Moving and Fading

We are the paint peel chipping,
dangling over the prickly
bushes,
waiting with an eye
toward falling.
I wonder who I will be
when I am cut and
bleeding -
I wonder who I will be
when I have
given up.

It is like the blanking of
a color screen,
the bleaching of dark
green carpeting.
Hold my hand for just
a little while.
We are moving
and fading
on and on.

Coping mechanisms

“Oh, honey,” his mother said, “don’t cry.  Someday this will all just be a memory.”

Jonah didn’t answer, only buried his face further into his arms.

“In fact,” his mother continued, “if you think about it, the memory is much more important than what actually happens , isn’t it?  Because the memory lasts so much longer, I mean.  So how you choose to remember this—that’s what matters.  Right?”

Not having the slightest clue what she meant, Jonah nodded anyway. 

“Good,” his mother answered, and patted his shoulder.  “Now come into the kitchen, and I’ll make you some graham crackers with chocolate frosting.”

Up against it

April 13, 2004

I remember this feeling.  It’s the feeling I have before/during a flashback—like I want to crawl out of my skin.  I just have to keep it at bay until Thursday.  I don’t want to do this while I'm alone.  And god knows Ryan doesn't need to deal with it.  Thursday.  I just have to wait until Thursday.

A look back

                                                       

                                                  This is my heart in denial                                                        

the scratching of the diamond

against the vinyl

I was young once it seems

and I spun your etched

reflection inside

of me

But reality is the toe breaker

is the dance

is the false teeth sitting

innocent in the glass

Apologies

I haven't been posting new things to my blog for the past four days because our internet connection went down on Monday and was only fixed today.  For all of you who visited during that time, my sincere apologies.  I will start posting again immediately!

Self-protection

            Ursula sent Andy a long email, in which she denounced him as an emotional cripple.  She also compared him to her father, who had never loved anything but the family dog.  Neither one of them (Andy and her father, not the dog) had any idea what emotional intimacy was.   I’m sure you’ve already stopped reading by now, she sniffed at the end, but she was wrong.  Andy read the whole thing.   He even showed it to Hal, who had a good chuckle over it.  “Women,” Hal laughed.  “Always so damn superior.  Talk about needing a psychiatrist, huh?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well, whadya want with a chick named Ursula?  I’m telling you—stick to the women with normal names.  The ones who sound like they should be in a Bond movie are always psychopaths.” 

            “I’ll keep that in mind,” Andy answered.  But he wasn’t smiling.

The Lost Crossing

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