I don’t feel inspired to write.
But here are words,
evidence of slogging.
A pace of clacking
set to the the
music of numbness.
I don’t feel inspired to write.
I feel a clog in the
underside of my chin
and above my left eye
and probably somewhere
in a ventricle.
My therapist once told me
that these are called emotions
and I am to sit with them
and name them
and feel them.
They are leaden
and mucus slimed.
I don’t feel inspired to write.
But suddenly I am allowed to feel.
My mother told me
that God is the potter
and I am a cup
but I’m trying to
become a plate
but what she
doesn’t understand
is that I was
never meant
to be so simple
and utilitarian
in the first place
and it’s much
more likely that
I’m an abstract sculpture
out of precious metal clay
and this is my trial by fire
in the kiln of cruel expectations
burning away impurities
and anything less
than what I need
to be pure sterling.
I have PTSD
which does not stand for
Pretty Truly Sucky Drama or
Panicky Trifling Solution Denier or
Performing, Trying, Slowly Dying
but there are aspects
of those things in
every meltdown,
every flashback,
every nightmare,
as I recall the thick coagulation
and the fingers dragging loosely
and the furor
and the passion
and the way a man
turned into a little boy,
curled up in a hospital bed,
waiting for his stitches
no longer yelling
about the bitches
who didn’t love him
so he stabbed himself
once
twice
thrice
and now my brain pan
is stuck with the same scars
that laced up and down his arms,
isn’t that nice.
Follow the money.
Ask questions.
Who is benefiting
from this atrocity?
Who gets to
wipe their hands
and eventually say,
after the
government coffers
have coughed their last
to the billionaire families
executing the grand plans,
“Well, a bomb is cheaper,
in the long run.”
The grape Powerade
hit my tongue
and I wasn’t
hit with taste
but with memory,
long nights
in July heat
on the second floor
of an old factory,
packed in zany socks,
white heat,
and scorecard metal,
blades singing electric
and metallic
and I was hit with grief,
the truth about my crooked back
and my escapist knee,
and wicked obesity,
truly now,
wholly now,
holding me
back from a thing
I want to do,
the memories of sweat
and smiles
and jokes
and dominance
and fear
and fury
and a gentle stomp
that I’m not
capable of anymore
because I’m afraid of breaking
and now I’m breaking
and I think I’m ready
to go under the knife.
I have thinky thoughts
with my inky words,
you in that slinky dress,
pushing kinky nerds.
Life turns around quick
because only one moment
separates people from
a “before” and an “after.”
Only one trauma,
one car accident,
one slip up
and your whole life
can change.
And life is a
series of moments
like this,
forks in the road
where decisions
were made
for us
and we have
to learn to cope.
This is where
empathy comes in,
and the more
you know empathy
before the “before,”
the softer you’ll land.
No,
it’s not that
it doesn’t take
any skill
to do
what you do.
It takes
YOUR skills.
You just
haven’t learned
to value those yet.
I had a doctor’s appointment.
They gave me antibiotics.
It’s been more than a month
with this sinus infection
but I just kept hoping
I was gonna kick it.
But I’ve been in pain
and I was already there
for something else.
I winced when she
touched my neck.
Later that night
I massaged it,
and panicked when
I felt how incredibly
large and swollen
my lymph nodes were.
As I caressed,
tension released,
and I started coughing.
Delirious with sputum,
I researched
what was happening.
Turns out
lymph node massage
is a thing.
I massaged
until my skin
felt loose.
My double chin
had been storing
extra human goo.
I poked and prodded
the result,
staring at myself
in the mirror.
Was I manlier
with my skin
hanging loose?
And then I pulled
on myself,
enough to
tear my heart,
enough to
rip a seam
where I had
sewed myself together.
I often joke about
being 23 weasels
in a human suit
(It’s supposed to be 24.
Oscar is on FMLA,
he’s working through some shit.
It’s why I limp
unexpectedly sometimes.).
I pulled at the corners
and I saw behind the mask tonight.
The pilot, he feels trapped.
I can taste my skull
When the mint begins to rot
At the inside corners
And the edges of my teeth.
I can can feel my tendons
Gently sliding through
Stroking past each other
Buried in the meat.
I can sense my skin
Bristle under the sun
I can feel it augment
Tingle like it’s bugs.
I can think my brainmeats
Writing on these words
Making all new thought heat
Burning just for fun.
Rexicorn 