Carnal Caretaker

I’ve always had a carnal appetite

The indulgent kind

Of molten lava

Cake and irrationally strong

Protection.

My inside often

Volley with volatile vexation

To emancipate the masculinity

Of this savagery.

Relating more to the simple

Set of stress induced

Recession

Found more commonly

In animals,

Deference  clings to their boundaries

but wonder if  a more careful

caretaker could have calmed the

cautiously unkempt being.

Development followed drunken

Murmurings, sickly sweet in singles

And festering fury in folds.

Natural than

The quick slam of a door

With automatic hinges,

The variety of which

Accidentally startles,

And secludes.

Overwhelming femininity

Bursts occassionally,

Not trained to pertain

Then

To reason.

This appetite never remembers

When it is quenched,

For memory holds long

Onto scarcity

With teeth.

 

Death on your Tongue

I’ve been thinking about death

A lot

Lately

The aftertaste

And the slippery sensation

Of a life through fingers

Whats claimed

in an ending.

Its profound

But its not.

Simple equations

Of action

and reaction

Care taken

and odds managed,

What was the feeling of you?

Thats what I think

about most

Of all

A selfish kind of

desire

To be

that

person

Who is

missed

Who lived

big

Through small ways

An energy

That continues

to vibrate

In the people you

Shared air with

Once

Or more than

Once.

Instead of just

fading

Out.

Meaningless.

Its selfish.

And yet,

Its shaping a quieter

Formation

Of space

Inside my every

interaction.

I bring death with me

Like a box of sweet mints

A way to cope

With the souring of

What I have to

Swallow

Before I get there.

Intimate failures

Most people think
Self righteousness keeps me company
In the cold.
But they don’t understand how bitter it tastes, like the sourness of anxiety and forebode.
It is believed I have swallowed these pills from the hands of strangers,
But how strange it is to recognize intimately the hands they actually come from.
They cannot be swallowed with anything but cold,
Nor do they move through my system swiftly.
Isolationist propaganda is hung from the support beams,
And the quiet reveals only the echo chamber.
Thoughts clammering for acceptance in a way that is not possible,
Solutions begging for urgency that is not feasible.
Tensions brewing in a way that is not reversible, but perhaps transformative.
A faint outline draws on the tenancity of strength and softness.
How to bend with breaking, even when delicacy sounds every alarm.
And is forgiveness possible if only through the breath in the lungs it reverbates first?
Terrible, giant, uncomfortable necessary
Thoughts.
Being an old soul and understanding how to manifest its existence..
Always a test worth failing.
Because thats how you learn you can’t succeed.
Its not the sort of thing you can ever win.
Better is the best score.

Routinely Out of Order

When I put one foot in front of the other

And end up tripping myself

I laugh through the stumble

Not believing I could purposefully do

such a thing.

But when I leave five minutes

After I should have,

Everytime,

All the time,

I drive white knuckled and swear,

Upset at anyone who delays me.

When I stare at a pile of clothes,

An unkempt mixture of laundered and worn,

I dread how I will have to carve

Out

a big chunk

of time to fix it,

But tuck the morsels of not doing it

Right then and there,

into my “Im too busy”s,

As they catch up on Netflix.

Oh yes, I always envied the houses

Where drawers had one purpose,

Someone calling out to you

“It should be in there!”

Knowing it would be,

Whilst I prayed in my own house

“It Should be in there!

(Please be in there.

Please. Its gotta be right in there. I swear I put it there. Where else would I have put it?)”

Yes, life has handed me chaos,

But I’m the one paying her decoratoring

Expenses.

I should probably look into doing something

about that.

Next week.

 

 

A Witness to Defeat

She says

“You seem defeated lately.”

And primarily,

the only response to offer

Is a lift of the chin,

feeling caught.

 

Quietly..

“What?”

A placeholder,

Time to chew,

Surprise.

 

Again,

 

“ You seem defeated lately.”

Eyes are gentle around the edges.

Calm.

 

Weight shifts back

in reflection

Blood pauses at hips

In contemplation;

And thats when

 

Struggle meets realization:

Steps out of the dark

Mornings

it has wanted to

Lay in forever.

 

Begins to fold

The unwashed laundry

On the bed.

Tries to tidy the creases.

And realizes,

 

It has

been seen.  

 

Pacing (free write)

Her feet pace

the tile floor

like the steps

of a Lioness

waiting

for her prey.

How many times

have these feet

traveled

back

and forth

over these years

Retracing things

lost

contemplating things gained

There is a sameness

to it

all .

Humbling.

Forgetting.

to pace herself

She wears thin

the soles

of her sneakers,

and of her energy.

Waiting to pounce

always.

Survival

Marked by

deterioration.

How do you live

if you’re not alive?

How does one

learn a different way ?

Pacing.

Electronic signals

creating background

symphony.

Being watched.

Keep moving.

Don’t let them see

knees buckle

from the hardness

of the foundation.

Pacing

Stalking

Surviving.

Rest

In your dreams.

 

Such a damned thing. (freewrite)

Gorging on the sanctity of exhaustion

“happy” chemicals moving through limbs

tongues, fingers, eyes

free falling from reality

letting cares trespass outside

no longer penned up for close observation

their florescent desertion feels right.

The only way to feel calm

under course skin of palms

is to claim complete exhaustion

and sought after solitude

and understand how cliche it is

to be grateful

for such a damned thing.