For all my friends and family i know you are all feeling
frustrated, helpless, and ready
to give up. It’s not your fault. You are not the cause of our suffering.

You may find that difficult to believe, since we may lash out at you, switch from being loving and kind to non-trusting and cruel on a dime, and we may even straight up blame you. But it’s not your fault. You deserve to understand more about this condition and what we wish we could say but may not be ready.

It is possible that something that you said or did “triggered” us. A trigger is something that sets off in our minds a past traumatic event or causes us to have distressing thoughts. While you can attempt to be sensitive with the things you say and do, that’s not always possible, and it’s not always clear why something sets off a trigger.

The mind is very complex. A certain song, sound, smell, or words can quickly fire off neurological connections that bring us back to a place where we didn’t feel safe
, and we might respond in the now with a similar reaction (think of military persons who fight in combat — a simple backfiring of a car can send them into flashbacks. This is known as PTSD, and it happens to a lot of us, too.)

But please know that at the very same time that we are pushing you away with our words or behavior, we also desperately hope that you will not leave us or abandon us in our time of despair and desperation.

This extreme, black or white thinking and experience of totally opposite desires is known as a dialectic. Early on in our diagnosis and before really digging in deep with DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), we don’t have the proper tools to tell you this or ask for your support in healthy ways.

We may do very dramatic things, such as harming ourselves in some way (or threatening to do so), going to the hospital, or something similar. While these cries for help should be taken seriously, we understand that you may experience “burn out” from worrying about us and the repeated behavior.

Please trust that, with professional help, and despite what you may have heard or come to believe, we CAN and DO get better.

These episodes can get farther and fewer between, and we can experience long periods of stability and regulation of our emotions. Sometimes the best thing to do, if you can muster up the strength in all of your frustration and hurt, is to grab us, hug us, and tell us that you love us, care, and are not leaving.

One of the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is an intense fear of being abandoned, and we therefore (often unconsciously) sometimes behave in extreme, frantic ways to avoid this from happening. Even our perception that abandonment is imminent can cause us to become frantic.

Another thing that you may find confusing is our apparent inability to maintain relationships. We may jump from one friend to another, going from loving and idolizing them to despising them – deleting them from our cell phones and unfriending them on Facebook. We may avoid you, not answer calls, and decline invitations to be around you — and other times, all we want to do is be around you.

This is called splitting, and it’s part of the disorder. Sometimes we take a preemptive strike by disowning people before they can reject or abandon us. We’re not saying it’s “right.” We can work through this destructive pattern and learn how to be healthier in the context of relationships. It just doesn’t come naturally to us. It will take time and a lot of effort.

It’s difficult, after all, to relate to others properly when you don’t have a solid understanding of yourself and who you are, apart from everyone else around you.

In Borderline Personality Disorder, many of us experience identity disturbance issues. We may take on the attributes of those around us, never really knowing who WE are.  You remember in high school those kids who went from liking rock music to pop to goth, all to fit in with a group – dressing like them, styling their hair like them, using the same mannerisms? It’s as if we haven’t outgrown that.

Sometimes we even take on the mannerisms of other people (we are one way at work, another at home, another at church), which is part of how we’ve gotten our nickname of “chameleons.” Sure, people act differently at home and at work, but you might not recognize us by the way we behave at work versus at home. It’s that extreme.

For some of us, we had childhoods during which, unfortunately, we had parents or caregivers who could quickly switch from loving and normal to abusive. We had to behave in ways that would please the caregiver at any given moment in order to stay safe and survive. We haven’t outgrown this.

Because of all of this pain, we often experience feelings of emptiness. We can’t imagine how helpless you must feel to witness this. Perhaps you have tried so many things to ease the pain, but nothing has worked. Again – this is NOT your fault.

The best thing we can do during these times is remind ourselves that “this too shall pass” and practice DBT skills – especially self-soothing – things that helps us to feel a little better despite the numbness. Boredom is often dangerous for us, as it can lead to the feelings of emptiness.  It’s smart for us to stay busy and distract ourselves when boredom starts to come on.

On the other side of the coin, we may have outburst of anger that can be scary. It’s important that we stay safe and not hurt you or ourselves. This is just another manifestation of BPD.

We are highly emotionally sensitive and have extreme difficulty regulating/modulating our emotions. Dr. Marsha Linehan, founder of DBT, likens us to 3rd degree emotional burn victims.

