Wouldn't it be great?

Deprivation.

I’m invoking a blank wall.

He doesn’t respond—

not to my dearest caresses

and loving gestures.**

Maze (still)—

Running down every dead-end corridor,

psychotically beating on every door. **

Wanted you to look me in the face

& finally tell me

I wasn’t worth:

time, effort, care, love.

To you.

The obsession, stationary, sitting (always when I Finally Sit Still)

then it’s there, in my mind, brutal, this time not for food

or something I actually need,

but for exactly what is destroying me:

Love.

Desperate-hungry search for something

that isn’t there.

Inside the object

of my affection.

Who’s unaffected.

He holds the “key” that I need to unlock

some supposed treasure.

Some… thing.

Something worth staying here on Earth for, in the moment,

worth not dissociating from the present.

Or I think I see a key in there.

I see what I want to see.

I was always invoking a

blank wall.

The reels of my mind projected onto its white surface.

Before my eyes flashed The Fantasy

of knights in white armor,

fairy tails, a brainwashing, heart-denigrating

wonderland of romantic, emotional, sexual

devotion.

The Farce: that someone would hold me and keep me as theirs.

Not so.

Let it go.

Let go the Obsession & Fantasy

Let go of love.

Tear down the walls of the maze

(I’ve been in so long,

since the First Abandonment.)

Let go of the want,

quash the dream.

That is the solution to set me free.

The bane of gods and kings,

the bitterness of knowing [we] are free.**

Do I really want to be free?

I run & run & run

like a rat on a wheel, a treadmill.

"If I could truly be free,

would I?"

I asked myself that when I was reading

some self-help book

in a bad mood

and it would be great, wouldn’t it?

To set myself free from

the emotional mess of the chase.

I’d invest less time in men

and I think

more energy into my own life,

hobbies—painting, music, creativity, travel.

I’d have more 

time to write

and, “Wouldn’t it be great?”

I wonder, as I sit,

lonely, dreaming

waiting for something to happen.

Storm Chasers

For T.S.W., and you.

Rain mists in a vortex around us.

Wind weaves our hair into nests,

gusts billow deafeningly—

gladly, it masks the annoyance of everyone else

with white noise.

Random objects swirl around—

mirror shards to cut, black-cat bones to

become lodged in our throats, broken boards

with tetanus nails, pieces of people,

their Umbrellas, and shredded yellow trenchcoats.

They rushed: gathered their children & puppies,

loaded up minivans to flee the storm.

They’re history: wouldn’t sit, cross-legged,

like the Buddha, levitating in detachment—

wouldn’t stare unflinchingly into the Eye of the Tornado,

let it carry them away.

They’d rather: push, madly, in hordes

toward exponential decay.

Yes.

We’re here together,

beyond the confines of Time,

in the sensual vent of the volcano,

which houses the Spirit of the Monster,

and we aren’t afraid.

We like it here

where the truth dwells.

The monster lives inside, too,

thriving off the pain of

in the sinews of Truth.

Huge in size, with a tiny, efficient heart,

covered in a sticky film of fly-trap ooze,

(Don’t touch, only stare.)

Of course it has green eyes,

not leaf-green, more like Alexandrite.

Sometimes they’re steel-blue.

Behind the beautiful eyes of the Monster,

a storm brews.

And we, crazy storm chasers,

will charge with full-force, headlong, no-holds barred, fuelled by mothers’ pleas and all our scars,

to be uplifted, exponentially, and swallowed into the eye of the storm,

for in the heart of this suffering,

we feel, intensely, the most beautiful art form.

26 June - 9 July 2013

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.

Remember How

You crawled into my heart, started to clean

squirrels’ nests and spider webs

with your broom of persistence, your heart’s love,

and rubber gardening gloves.

You faced the challenge like a hero does.

I was worth it to you, despite the pain,

projected onto and absorbed by you

I thought I’d never be to anyone

what I am now to you.

The dusty attic, with time, golden hues.

Passionately, you have challenged me to

Tear Down That Wall, render

it obsolete, necessity no more.

With sun stinging my eyes,

I’m battling to transcend these, my own, lies.

The glowing orb in the sky

Beats down on this world,

Sweat beads, dehydration, rage, exhaustion, and migraines,

But I am shaded, always,

By a single memory.

12 Feb-11 March 2013

Where There's Nothing, There's Black

Written 2012 Aug (Description of a drawing)

The black shines through

charred wings and hollowed eyes,

and through an emptiness in her chest

where a heart goes.

The black shines

through a hole cut out of her abdomen

where it was hollowed out.

Shackles ‘round the ankles

of a slut-pink angel

are held & controlled by a masturbating puppeteer

(no wings or eyes)

but the slobbering tongue of a dog

is where the black shines through him.

He’s a hollowed out 2D figure with a

big, black-painted dick

& the black shines through

a cavity in his chest

where a heart was.

The fire blazes hot, gently upon the black coals—

and then is set to their catastrophe

by the freed souls of the two,

in the form of butterflies,

and by the little girl who was burning on inside her,

despite years of trying to

force her out

the wrong holes.

Stealth

A poem about Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and me.

