Dominion

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Sometimes the truth is too hard and brittle and must be snapped into pieces to become palatable and even still gets stuck in your teeth then your throat and cuts holes in you and it works its way through your system. Perhaps it was safer to keep it whole. But still, the corners were sharp. And how uneven was this truth shape? Where was the symmetry? You harboured such distant thoughts that were withheld for such a time until you felt it appropriate. Sin by omission but never dishonesty. I, however, ate the fruit and spat it out. I told you it wasn’t me, and I picked up the chewed rot off the forest floor, tried to feed it to you and convince you it was a balm to soothe your aching throat. It ached as though scratched raw with the words you refused to scream. How I longed for you to scream them. I told you a story that was true. And then a story that was not true. And yet, both were the truth, this smashed truth, pasted together with a shimmering glue that reflected unto us both the shiniest and best moments so that we did not notice the dirt in the grooves. I wanted happiness, but it was just out of reach. You had happiness in the moments that were not mine. You found it in the trees and the light and I tried to share it. But my piece was too big. You said: you can’t have that and eat it too. But that’s what I wanted. Was I selfish or were you ignorant? Was I ignorant or were you selfish? I will tell you a story that is true. I will tell you the story that is not true. I am a sadist, a masochist and seek the pain within existence if only to share it with another, such that misery loves company. I am whole and good and rejoice in the wondrous gains of others who have worked hard to display their glory. I am jealous. I am not envious. I wandered through willow branches and bead curtains until I came to the counter with the jars. There were so many jars. Which one do I choose? What does it contain? Pass me the one I am not allowed to have. I will drink to my purposeful demise. I will break until my pieces are contained in this vessel, and I will let you find the truth – if there is one.

Mother wit

Does my son mourn for the loss of his mother?
What does unconditional love feel like
When the expectations stacked so high
to build the tallest straw man,
hollow man,
beautiful appearance man,
a college man,
a student man,
a want-to-make-you-proud man,
addicted-to-the-drama man,
so do you miss your mama, man?
Which one do you miss, man?
Shall I call you son instead?
Or would that be weird after we wed?

Wanted you for me, man,
and wished you were a soul mate.
One of many, fighting fate.
Guess we lost and it’s too late.
Unless you’d like to really wait.
And prove you’ll never give up, man.
No one wants the weak man, sad man.
Should you fight the man, man,
then we’ll see your goals and plan, man.
Show your passionate side, man.
That’s how you’ll be defined, man.
Not by some weird past, okay?

My son, I can’t be your mom anymore.
I’ve always fucking hated chores.
You think I always get my way, son?
All my battles easily won, son?
Could not be further from the truth, son.
So many times I’ve given up my fun, son.
I wish I could make you better, man.
But you must give it all you got, man.
Seize your moment, man.
Choose your battles, man.
You’ll be all right, man.
Don’t mourn the loss of your mother, man.
She never was a mother, man.
Didn’t know how to raise one
that was older than she. And she was old already.
Life not over yet, working forever.

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

The middle name in a house, in a home,
shrouded in dark secrets and contrived plots.
And the second, third, and fourth:
they were not mothers and you could not be their father.
Fairy tale spells and timeless norms could not be applied!
Nice try, man.
Know what to give up, man.
It’s not your life, man.
It’s the chains, man. The fears, man.

Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. Fear.

Stop chanting, man.
Quiet your mind, man.
Don’t give up, man.
Evolve, man.
Already-proved-yourself man.
Just-believe-in-yourself man.
Ignore all else, man.
Good luck, man.

How it Feels to Miss You

I have gone on a trip
I made the plans, bought the tickets
I arrange the accommodations, facilities
No return date, but there is one.

Butterscotch sundae, sticky sweet, stomach ache
On Wednesday, Hump Day, steamrolled day,
forever stained sheets and shirts day,
carried in my bag – one a curse. It’s tears-day.

Missing is a scoop. A hole. An absence.
(Craves absinthe. Craves death.)
Missing isn’t action, but impact.
(Craves symbolism. Fucks regret.)

Carved. I am written with new stories,
more than utterances. These were words
and promises. They held weight but not water.
They were true. They are not true.

Nail clipping, stabbed through sock
ring-stained tub with purple walls
I cannot speak I cannot talk
choked by fervour, crushed by wrath.

Missing is the longing, the yearning
the searching, the dredging, the scouring.
(Oh how many things you’ll find,
but none is that which you seek.)

I am filled with oxymoron,
emphasis on feeling moronic.
Flip flopping and flying and diving
Aerobatic stunts pulled through lusting language.

Don’t stop this pain of endless rhetoric
round my mind and round it goes
a cyclical spiral of memory grows
–how the good times use to flow!