Through Dialectical Behavior Therapy, we can learn how to regulate our emotions so that we do not become out of control.  We can learn how to stop sabotaging our lives and circumstances…and we can learn to behave in ways that are less hurtful and frightening to you.

Another thing you may have noticed is that spaced out look on our faces. This is called dissociation. Our brains literally disconnect, and our thoughts go somewhere else, as our brains are trying to protect us from additional emotional trauma. We can learn grounding exercises and apply our skills to help during these episodes, and they may become less frequent as we get better.

But, what about you?

If you have decided to tap into your strength and stand by your loved one with BPD, you probably need support too.  Here are some ideas:

Remind yourself that the person’s behavior isn’t your fault

Tap into your compassion for the person’s suffering while understanding that their behavior is probably an intense reaction to that suffering

Do things to take care of YOU. On the resources page of this blog, there is a wealth of information on books, workbooks, CDs, movies, etc. for you to understand this disorder and take care of yourself. Be sure to check it out!

In addition to learning more about BPD and how to self-care around it, be sure to do things that you enjoy and that soothe you, such as getting out for a walk, seeing a funny movie, eating a good meal, taking a warm bath — whatever you like to do to care for yourself and feel comforted.

Ask questions. There is a lot of misconception out there about BPD.

Remember that your words, love, and support go a long way in helping your loved one to heal, even if the results are not immediately evident

Not all of the situations I described apply to all people with Borderline Personality Disorder. One must only have 5 symptoms out of 9 to qualify for a diagnosis, and the combinations of those 5-9 are seemingly endless.  This post is just to give you an idea of the typical suffering and thoughts those of us with BPD have.

This is my second year in DBT. A year ago, I could not have written this letter, but it represents much of what was in my heart but could not yet be realized or expressed.

My hope is that you will gain new insight into your loved one’s condition and grow in compassion and understand for both your loved one AND yourself, as this is not an easy road.

I can tell you, from personal experience, that working on this illness through DBT is worth the fight. Hope can be returned. A normal life can be had. You can see glimpses and more and more of who that person really is over time, if you don’t give up.  I wish you peace.

He lives in a time of plague.

The tag team of cholera and dedication killed his father, for all Dr. Juvenal Urbino knows, his father was faithful to both work and love.

The good doctor knew from an early age that his work would be his love, and from a slightly less tender age he discovered that his love of flesh and the body ran deeper than mere science could take him.

He met Fermina Daza in the doorway between clinical curiosity and obsession over her doe’s gait, and as he walked through his heart made room for a new kind of dedication.

He thought his devotion would be equally as precise as his practice.

Fifteen or so years of marriage, between years in Paris they bled together like a Van Gogh after a rainshower, the intricacies of their companionship were jointly held in a contractual cradle, but neither of them felt obligated.

Dr. Urbino was before my time, but my story will know the life of Carlos Mucharraz, Pre-Med major, they both dedicate themselves to their love. I’ve never seen her, but I can imagine Carlos likens her gait to that of a doe. He fawns over her from 17 hours away, for nearly a year.

Like a Texas dust devil, he sends his love through the air to Minneapolis to brighten her phone screen and her day.

They’ve only ever spent time together twice.

I’d like to think of his devotion like a boulder, immovable, but twisters slither across prairies as wicked winds push them towards seas of lust, but I’d like to think his love flew above turbulent skies.

I thought Dr. Urbino as a rock.

He must have thought of his fidelity as a disease. His father died fighting cholera, and Urbino would not let his affliction of faithfulness **** him. He thought himself ill, and the mantra of his practice taught him one thing only: cure.

In a slum of San Juan de la Cienaga, pants around his ankles, holding a mulatto girl’s legs around his waist, he crumbled like stale bread as he plunged himself into infidelity.

This man of granite broke and fragmented, his sin etched a crooked cobweb of fractures into his back, I wonder if the beads of sweat stung his spine, or dulled the pain.

But maybe I should put my faith in dust devils.

Humans may be able to shatter the hardest stone, but no one commands the sky, for it straddles North and South, East and West, Fort Worth and Minneapolis.

Gradually as darkness fell the wind that had beset the travellers all day subsided and the particular silence of the lakeside clearing assumed a presence. It was a silence of the discrete movements of animals and sporadic calls of birds, the settling now into stillness of trees wind-tossed for a night and day, the breathing to and fro movement of a large body of water that already held the night sky’s reflections and would soon be enveloped in moonlight. Zou Fen rose and beckoned Meng Ning to accompany her to the Emperor’s Hall. There, they stood together on the long veranda and looked down through the sporadic trees onto the lake.

