Buried the Way Out

Third in the Way Out series. First is here, second is here.


Through the door I unburied finally,
there is another door
with a ladder behind it,
broken legs and broken pegs.
I think if I repair that ladder
and climb it,
I’ll overreach & escape this maze,
with its walls built of collected clutter.
But it seems I never do.

Enemies & mentors consoled,
contacting me through the walls via walky talky,
saying the origin of my soul build-up is:
fear, to put it lightly (ambiguously bulky).
Is this true?

So if I separate & dissect my fears, one-by-one,
then somehow the walls will come crumbling down?
I’ll be as free as a bunny rabbit to run from its cage.

So I started peeling layers of my hoard,
investigating the dust.
All I saw was dead cells, hairs, and bloody tissue.
Analyzed the dirt
and found it was salvageable soil,
not to be tossed out,
but sprayed down, kneaded, and rolled into coils.

Cupboards & drawers
are cracking from the pressure
of the soil I hoard,
scraped from the feet of whores,
but in my heart & mind it’s a living treasure,
and now, having swept it from
under the rug, and kept it from
being disposed of, I’ve exhausted all hiding space.

The way out is up:
I’ve found this to be true,
now I’ve exposed all my dirt,
so what do I do?
It’s not enough to fly up and out,
what do I do with the dirt?
What do I do with the crumbs
(you tossed me)
and the remnants that I want to keep?

Send it into to the vacuum?
Bury it as deep as your grave, your soul,
and let it transform to ultisols.

Oct. 2012-June 2013

Mitigate the B.L.E.V.E, The Rage

Third & final in the Rage Series. (First is here, second is here).

I.

Cheapen me:
throw my raggedy carcass down the stairs,
spit & piss & eject excrement onto me.
After all,
I wasn’t important to you.
The abundant love in my heart was still
half-empty in your cup.
Toss it out. Just waste my love.
Shit on it, burn holes in it, stab it with a knife,
pour acid on it, & laugh as it disintegrates.
I don’t need it,
I don’t need you.
You aren’t my fountain of endless love-production.
You aren’t a source of
anything
good for me.

II.

I’m determined to forgive you.
I’m going to set myself free,
burn these goddamned ropes off my ankles,
and through (my Memory of) the pain you inflicted
I’ll no longer be your tether ball.
I’ll chew through the bitter skin
and, like a kumquat, it will make the sour flesh
palatable.
Hear me now:
All the times you fucked me over
are filed in the historical archives,
not forgotten,
(Not being fucked over any more)
but are banned from entering
my perfectly sweet, Soft Soul’s
Golden Bubble.

III.

At this moment
I can breathe.
Stars in the heavens,
some bright & others dim,
like fingers & arms raised in praise,
sycamores & tulip poplars,
& countless other trees,
in which a million red-winged blackbirds
woodpeckers & cicadas
are dancing & vibrating,
& all the animals are screaming & singing
in joy:
for the waves rippling over the lake,
the delicious chlorophyllic taste of air,
& for God, who seems to be smiling
in each & every one & thing.