You cut your hand on the rock
I left on your bed.
With chipped purple paint,
sharpied on smile.
You appreciated it,
for the childlike whimsy.
You even appreciated
the sore twinge of your fresh cut.
The dark red stain,
on the stone.
It reminded you of me,
a mix of pain and happiness,
disgusting copper full of love,
you miss me,
a painful peace.
You want to throw that rock
through my window all the same.
The meds have decreased my appetite.
I’m still living on junk,
just less of it.
Gas station snacks and Reese’s Cups.
Movie theater food and Balanced Breaks.
Ice cream and pizza and fast food and takeout.
I just don’t finish it anymore.
Half full popcorn tubs
and leftovers in the fridge door.
The meds cause fatigue.
I still dream about the future,
just not as often
or with as much faith
and conviction.
Hopes downgraded to wishes.
Wishes drowning in the well,
ungranted.
The fatigue plays into my depression.
“Let’s stay in bed all day
with a gray stuffed bunny.”
I can’t find a good enough day
to pull me out of this funk.
I make plans
knowing all I’ll want to do
is cancel.
I cancel plans
knowing all I’ll feel
is regret.
The meds give me strange dreams,
sometimes nightmares,
sometimes just strange.
My father’s soul is at rest
but at night,
his disapproval
and his mania,
his unpredictability
and inability to listen to reason
are resurrected
in bizarre dramas.
I shuffle through my days,
wanting to want something again.
Stab a paring knife through the edge
of the silverskin. Snake it just beneath
the surface. Slip your finger through
and tug it away from the muscle.
Let the blade run along the inside
of the membrane. Scrape it free.
Pat the fibers dry. Heat tussling steam
will never brown. Won’t awaken salivation.
Scald the flesh while the oven warms.
Probe and watch the temperature.
Out early–let it finish on the counter.
Don’t slice on the bias; your tongue
will make your tasting eyes forget.
“Wise men say, only fools rush in…”
– Hugo Peretti, Luigi Creatore, & George David Weiss
You gave him fennel & columbine, speaking
Folly in fewer words: In appearance, it is the jester’s hat,
that court-appointed imbecile set in his place to entertain
royalty & nobler blood, to embody distraction for those
with higher purpose.
But did you know it is
poisonous, in 70 variations, delivering bitterness
on the tongue? Or that its petals, so spurred, give the genus
its name: Aquilegia, meaning eagle, rising above. Or that it’s
given as a symbol of fortitude, courage, & endurance?
Remove yourself
from your story, for but an instant: He who wrote you into being
so often cast his fools as the foils. Like childlike voices
in modern scenes, the fool becomes the only voice
of wisdom to those (oft’ beyond listening)
as they spin, drifting in their chosen madness.
What’s more:
Columbine is perennial; though it blooms so much more quickly
than the annual, it returns, is reborn, every spring. It is not
destroyed, it does not pass in the passing of a season,
no matter how violent or sun-baked or imperiled
by drought.
The Question follows: Is it then the fool who rushes in,
who recognizes truth where it stretches its roots?
Am I, my sweet lotus, brightest star amid the pool, the one
who doesn’t know: The meaning of a touch, warmth of sun
on my face, the whisper of the wind, one soul to one soul,
as it stirs me to earli(er) growth?
When I was young
looking at my dark brown skin
illuminated underneath the colored stained glass
I memorized that I was holy
but
only under certain terms
under certain bodies
under the thick, oxblood leather of the Book
I memorized that my access to sacredness
must be bleached washed in lily of the valley white
holiness achieved only by the swallowing
of stale bread
grape juice
and
the loss of any and all of what might make me
me
desire
lust
red-handed
queerness
these exist on a larger list that,
for a while
I could not name
or utter
without feeling the deepest shame
The reclamation of the mind is a dangerous thing
But,
the question is
who is in danger?
me
or
the institution that asked me to abandon myself
for a white man who didn’t exist to save me
or my ancestors
If I reclaim my mind and recover my power,
how many hail marys must I say to pull the hood from her son’s face?