Missing is the angel from a nightmare
(an unsuspecting victim)
Missing is the webs from all the spiders
(and my indecision to call you)

A wondrous passionate feeling of lightness and happiness
that spread itself out between my shoulders across my chest
has been replaced by a pressing, pinching, tightening weight
that comes in a tidal wave with each reminder of loss

Any song that speaks of love shapes and heart beats
threatens me with a pain so deep and cutting
the only way I can survive is to focus on it
wholly and fully and thank the universe for giving

Missing is a rollercoaster ride with an unexpected turn
It’s repeating seven stages seven times and seven times again.
(Some days are so happy that I forget there has ever
been a moment of tragedy in life – how I love that!)

me an opportunity to radiate a strength I hate
remembering I have. For the threshold turns
upon itself and births a hurricane not disguised
gloom in a heart, scary to contain such dark places

I am confused by the simplest situations.
Why the warm bath water feels cold.
Why the best songs process painfully off key
How I am no longer anchored, officially come to form. Air.

Hard. Hot. Husky. Hushed. Voices. Whisper. Push. Shoved.
The game we played, all too often, not enough
Upward, Downward, Cold to Ice. Frozen Tundra
lacking Nice. But oh so beautiful and Vast. Untouched
landscape. Escaping Fast.

Missing you is remembering that I crea-
ted the moments of magic that I loved.
(You fit so perfectly I miss you too
but most of all I miss the me I was.)

So though I long for the return trip,
I don’t have the money nor the armor
nor the capacity to rise to the challenge
just yet, though I drool at the lips

Ripened peach, juicy squeeze
water flows, between your knees
from out your eyes, your poured-out heart
No tact and function, we’ve fucked the art.

Missing is a scoop. A hollow under my breast.
A tiny chip from my front tooth. A sunrise in the west.
Some days I feel I’ll miss you until my last breath.
But I can only miss you until your memory’s death.

I have gone on a trip.
I have made the plans, mapped the route.
I cannot stop moving; feel in constant pursuit.
I keep travelling this hard life if only to find truth.

Goodbye.
Goodbye.
I miss you.
I miss you.

The past breaks the future 

My heart is a stone
I lie in the arms of my lover unmoved
My heart is a cherry blossom
As it craves a sensual touch
My heart is a river wide
Drowning with tears, rising upon the banks
And flooding homes

My heart is a stone
As I lie untouched in my lover’s arms
It hardens with craving
And yearns to be spoiled

My heart is a leaky faucet
The bolts are loose and weak
It drips and drops rust coloured water
From pipes older than the house
They reside in

My heart has lived a thousand lives
It doesn’t know How to trust another
After all the war it’s witnessed
And pain it’s caused

Irreparable damage held together
With a duct tape heart
Frayed seams
Caulked valves
Antifreeze in my veins
So I am not ice

But I am rock
Hard as diamond
And yet pretty not
Reflecting light not
All for naught

My heart is a stone
I threw through the window
Of a young man’s house

And I am waiting for him to return it.

April Poem

I climbed up to where their eyes couldn’t see
A secret ledge on which to perch
Built into mud and over hung with rock
A cliff face to which I clung with care
One misstep and I’d be toast
But that did not deter me in the slightest
As I scrambled up the hill,
Building my muscles
with each push of my leg
and pull of my arm.
My abdomen activating
In support of my system.
I felt energized and exhausted
Confident and terrified
Thinking only of where
To put my foot next.
Thinking of the plan
Not the consequence.

And so here I sit,
With an eye on much of the forest below
The air is cooling get as the sky darkens
And winter chilled water drops slowly
Upon me from the river carved rock
There is so much sound around me
But it signals life and strength and courage
In the spite of all our ignorance and idiocy
Selfishness and greed.
The forest stands apart, even still,
Even after the atrocious rape we have
Committed and continue to commit.
Here I sit, apart and embraced from and by
Our odd world with its mysteries of
Meaning and or lack thereof.
Pondering and wondering and hoping and fearing. 

There are piles of scat all around me.
I think maybe a raccoon frequents here.
The raccoon has now appeared to me many times.
Along with the deer. And the red backed salamander. 
And I sit with the scat not wanting to leave.
For one, I fear that I may slip and fall to my death.
For another I fear I will have to go back to a regular dull life, unmagical existence enshrined within four walls with an agenda and a Neverending stream of tasks requiring the participation  in a society I wish to withdraw from.

Even here I am sure that the red jacket and blue jacket on the ground across the creek were watching my ascent and even Pondering how to do it themselves. Go away, I thought, annoyed that anyone should be privy to my adventurous (foolish) courage that led me to my vantage point.  But then there it is. Sometimes to go after what you want you must become vulnerable, exposed. Is it worth the risk? Are you more apt to slip? Clearly I perform well under the pressure.  But my real desire is to escape it all.

And so I return to my high volume quiet.
I dare not stay much longer as I start to feel the cold gnawing back into my bones and I know it will be still a climb to get out of here.
So I enjoy a few more moments of stillness
as I sit, an observer
Transparent eye in the forest
Withdraw from participation
And count the thoughts that bubble up
On a calm formless ocean
And disappear once more
Only an imprint left on a
Very subtle mind
Essentially forgotten
Until connection with the divine
Awakens your senses once more

This is the sublime.