‘It is said that the Master did not discuss anomalies, feats of strength, civil disorder, or the spirits,’ said Zuo Fen quoting Confucius. ‘It is for you and I to disregard sorcery as nothing but illusion and cunning. We must bend our thoughts to seeking explanations from circumstance.’

‘We know, my Lady, that Yang Mo had already seduced the Emperor and his guests with his many and infamous illusions. To achieve these feats of the miraculous would have required a sizable retinue and the most careful preparation. It is unlikely that the Emperor would have countenanced such sorcery in daylight hours, so we might imagine how with the play of lanterns, fire and smoke Yang Mo was able to make the impossible seem possible. Like the actor he undoubtedly was, he was probably a man of commanding presence - all eyes would have been upon his person, all ears tuned to his words. And round about the harsh clangorous sounds and shouts of his assistants would be sustained as his illusions began to unfold.’

‘Wisely spoken Meng Ning,’ says Zuo Fen, ‘a most convincing exposition. So we must imagine how after a long presentation of illusory wonders, the imbibing of much wine and other intoxigents inhaled or consumed, the first presage of dawn comes upon the company. Guests and their consorts seek the privacy of their quarters, lights are dimmed, only the meditative music of the zither sounds in the Emperor’s hall as new confections of poetry continue to vie with the ancient verses. Then, as the Emperor rises to seek his chamber there, half hidden amongst the wraiths of mist floating on the lake, lies a sailing vessel, its single sail empty of wind, a spectre at once marvelous and shocking.’

‘But an illusionary boat, possibly a vessel that could not and need not run with the wind, something constructed, a shell no more, made out of the lightest wood or taut cloth that in the blue dawn would seem more substantial than it is, fashioned and placed in position by Yang Mo’s assistants at a right distance to evoke the illusion of reality.’

‘The Emperor summons his court and its guests, summons Yang Mo, regarding this as a step taken beyond what protocol allows, a violation of the ancient spirit traditions of the lake. Yang Mo stands his ground suggesting that this is his greatest illusion yet, that there is no harm done, and should the Emperor decline to sail on the ****** waters he will take himself away from his presence boat and all.’

‘At this Xie Jui, the second wife, lets it be known that she regards with some contempt the prohibition of a vessel’s presence on the lake. She wishes passage on the boat and if the Emperor will not accompany her she will go alone with Yang Mo. At this the Emperor is incensed but challenges Yang Mo to explain how he will deliver Xie Jui to the vessel.’

‘This is where, My Lady, we will need to seek the Red Slate Path that, it is said, Yang Mo prepared to take himself and his passenger to the waiting boat - only to disappear from view in front of the very eyes of the assembly. Our task for tomorrow perhaps?  Jia Li can be our guide as she surely knows its location.’

And so, as the three quarter moon rises over Eryi-lou and the chamberlain takes his leave of the courtesan, Mei Lim appears from the near darkness to escort her mistress to the small chamber where they will pass the night. Zuo Fen remains in a trance-like state but allows the ministrations of her maid to prepare her for the business of sleep.
      Meanwhile Meng Ning, intoxicated by Zuo Fen’s presence, does not return to his quarters but takes the terrace steps down, down to the lakeshore. He allows his official skills as a poet to fashion an array of characters he will first commit to memory, only later write out in his fine calligraphic script, and then destroy. Whereas Zuo Fen commutes between dream and reality he has no such pleasure. This is a stark, cold place at autumn’s end. But this condition only seems to excite and fuel his passion for this woman, this gracious, mysterious woman with whom he has spent the recent hours in close proximity. Her face floats before his eyes; her precise lips and still perfect teeth, gentle chin and youthful neck, the beauty and grace of her bearing seated cross-legged like a sage before him.  He imagines for a brief moment her long nakedness revealed in the bright moonlight under which he now stands. Holding this momentary image close to his physical self he makes his way up the many terraces to the small wooden chamber in which he will sleep.
       Despite her journeying and the revelations of the day Zuo Fen lies awake. She is savouring a very different quality of the night in this remote place. For many years she has remained wakeful in the hours of the Rat and the Ox to welcome her Lord Wu should his goat cart find its way to her court. She would like to rise and reflect on the images that hold sleep from her – but fears to wake her maid without whose close attention she might falter. This natural world beyond her court and the Emperor’s gardens are of an almost constant wonder. She reflects that as she gets older each season seems to become more vivid than its predecessor. This autumn, with its vivid dreams and visions, she likens to flowers picked from her garden, their colours and textures continuing to hold true and firm. Between such thoughts the intimacy of her time with Meng Ning remind her of the delight of human association. Aside from her dear brother Zuo-Si she has rarely known that keen intimacy of another man - other than her Lord. Though she has, she reflects further, in the writing of The Pale Girl, allowed her mind to explore the variousness of the body’s pleasure. To school Meng Ning in the arts of passion would be pleasurable indeed, and she considers he would be a most willing and attentive student. She imagines, for a moment, guiding him towards the exacting refinements of touch and stroke a woman requires to achieve the deepest coitus. Her body stirs as this thought takes hold and caresses her towards necessary sleep.

