Murdered.

An attendance question opens,
"What happened in the world?'

Kobe Bryant is gone.
Private helicopter crashed.
The world is on its head.

We hang our heads
In mourning.

Jacque's turn:
"My village was
Attacked Saturday.
Forty people killed.
My wife and children...
There.
The people are fleeing
To the capitol,
Ouagadouga."

[Awkward, this revelation.
How will I ever justify
A week of Edgar Allan Poe?]

We bow to pray.

So here I am, back where I started, farther gone maybe but not in the right direction.

The feelings are familiar and difficult to numb.

Shame, loneliness, self-loathing, hopelessness, defeat.

The wine and xanax don’t cut it and I know in the long run, they’re making it worse.

But when you tell yourself you want to die, any coping mechanism can seem excusable.

Excuses are a pillar of addiction: “anything to get through another day”.

And every day does feel like something to get through, something to dread.

Getting out of bed is never easy and I lack motivation because I lack hope.

Without hope It's hard to motivate yourself to change.

If you don’t believe that you’ll ever love yourself or your life, that you’ll ever be happy, that you’ll ever find someone you love, who will love you and you can be happy with; it’s hard to see the point.
Why make the effort in vain? Because you may not be worth it, and life may never feel worth it.

Life has never been bad to me, yet it’s always felt like more of a struggle then a reward.

I don’t know how to interact with people, especially not sober and I’m not even sure how to function sober anymore.

I told myself I’d get help after the breakup, but I continue to put everything off till “tomorrow”.

Now that I am alone, there isn’t anyone else to blame. I’m the reason there’s dishes in the sink, I’m the reason I blacked out last night, I’m the reason I keep buying blow every weekend, drinking every day and taking xanax every night. I’m the problem, it’s always been me, and I’ve always known that.

It’s tiring, life is tiring, because I’m tiring, and this is my life. I’m stuck with me and it ******* *****.

“It’ll pass, everything does”, that’s what I tell myself for comfort, but sometimes that doesn’t feel very comforting. Knowing that I want it all to pass, makes me wonder what’s the point of going through it at all.

I feel like a loser.

Like I’ve already failed at life and I’m only 28. I feel like I failed at it a long time ago, like everything was over before it ever really began, like I threw in the towel instead of giving it a fight.

And I’ve just been falling ever since.

I don’t honestly believe that’ll ever end; I don’t think I’ll ever land. Like all that lies before me is a void and what I should be concerned with is how comfortably I plummet.

I’m bitter too. It’s hard to be happy for people when you feel miserable. I don’t want people to hurt, but sometimes it’s hard to appreciate the success and happiness of others when you feel like such a **** show. The contrast exacerbates the pain.

I’m also tired of pretending I’m okay, of smiling and telling people I’m fine. I’m not, I can’t remember a time I ever was, I’m constantly on the verge of a breakdown and I think about killing myself routinely.

I googled ******* myself today, not because I was looking for an answer, to be honest I don’t fully understand why I searched it, why I continue to search “I want to **** myself”. I know what will come up, the same things that always do: suicide hotline numbers that I never call. I think it’s because I want help but also don’t. I’m afraid of the invasion, the finality of reaching out once, or if, I do.

I often feel like the only things I have supporting me are the alcohol and drugs and that without them I’ll fall, even though I know they’re dragging me down. I’m aware this is partly my addiction tricking my mind, but I am truly terrified to go without them; that I will crumble, and everyone will see all the parts of me I’ve been trying so hard not to look at myself.  

Sometimes I visualize jumping off the Jacque cartier bridge.
I used to visualize the same thing with the metro; me jumping, how’d it feel, how much time before I’d die, the image of my body crushed and splattered, on the window in the front, then trampled over and shredded underneath. When I was feeling really low, sometimes, I’d visualize bashing my head into a brick wall until my skull caved in and my brain was mush. It sounds grotesque, it is, but sometimes those thoughts bring me some form of calm that I’m not sure how to understand or explain.

But I also think about going to the bridge just so someone can save me, so I’ll be forced to get help without asking for it.

