Triumph is for Dreamers, Pt. 2

I left you                                                                    

                        I did

that was me who limped behind

who whimpered and begged as

fear threatened me blind

            but I left you

                        yes, I did

Your voice now I must ignore

oh, and it sears and it soars, and it

roars with the ferocity of a

jungle cat

            because I left you back there

            with the imploring stare

            on your face

                        yes, I did

Old truths fill the

black hole where

I buried the leaking need

for you

I know all about incurable wounds

            So much and for so many weepy and

            lonely afternoons

            I meant to leave you

            for so much, my friend

                        and I did

It cost me the ravage of an atomic rage

poisoned the air with its smoke-orange 

memories

maybe it will melt my blistering heart

maybe it will leave me to freeze in 

the drift of its nuclear winter

when the death that crouches in wait 

for me

crouches close for you, too

            forgive me for pulling this scratchy scarf

            over my eyes  

            forgive me, love, because I was made to 

            leave you

                        and I did

Childhood dreams

Diary entry, April 15, 2004

My relationship with my family is basically premised on lies—and I don’t want to be a part of that anymore, particularly since the lies just go on and on.  But at the same time it’s really scary.  I had this dream last night where I was trying to make all of them happy, but when we got together they put a shroud over me while I was sleeping and said that I was dead.  When I got up and tried to interact with them, they wouldn’t acknowledge me.  I knew I wasn’t one of them anymore.  It felt sad, and just a bit lonely.

Sleep journal, July 8, 1985

I’m not quite sure what’s scaring me.  It’s kind of dreams even though I know they can’t hurt me.  They’re just so weird. 

Diary entry, April 24. 2014

Knowing matters.  Why does it matter?  Because it does.  It matters.  But that’s the game—the torture—the double bind.  You will not be allowed to have the one thing that could either give you peace or send you off the cliff of despair, or both.  This one thing will be taken from you.  Instead you will wonder whether you have banana Weetabix poisoning, or if you are right but lost in the red straw network, or if you are sort of right but kind of wrong but full of good intentions, or if you are just a nutter.  You will be told you hold the answers, but there are no answers inside.  Just a howling wind, an incessantly buzzing bee, a mass grave filled with the fallen, the ones who foolishly entered into No Man’s Land armed only with a musket and grim determination.  A musket is no defense against an ICBM.  Grim determination and a dollar will get you a ride on the bus.  Or it would have about twenty years ago.  Now you’d probably need a couple of bucks.

You will be denied all knowledge.  Knowledge will die within you, to be replaced with rotting suspicions and wilting hope.  No seeds can be planted here.  You will be left a slave to ambiguity, a prisoner of doubt.  Enjoy the banana Weetabix, because there is no going back.  And I do like it.  It’s quite nice with yogurt.  Not with milk.  Must never eat cereal with milk.  Never ever ever.

The Witch, Pt. 2

Notebook, 2013

This is a fool’s story warped into submission

Say what you want to say?

No one wants to listen

No one will help us sleep at night and

no one can save that kitten

No one wants to know if it is spring

or winter

Or whether the stars were bitten

Jump off of that bridge if you want

but that was never my mission

Blame yourself for your liar’s heart

The truth was always there but

YOU WOULDN’T LISTEN