(to be continued)

A report assembled over 3 years by NAASA scientists has now confirmed that there is life in outer space
They cannot however determine whether it is Martian,  Venusion or Pluterian.

Whatever this life form is we know that it is posing as a great artist with both brush and word although our cryptologists are still trying to make sense out of the rambling messages this life form keeps transmitting.

Our artistic impression of this being likens it to the right frontal lobe of a human brain covered by a beret

Should you receive email or any other form of correspondence from this being you are strongly advised to ignore them as trying to decipher such messages can cause permanent brain damage

In the midst of my wakening,
what is this quintessence of ash
that haunts my soul?

What is sanity,
which quivers not need before your eyes,
whether you do not exist in reality,
only fiction in my assonance.

What wonder is the reasoning of man,
how simple in splendour. The clarity
of wakefulness which I perceive to be
sanity is only the same clarity with
which I dream or breathe, only the same
clarity which madmen believe to be reality.

If deception and error are my clarity
then nothing is my reality, for all lie
to protect themselves from the nightmare of old,
His power not enough to protect your mind
from the evil inside of your bones, the fire inside
of your soul. Which likens to the hellfire I find
in the dampening nights of relentless cries;
the corruption of your mind is clarity - a
clarity in your twisted reality.

In due season, the yesteryears
of what once youth could be:

—I've been young in love
—an old soul, but of a young heart

Like as a child likens their time to being
plenty as when the sun is in their eyes
Our youthful days have come to set,
a flower in the skins of being a beautiful
fragile being

I'd be like you see of my nature,
twisting to sun of my creator
We are all beautiful flowers—
in the grounds of time, and life
Planted with purpose; we grow, we live,
wither off, and eventually die

                           ~This is all our lives

Goodmorning, Donald, my sick friend.
I've come to help you tweet again
Because your vision's simply creepy,
Has left you vulnerable to tweet with me.
And these visions I have planted in your brain
Are quite insane
Within the bounds of violence.

Of careless schemes you talk by phone.
Narrowed choices cobbled in stone
'Neath my control, you are a champ.
I turn your thinking to the cold and damp
Through your eyes stabs the flash of terror and fright
That blocks all light
Revealing the bounds of violence.

And in this blackened night I saw
Your MAGA People, by the score.
People jeering without speaking.
People fearing without listening.
So you tweet along to voices that they share.
And so they care
To set the bounds of violence.

"Tools," say I, "With Trump you'll know
Violence, likens more and grows.
Read Trumps words that he might teach you.
Feel my charms so I might reach you,"
And Trumps words like giant droplets fell
Which scattered cross the bounds of violence.

And these people cowed and bayed
To the tweets The Don had made.
And the News Reports flashed out warnings
But their words were never quite forming.
And the News said,
The Tweets of the POTUS are written as satanic calls
When darkness falls.
And prospers the bounds of violence."

I have seen, I have seen, I have seen all I need to –

The illuminating ideas rolling gently from your lips, caressing my mind,
vivifying my thoughts, reviving lost electrons, electrifying burnt out neurons –
charging my mind, challenging my intellect, changing my perspective – there is no Starry Night, no Mona Lisa, no Shakespeare sonnet, no Ginsburg “Howl,” no Ezra Pound on a black bough, that likens to the magnificence of your words, the radiance of your smile, the wonderment of your eyes, or the fun of your laugh. There was nothing special about the moments before, not the jester, nor a stunning sunset, but something charmed happened after the jester exited stage right, a simple phrase, uttered from your lips, the what matters not, just the swift insight that I was in awe. Never have I been in awe before, a new experience, that never faded, that stuck with me for the days to come as I wander aimlessly dreaming of the greener experiences you will open me to. I leave myself unguarded, there are no masks, no sad howling mask of despair, no happy grinning mask of cheer, just me, open to you, your ideas, your enlightenment. Paint, draw, sketch, mold me into who I should be for you, I am your canvas, you are my artist, this will be a masterpiece that will hang on the walls of museums, in the halls of temples to come, to put people in bewilderment as they rub their eyes for they have seen all there is to see now.  