Although I do tell people I need help, when I get drunk and far too often. It’s actually very embarrassing and not usually helpful at all. I pass a point where I just cry to anyone and tell them how sad I am, how anxious, that I want to **** myself, I tell them all about my problems and about private things that have happened to me or embarrassing things I’ve done. I tell them all the things I never want anyone to know when I’m sober.

Then I sober up. I regret it, I feel ashamed and embarrassed and then a couple of days later I do it all again: a never-ending cycle of self-torment.

Shame is a heavy feeling; it can crush you.

It has crushed me, although I try to remember that I’ve crawled parts of myself out from under it before.

I also know the reasons I feel shame are socially constructed, that I feel it because I’ve internalized what is acceptable and not acceptable, and that I am the one shaming myself because of this internalization and my fear of others judgements and need for their acceptance.

So, I know that if I’m capable of shaming myself, then I’m capable of learning to forgive myself, to grow myself, to hold my head high, understand where my past actions have come from, know that even though they might not have been okay, it’s not all my fault and I am human and make mistakes and don’t need to feel shame. Because my shame accomplishes nothing.

It doesn’t make me a better person, it doesn’t take back anything I have done, it makes me weak, and vulnerable, depressed and anxious, it belittles me, it allows others to take advantage of me and excuses myself for mistreating me. It enables my addiction and bad habits, it’s a pillar with my excuses, it’s a pillar for my excuses.

SO **** SHAME.

IM OKAY
IM GREAT
IM ******* AWESOME
I WILL SUCCEED

Unfortunately, it’s not that easy… if my problems could be solved by me typing out my thoughts, well than maybe I’d be less ******. But for now, my invisible audience, my diary I suppose, will have to do for my venting, because the ferrets don’t seem to listen.

Chock·a·block discombobulated poem
for your reading pleasure
dashed off ad hoc
my final literary endeavor before
hour hand affixed
to intricately carved cuckoo clock
displaying carved leaves, birds,
deer heads (Jagdstück design),
other animals, aquatic militia man,

etc feigns firing flintlock
(announcing onset of
daylight savings times)
said French soldier christened Jacque
dipping paddles of oarlock
into time stream
as the sun beats down,
he doth shockingly unfrock.

Once again modest wily word wizard
sports, struts his stuff inarguably
a blinding blizzard
of poetic gumbo mumbo jumbo,
his convoluted crafted vizard
easily misinterpreted as offal
lee batty, quirky, snooty, trippy...
who honestly doesn't know A from izzard.

The ticking seconds will not wait
while yours feebly cobbles etches
across blank figurative slate
lame resultant impasse I narrate
experiencing disappointment
earlier spurt of balderdash,
gibberish, *******... which I hate
yet must suffice impossible mission
to complete satisfactory poem does agitate.

Vainglorious idea to employ
daylight savings time
even a mediocre reasonable rhyme
futile effort finds current strife prime
juncture to breakaway
and resume later nighttime or
call writing aspiration quits
crowded house that for being sublime?

Unlikely literary pursuit or aim
will find yours truly a best seller
never experiencing accolades
nor remuneration to claim
truth be told, cuz I haint seeking
neither fortune nor fame.

The principle impetus explaining zeal
to discipline generic human to hone
his ability, where basic blocks of English
language (words) linkedin incorporating
mental cogs and gears mesh
making (mishmash) as figurative wheel
in the sky keeps on turning

perhaps divine intervention
intercedes as yours truly takes
lock, stock, and barrel of himself, one
bumbling, grumbling, tumbling schlemiel
cue hapless characteristic vagrant *****
as viewed courtesy black and white newsreel
enroute to meet cobbler, cuz worn out heel
actually kind individual stopped to offer hobo
an uber lyft courtesy fancy automobile.

I write to the professors
I write to long lost friends

But mostly they ignore me
I'm alone again

They think that my ideas
Perhaps only just pretend

But then comes American Cosmic
Who knows where this will end?

       Jacque Vallee befriends?