Snow swept all clean but
the needle-like footprints
of the doves, never just one
but a covey of coo-ers
feeders full, songbirds’ notes
as light as the snowfall
barely balanced on spiny, black
branches where they perch
and peck, but the doves! gray gleaners
content with the offal spilled under
the rose arch where ashen sunflower seeds
lie fat and crackable now from snow melt
re-blanketing the three flat boulders
from the nursery down the road
where I found them Can you bake
a peach cobbler? a trade, he wanted,
with soft, dove eyes when I asked
how much do I owe you? Yes, I was in
the presence of coo roo coo coo coo—
ancient chant trilled from frozen thorns
hopeful, patient, wise
A sip of Pinot Grigio is fitting
this evening to toast the pasture’s
surprise—a ram lamb born
of a ewe we didn’t know
was bred. He wobbles still
and looks for teats in the wrong
places; even so, what a wonder
he is under those tight pearly curls.
“I am your GOD,”
HE never said, as HE watched me
suffer through HIS WILL for me: thirst and starvation;
praying and offerings were meaningless
to stop HIS whims,
as HE sent no floods or droughts;
no—HE did not need to rely
on mere worldly tools
to control HIS subjects.
HIS WILL is all that Exists.
HIS WILL Is Absolute.
HIS WILL Is.
HIS WILL.
“this is how GOD loves HIS children,”
HE never said, as HE led his Friends, one by one,
and All at once,
into rooms where i suffocate
dissociate
wait
for the pain to end.
“I am GOD,” HE doesn’t have to say,
because WHO ELSE has the power
to prevent Death Itself
from taking me away
from HIS HAND.
While HIS WORD and WILL were Absolute,
they were incomplete.
was religion supposed to explain the way of the world?
i had more questions than answers—
secretly—for
thinking
and acting against HIS WILL were of equal scale,
and would be punished as such.
this GOD practiced TOLERANCE.
“We love all religions,” HE said, as HE
forced me to sing about Jesus, Allah, and Zoroaster,
along with Narayana, Subramanya, and Sarva Dharma,
in front of HIS Friends,
(Followers?)
the Ones who entered HIS HOUSE
upon HIS WHIM
and enacted HIS WILL upon me.
HIS KINDNESS was reserved for Everyone Else
and HIS LOVE was reserved for me.
i wished HIS LOVE was as gentle and fun as HIS KINDNESS.
That wish was punished again and again.
i wish i had never wished it.
(And still i watched him laugh with others,
and never with me.
And even though HIS WILL IS, and i must not wish for anything else—
well. You know. Shhh, with discretion, please. For my safety. Please.)
This GOD, WHO was ABSOLUTE,
was more powerful than any of the gods he
(allegedly)
“prayed” to.
the god he prayed to also came down to earth
and played as the humans played.
“GOD practices humility, so you must too,” HE said.
No matter how amazing HE was, HE practiced humility,
and everything, perfectly.
no matter how little i had—how little ego, self esteem, or will i had—
i was never humble enough to avoid HIS WILL (punishment).
no matter how hard i tried to follow HIS WILL,
HE always punished me for living against HIS WILL.
One day
(after thirteen years)
GOD stopped LOVING me.
HE never said i should hate myself,
but that seemed as certain and true as HIS WILL,
which HE, in HIS final punishment, revoked from me,
and so IT BECAME.
other people’s gods
want them to always keep Them in their hearts;
this GOD wanted me to forget—
forget everything HE ever did,
forget that he was ever GOD—
and,
(finally, somehow, i was able to follow his will)
i forgot
…until
i
r
e
m
e
m
b
e
r
e
d.
now, instead of RELIGION, this part of my life is called trauma from hypersexual childhood abuse.
The worst part of my new way of life, my life’s work of trying to heal myself,
is that my life is still dedicated to (undoing) HIS WILL.