– nothing can compare to what I have now seen, life has meaning, and it’s before me, in your eyes, your smile, your mind, your you.

My stomach does a double flip
then darts straight to the heights
like the steam upon a coffee's lip
that's puffed and whirls delight
each time I catch a glimpse afar
or near of you my dearest
my lightness likens with the stars
setting fire upon my spirit
an hour or two will do just fine
though never fully slake me
but what is love if not lost time
and I've lost too much lately
so have a cup or two my dream
make my simmering being steam

Charcoal trees
crowned in
greenish grey,
diluted in mist;

glitten dew, spilt
by sword shaped ferns,
bruising in yellow
the bushy scented moss;

likens' frozen tracery,
gothic earthly waves,
bursting gloomy barks
into shades of red and sand;

in a friable sunbeam,
a swirl of a honey bee.

I have seen, I have seen, I have seen all I need to –

The illuminating ideas rolling gently from your lips, caressing my mind,

vivifying my thoughts, reviving lost electrons, electrifying burnt out neurons –

charging my mind, challenging my intellect, changing my perspective – there is no Starry Night, no Mona Lisa, no Shakespeare sonnet, no Ginsburg “Howl,” no Ezra Pound on a black bough, that likens to the magnificence of your words, the radiance of your smile, the wonderment of your eyes, or the fun of your laugh. There was nothing special about the moments before, not the jester, nor a stunning sunset, but something charmed happened after the jester exited stage right, a simple phrase, uttered from your lips, the what matters not, just the swift insight that I was in awe. Never have I been in awe before, a new experience, that never faded, that stuck with me for the days to come as I wander aimlessly dreaming of the greener experiences you will open me to. I leave myself unguarded, there are no masks, no sad howling mask of despair, no happy grinning mask of cheer, just me, open to you, your ideas, your enlightenment. Paint, draw, sketch, mold me into who I should be for you, I am your canvas, you are my artist, this will be a masterpiece that will hang on the walls of museums, in the halls of temples to come, to put people in bewilderment as they rub their eyes for they have seen all there is to see now.

– nothing can compare to what I have now seen, life has meaning, and it’s before me, in your eyes, your smile, your mind, your you.

Are you aware of how you affect me?
Of the ways that you make me crazy
for you?

I could spend all day by your side.
And don't ask me, I can't explain it.
Not at all.

Except maybe I can,
I see the divine in you.
It ***** me in like a howling wind,
and I am but a feather caught
in the gusts and blows of
your storm.

(I think) this was the way it was intended.
Some sort of supernatural inclination
towards a bond so deep.

That's what we're always seeking, no?
And there isn't one fairytale that likens itself to us,
to what we are,
except maybe all of them.

Because all the love stories are the same (even in their difference).
The constant pull towards something stronger than flesh,
deeper that words,
and softer than lonely hearts
who've found in each other the force that heals sadness.

It's really all around.
In our hearts, written on our souls.
The divine in you is so attractive,
I can only see love for what it is,
to try and know love for who He is.

Something in you is so Good,
to me.

Because of Him.

Average aesthetics impressed upon
the dreamers asleep with the television on.
They are selling validation,
the slippery crutch of the only comfort craved.
Forget the details,
we are ****** clockwork,
counted on to come,
but never arrive,
where saying no to yes
likens to tallying time
until what you are chewing
wants to be swallowed.
Pearly white definition grinding moments into pulp
for the insatiable,
that never goes hungry.
This is all of it.
******, ***, and the rest.
The patriarch in his Sunday best.
The wild generation,
rejecting the paranoia of their parents.
The whole of the ******* world
who copes with a regurgitated existence by selling narcissism.
Ours is a secret we are trying to tell with our lives,
when it’s realized it dies,
causing mystics to spill their insides
over silence, the answer that can never be vocalized.
Lo emotion,
the romance of confusion!
The one thing that can have no institution,
in our modern illusion.

I know a girl
She likens herself to be just like
Ron Weasley's mother
I suspect we may never be friends again now
Considering she now sits on my ex's ****.

