Diary entry, January 3, 1990

I know what hate is, she said.  I know how to hate him and I know how to hate myself.

So they sent her to someone who could teach her how not to hate.  He had nothing to do with God or Christs nailed to crosses.

It took a long time.  But she learned how to not to hate.  Instead she learned how not to trust.  She could live with mistrust.  She could not live with hate.

Puzzle Pieces

Ghosts and scissors and all manner of things.

To Sleep

Tired but awake again

because wakefulness is waiting for

my answer

I am ready this time

ready to embrace the disbelief

to refuse the hand that

once could pull me to

my feet

Floating into ache once more

with no morning defense

when the sun broke me like

a cudgel to

the head

stole from me any

last moments for

dreaming

Memory waits still and near for me

I am endlessly choosing I am

at last losing what allowed me to

creep through the hole in the

floor

So tired of attempting

            to end this need for sleeping

Letter to Ryan, January 3, 1990

Hey, hey, hey, I wrote a story, but it’s not funny.  In fact, it’s not even happy.  Don’t worry.  I’ll spare you the agony of reading it.  I tried to write you a funny one, but it’s not going well.  Cindy read the part I have done, and she said it doesn’t sound like me.  I think I need a totally new idea.  I’m sure I’ll think of something.  I wrote a poem, too, but, oh well, nothing for you to read except this lame letter.

Actually, it’s been a highly stressful few days for numerous reasons that I need not complicate your life with.  I think that’s why I’ve had the nightmares.  I told you that I was a hyper person who worries excessively, didn’t I?!  These last days have been enough to shave ten years off of my life!  (It’s a good thing I don’t smoke – ha ha!)

Intrusion

The Dragon in the Elevator, Pt. 3

Welcome back

I am not back

do not speak to me

Tell me a story

There is no story

only tears that blur

the words

Tell me a story where

no one wins

I lost victory long ago

lost its taste, its smell

I lost the smoke and

the screams and

the burning

I lost the cool taste of

water on a hot day

I lost the quarry and the

lake

I lost what I believed myself

to be

I lost daydreams and goodbyes

and hellos and new chances

I lost imagination

You are not lost

Stop talking to me

I forgot the lyrics long ago

YOU FORGOT NOTHING

I will cross out words

I will make believe

I will stop everything

You know me

I was something I liked,

once

I think

I don’t know

I don’t know a damn thing

anymore

the fire has gone out and

I am cold

I am so fucking cold

The Dream

I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.
--On Living, by Nazim Hikmet