She wasn’t content with what she’d been given,
so she blew the white crystals up her nose.
She had to stick her head in the opening of an oven
and then, with scissors, they cut off all her clothes.

She didn’t hate life, but hated the fact she was alone,
so she walked into the ocean with smooth, cracked stones
in her pockets, they were the weight of God
a savior from the People of Pods.
In the algae she built herself a home.

She wasn’t out of luck, but fully out of breath,
her vision only drew a fragile blank,
but she knew it was going to take
guts she didn’t have and so much stealth
to take the last step over the plank.

It wasn’t hatred for today, not the present in particular,
or even all the forces out of control—natural, centripetal,
but she fought it, and she wrestled
with the heart of a demon
and she brought out all of her horses
but the fucking thing wouldn’t leave her alone!

The Inconvertible Truth: A Crab and Her Daughter

For my Mom on Mother’s Day

Determination--"3 a : the act of deciding definitely and firmly; also : the result of such an act of decision b : firm or fixed intention to achieve a desired end.” --Webster

Dear Mom,

Everyday is a gift
(you know the pictures)
when I look into my reflection in the sea
and the only thing good I see
is that somewhere inside of me
is you.

Maybe a blessing, or a curse,
it’s the inconvertible truth.

I peer into the portal and see
the past…

I sat on the shoreline
and watched you, oblivious to your surroundings
while wandering,
parched and weary
because you were thinking
thinking thinking
(or trying not to think)
the whole time.

…becoming the present (again)…

Catching myself,
(and you catch me, like you always have)
breathless, shaking, and shaken by
the long journey and long one ahead,
and the thoughts
thoughts thoughts infesting my mind
(but goddamn it, I tried to find an exterminator).

Thoughts that could take me far away
to California
or to college,
to an adolescence where you and I were estranged,
or back into your womb,
but instead they take me nowhere
except, ultimately, to my own
undercurrent of doom.

Mom,
I swear
I’m making an effort
to create a better life for myself
than you could make yours,
but much of the time it’s just too damn hard…

I’m a bloated, static balloon,
attachment issues,
I’ll float away from this earth if no one holds my
string*
so I’ve attached it to a cinder block
in which I may hide,
like a (hermit) crab without a shell,
fearful of the tidal waves,
resentful of the vertebrates.

However, in hiding
away from the storm out there,
I’ve colored, drawn, written
some meaning straight out of
this cluttered mind
to bring to you
(accept=1, reject=0).

Dear Mom,
I’m so much like you
(or maybe I’m not)…
I know your determination
got us through before
so I’ve gotta claw together the pieces of mine
so we can make it this time.

And truly:
“If I was going through fucking hell
I’d only want one person in the whole
goddamned world
by my side”**

Oh Dear Mother, lonely old courage seeker:
please tell me what we will do
when Charon quits poling his ferry
and we get out on a foggy bank.

Will we stand watching the boat
disappear on the ponded, algal waters of Lethe?***
Or will we arrive
to some mystical river under a rainbow
with unicorns dancing around
where we’ll drink forever from the infinitude
flowing from the ground?

You can’t tell me the answers,
and that was never your job.
So I’m left with lessons
abundant
burns that must be burnt
to learn what I should’ve already learned.

Every bit of will I have,
all my eggs; every shell
of sanity will be thrown
into the black, violent sea,
and squandered meaninglessly in the downwelling
if I think (or feel) that’s what I need to do.

But the inconvertible truth—
I’m your only daughter,
so what can you do?
In the end,
I hope you’re still with me
as I was (and will always be) with you.

Yours Truly,

Jessica

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

Sequel to The Vacuity, The Rage

Hundreds of times I've watched you sleep--

buzzed, jealous, blood pumping & heart pounding quickly

at all hours of the night & early morning

& even in the afternoon,

my face was hot

& I heard neighbors fucking,

banging--

is the incessant knock on the wall &

throbbing inside my chest & sternum,

like a muted heart attack;

face boiling,

have you felt that?

You wouldn't.

You don't have the Rage, and insecurities
lashing over your mind, as was Christ's body
after he got his beating.

A brain of slimy, grey meat,
coiled all around itself & hardened at stem,
sticky on the outside & lixiviated...

Bleeding unrelentingly from the strips
of peeled away flesh
out my eyes, out my ears, & mouth, & nipples.

All from the most basic of human feelings or fears...

my face is filled with sulfuric acid,

fuming.

Written 12 May 2012 @ 2:01 a.m.

Red Paint

A lot of people
denounce the existence of God,
through an egotistical rationale,
and fate,
through claims of personal responsibility.

I believe what I see--
the evidence:
of many miracles that have happened
and upon each
a red paw print.

God must be a bear
who broke into
some artist's cupboard.

Not Disappearing

for Charles Bukowski

Sometimes
I think about offing myself;
coming down with the hammer, or the razor;
or maybe not, and just wishing to disappear.

I’d no longer be able to flip
through the pages
of Bukowski’s poetry,
ravenously consuming each one
to get that feeling I get at the end
of the Bluebird, the Aliens, Alone with Everybody.

Bukowski is dead,
yet I feel communion with what he
left behind.
So I have to live,
or it’ll all disappear.