Little miss cupcake
Miss Piggy
I peaked at her Facebook out of curiosity
And I remember the exact moment in which
Several months before
Where I thought, "Oh my. Oh my. You aren't my kind of woman."
You had blamed frightening male behavior
On false news reports, perhaps CNN
I remember sitting in a theatre
My phone buzzing a mile a minute
And with little red x's I quietly watched each of these ladies go
I know its not me
Its you
And while I wish no ill will
As you would all turn to look at me for support
When the clan of hoodlums wounded your bones
Perhaps now, now that it directly affects your life
Little missy piggy, miss jenny
Perhaps now you might think.

But its baffling to me
That you can take photos on your phone
Attempt to show your cute social encounters
With the profile of the man that has so
Lavishly wounded not one
But now two, probably 3
(If we include the one that Instagrams her heart break)
Women that have been dangled from a roof
Convicted and imprisoned with falsehood promises of sunshine
Thrown into a waste bin of trickery and fake love
Slept in the trenches of mildew hot sauce
Winnie The Poo and Tiger too
And thought and taught by him
And the others
To be the wretched bad guy in the end

That, that Little Miss
Define yourself through your current surroundings
Your lingerie that you now proudly wear
I don't hate you
I thought you were alright
With your obsession for your cat
The way you decorated your house reminded me of my own style
But if you click and swim in hyperspace
You will see mists of vape smoke
A girl who ran away from me at a party
Because I somehow managed to remind her
Of soggy pasta. Salty shoes. A rusty clamoring voice.
Boyhood mixed with ***** soap
All surrounded by the label
Love.

But just so ya know
He and I
Before I even met you

Oh yeah, we ****** in your bed one time.

Stamens float to the wavy sea
Sights gaze lazily
Through cloudy haze
Your beauty to me
Likens a sun on rainy days

There was once a haunted tree,
not feared by many, in fact,
only by that of a young spinster.
But of five and twenty,
liked by many, however,
only a few were ever called her lover.

Until she met a man that felt like an army,
like hundreds of men marching,
whose loyalty was sworn for her beauty.
Until one man felt like a war waging,
yet like a calm ocean breeze blowing
and like marching silently into the dark sea.

Until there came the lover whose laughter
felt like an ache from a life long gone,
whose smiles felt like gunshots.
Until there was he who felt like home,
yet as distant as the tides are to the moon
and as untouchable as a silky thunderbolt.

There was a tree the spinster holds dear,
so close to her ever yearning heart.
This tree, she likens to that of her lover.
whose branches threatens to fall on her,
bears fruits that if they choose to plummet,
someone is to get hurt and it would be her.

And then there was a legend that this tree,
that was once a fruit of another host
that was fabled to be haunted.
But before the tales of horrors and shrieks,
it was abundant, it was the guide to the lost,
until it was axed, hunted as needed.

All of this tree's fruits turned to be of toxins,
opposing the townspeople's songs of praises.
All its branches grew webs upon cleaving,
challenging the tales of awes and delight.
All of which except for one, a golden fruit,
the root's promise and hope of the fallen.

What the preachers say could be of truth,
their words she avoided could be gospel.
What the non-believers say could be a tale,
their rumors could save her from demise.
What if the tree is just as rotten as the root,
what if it is indeed the produce from hell?

he was the kind of guy who would have willfully participated
in the ****** of Sylvia Likens, and very much have enjoyed the interaction with the rest of the gang while doing so.

he is still that kind of guy,
just a lot older now
too good for most things
and all the women who now hate him
for all the discomforting memories he had left them with.

his mom had been a nurse
and now his sister was too
perhaps whatever woman he was with was too,

his mother loved him, how could she not,
she had been a nurse,
so he was absolutely sure that masks, social distancing, and mandated vaccines were how it should be.
anyone who didn't know these things was too embarrassing for him.
his mom told him so.

at the age of 44, he still had the exact same job he had had for the past twenty years. he was too good to do anything else other than making deliveries to restaurants, which were all requiring vaccine passports for dine in and perhaps soon delivery.

most of him felt very important
every time he unloaded his delivery van
or posted on twitter or instagram

or wrote about how many of those woman had deeply loved him
even though they were not worthy of his importance
and could never be

he was too desirable for them
and they needed to learn that
so he had taken the time to teach them that
long ago, they needed to learn
so he had taken the time to teach them that
if they had been worth remembering, he would still find a way to continue teaching them that.

life had been good lately, he made $95 CAD
on a baseball card trade, he was a good person
who had a lot to offer the world and only deserved
the most smoking hot of non-throwaway women
when there were so many throwaway women who needed to learn

he knew what all the good music and writing was
and knew when something wasn't worth listening to or worth reading, jack ketchum's **** was certainly no good, he knew it,
all the fun girls knew it too,
he knew a lot, so he taught.

he was a good person with a good life and smart with his baseball card investment strategies, he didn't need an undesirable life
he had good advice to give to baseball, football, hockey, and soccer leagues
it was easy to make all these excellent observations

as a good person,
he reached over for his smokin hot queenshit
earlier this very night,
kissed the nape of queenshit's sweet, whip-smart neck
and fondled queenshit's girl ****

while listening to the queen's vaccinated breathing
tomorrow he would make a youtube playlist for queenshit
that included drunken one off's he had recorded with his band 15 years ago
then, one of them would make an interesting, important dinner
they would both eat and talk about.

I remember how
And now I grow
Outgrow
Grow
And go.

The flurry of desire to take up space
To spread my wings as far as they could expand
Every white pure interlaced with gold and silver
A sparkling blood red
I don't have to question now
I just now I flutter and fly.

Passing through bridges
The city of Chicago landscape
I think sweetly of all
Of it all.
Of how much I've given
And lost
And gained

And in the midst of that sentence
My driver
A beautiful woman who can barely speak English
But could turn back and smile at me knowingly
"Tequila?!"
She knew we smiled and laughed
And just now pointed with her long index finger
To a car wth the corner entirely crushed, it's insides exploding into little yellow and orange malted parts
And that's why with every fiber of joy
I fear the disaster, destruction.

A little Christmas tree
We reinvent and make our own rules
I recover from what I was wrong
And overly eager about
You text me back
Keeping the bed warm
As I glance nostalically at the beach
Covered in snow we race right past
As I see my first year of Chicago
**** and echo by

She angry now
The woman who likens herself to a butterfly
But she angry with the truth
And I open and close my eyes
And simply say
You gotta work for it *****
Nothing comes to those don't invest
And eat the apple.

I'm so here
And I don't gotta prove it anymore
It's just an untold fact.

Would a common canine not bore,
following our steps without explore.

How are humans holier than thou,
when free fields are left without plough.

History could be to blame,
likening me to men and women of fame.

For dogs aren’t seen as a whole,
a dog is a dog, no other pays its toll.

Humans go through life with persistence,
searching for excuses to existence.

But few will ever realize,
what a waste it is to immortalize.

Forget likens to men and women of fame,
that only keeps one within the frame.

Go live life as if in the wild,
nothing more is farther from mild.

Be as a horse, a dog, a mare,
all other creatures can compare.

As long as you don’t just follow me,
after it turns out my dreams were meant to be.

Be as a lion, a dog, a hair,
all other creatures can compare.

Just don’t look back into history,
expecting to find the lock that fits your key.

Late November       Janice Chinn 21/11/19
Bare branches like gnarled fingers twisted and rough from age
Grey skies cloudless and silent hanging in space like a shroud
A horse tethered on a lifeless common
Standing as still as the dead grass surrounding her
A cold wind blowing in from the east
Chilling to the very core of your soul
Just a few yellow and red leaves
Hanging on in stubborn hope
Red berries very few waiting for the last pecks of the blackbird
Old woman sits and watching from her window
And likens herself to the scene beyond
Wondering if the spring to come will be hers once more to embrace

A form of self-punishment:

not eating. Allowing myself to rot.

I need to rot every once in a while, af en toe. To remind myself of ...

..... [intermezzo] .....

yerba mate, the bladden likens itself as my mouth, spreading across my tongue as a wave and, with a morbid branching, increases towards my throat and deepest parts of my kidneys: safety [you sit there, in the deepest part of my kidneys, I keep you there, my husband, for safekeeping]

.... [ lude ... enter ... ] ....

something. I'm playing dead!

That's it : the cold, the outside, the exposure, the no where, the tears, the pangs, it's playing dead.  I play dead. Here and there, now and then, af en toe, every few months, I play dead. Then I run back to my life, to my daddy, my husband, my love, where I am alive.

I adopt dainty etiquette
when quenching thirst or dining
to buzzfeed growling beast
inside me tummy.

The missus requests obedience
raising both my little fingers in the air
upon taking beverage or repast to lips.

Additionally, she also requires I
(well healed husband who toes the line)
perform dance shuffle - think clog
feigning to trip over feet
as if yours truly quaffed to much grog
while balancing atop log.

Miss iz manners re: lee the spouse
sets prime example being lady like,
what with her belching and snorting
of course with mouthful of food
no surprise she nurtured impolite brood
raised on learning language crude

even this Geico caveman exhibits
less coarse attitude,
he likens himself to subdued dude
trying his darnedest (golly gee)
to avoid family feud

general behavior hashtagged as rude
linkedin with antics qualified as lewd
encouraged nsync while
slurping or masticating in the ****,
whereby other body sounds made
unsuitable for strait laced and *****

folks who don't take a fancy hearing
so called uncouth soundclouds exude
out body orifices considered foul,
inapropos and extremely lewd
when unless quarantined in solitude.

One upside of COVID-19
postprandial aural emanations
(all time favorite flatulence)
knows no outward bounds
unless colorectal explosions
register highest magnitude

when measured in concert
with handy dandy
blues clues rattle seismometer
and register courtesy
Richter Scale and the Mercalli Scale
direction and intensity of earthquakes.

Upon experiencing aforementioned prime mate
i.e. the bellowing gal offering herself as ahem
(pardon the double entendre) master bait,
I knew from the get go
Tex-Mex Connection

in North Wales, Pennsylvania
where we shared our first date
(outsize bean burritos)
I tooted my own horn,
she unwittingly got me into checkmate,
just for that her fate got sealed,

when our respective gametes
(ova and ***** cells respectively)
new life we did miraculously create
the first of two female offspring
would become housed in utero
and come to resemble

a spheroid somewhat oblate
even now unnamed counterpart,
(and partner in crime) still swell person
hook hood benefit to lose some weight,
cuz... well adipose freight
quite ample around equator.

Days flew by as I wondered through life so careless and able

Until that night I was lucky enough to sit with you at that middle table

I never realized what I was missing and why in my heart there was a space

Suddenly that all changed and I realized it once I saw your beautiful smiling face

I fell for you so hard and fast and I knew what I felt must be love

It was like my heart felt warm and whole as if it was wearing a glove

Something awoke in me right then and there that in so long I hadnt felt

It likens to the sensation of a heart being melt

Even with the all the lights and food and the boys

Your all I could see and hear despite all the noise

That forgotten feeling that I let in and to allow

Its all too familiar even as I look at your incredibly pretty picture now

Words can't describe how I truly feel about you

So I write this poem in hopes it will see me through

You are the light and a spark in my world often void and dark

A beacon of hope and a ship to better days that I wish to embark

Your warmth, kindness, and sincerity bring a smile to my face

I want that in my life every day and night to never replace

Your all I wanted and I honestly still feel that way

Your past or any situation won't change that no matter what people say

Love, excitment, and happiness was all I felt when we first spoke

Then a decision had to be made for the best which left my heart unbearably broke

I'm unable to describe what I feel even now

Its like a feeling of deep loss and sorrow and yet I have to push through life anyhow

You did all you could and for that I'll always be grateful

Don't ever feel like I blame you or that I am hateful

I do hate what happened and it didn't have to be that way

I guess things happen for a reason as some people would say

I would do anything to be able to reverse space and time

No matter the cost of the dime or the mountain I had to climb

I would wrap you in my arms and hold on so tight

With all that is in me I would make sure that everything was alright

Even with the occasional argument and the hopefully rare fight

What I felt for you and my love would remain unchanged and airtight

Our lives are separate and completely different right now as life has designed

My hope is that sooner than later our lives can become entirely intertwined

Now after all this what's there left to say

Just how I feel everyday that I pray somehow we will be together one day

1.
The car speeds past the pedestrians walking across the street
When did life become unwelcomed?

The public schools around the Banc of California Stadium are low in funding. Kids in hoodies with old text books and underpaid teachers make their way through the heavy traffic on buses and in cars.

When did the prosperity of life become selective?

The grass, the trees, the flowers, bloom through the cement cracks.And an inner city scholar, bound for college likens this image to their life.

when did creating unnecessary struggles for life become useful?

2.
An older woman with a grey sweatshirt and three bags is sitting on the steps of a gym while the security guard tells her “you cannot be here” . While a few feet from her, a young man taking a lunch break finishes his sandwich.

“When did life become unwelcomed”  I hear the pigeons above her sing, as they try to perch over the clear spikes
their song nesting deep within my mind