Wordle #131 “November 28th, 2016”

Week 131.png

A moribound wave suckles at my veins.
Too many nuances to sedate,
emotions both pivotal and redundant.
We have been here many times
and yet each new birth must be named.

Stars jaunt episodic beneath
a swaddling of ashen wool.
We are not broken, at least entirely.
Maps catch fire beneath a callous wind.
I no longer remember the origin
of these implausible dreams.
At least my memories
have not yet forgotten me.

The moon is my reference.
Her slight figure, the endearment
on which my infamy is tested.
“Do your beliefs cripple or serve?”
Always the same question,
always the same dilemma.

I defy the axis around which I spin,
my tears so much wash and bother.
Does your plasma bend or persevere?
From one Penny Dreadful to the next
I leap without ever grasping the plot.
Still it thickens and I feel myself,
at most, unworthy of the subterfuge.

Does your stelliferous heart
burden or does it merely fend?
Pain cannot be bridled, bottled or bought.
Will it catch you unaware,
a spindle, a catapult,
an archive of mute, intangible horrors
or will you examine tenderly
the outraged orphan within?


Photo Challenge #132 and Wordle #267



I rinse the screams from your ashes,
the aftermath from my fingertips.
My chest tightens, submits its will.

We made a mess of each other,
of dreams and ultimatums-
of our hearts’ heedless hinterlands.

I am but a shadow against
your diaphanous imposition,
a bible of bones wed and dated.

I never wanted to be free,
feed me, season me, throw me into a pot
with herbs and tubers and just stew.


Save Me (Part 1)

Part of a story I wrote in high school. As there was a maximum length I never did get to flesh it out as I wanted.

“It’s too soon to return to work.” Vivienne flinched noticeably at the whine in Cora’s voice. She had expected her friend to resist the initial transition. She wondered bitterly if the less ambitious woman preferred her as an invalid. Cora visited almost daily with food, flowers, and invitations to low-tempo social engagements. As boring as those five hour avant-garde films were they were preferable to conversation. They were preferable to her friend’s thinly-veiled attempts at comfort.

“Would you rather that I sat at home crying all day.” Vivienne asked the edge in her voice softening to exasperation. She’d rehearsed this exact dialogue before coming to work. She was prepared. She was poised, nothing could deter her once her mind had been made.

“That would be the sane thing to do.” Cora said looking at her evenly.

“Sanity is relative…it’s been four months…it’s time that I started to move forward…” Vivienne cringed, no good her response had been too nonchalant Cora would see strait through her.

“Have you even seen a counselor…what about that group I recommended?” Group therapy was the last thing Vivienne wanted. Sitting in a circle filled with grieving parents, telling impossibly sad stories. Stories exactly like her own. These were people she couldn’t fix. These were people she didn’t have the right to fix. They had every reason to be miserable and to go on being miserable and there was nothing she or anyone else could do to solve that. As for individual therapy, she’d considered it but as a therapist herself it had seemed somehow redundant, unnecessary.

“I know how grieving works Cora…I know the stages…I know what’s best for me and right now I just want to get back to work…I need to get back to work…I’ll go crazy stewing in my apartment all day.” After a brief pause she added helpfully. “I’ll take it slow…no new patients…fewer hours…”

“Kristian killed himself Vivienne…it’s different…” If she didn’t stop Cora soon she’d say the one thing that Vivienne could not bring herself to hear out loud. Kristian killed himself and you failed to recognize the warning signs. You failed as his mother. You failed as a therapist. Cora would never say the last part but that is what everyone was thinking. She threw up a hand to silence her colleague.

“I appreciate your concern…you might even be right…but I have patients…patients who depend on me.” She hoped that Cora would take the hint and allow the conversation to return to a more benign channel, they were at work after all.

“Carol has it handled.” Cora assured. Their boss had entered the room to pour himself a cup of coffee, she needed to end this soon to avoid drawing attention.

“Handled? Their not pets…they have a developed a repertoire with me….it takes a long time to establish that level of trust…I am through with this conversation….it’s not your call besides it has already been approved…” Vivienne dropped her voice to prevent any further escalation.

Cora sighed audibly but relented. “I’ll drop it…if you schedule an appointment with a grief counselor…” There was no avoiding it, Vivienne had to agree otherwise Cora was likely to take up her concerns with Dr. Green. “I’ll schedule the appointment…” How hard could it be to fake her way out of therapy?

If only she’d retained a professional distance with Cora then she wouldn’t have to suffer such indignities now. Really how patronizing could the bitch be? They both had PH. D’s from prestigious universities, they both had seventeen years of experience. She’d lost her mother four years ago to breast cancer, she wasn’t a stranger to loss. Granted her son had only been fifteen. Granted his death had not been due to an accident or a physical illness and had come as a complete shock to everyone who knew him. He’d jumped to his death from a bridge only five miles from their apartment. He was medicated. He went to therapy three days a week with a renowned psychotherapist that she had chosen especially for him. He had friends, a girlfriend that she actually liked. They talked everyday. He was talented, attractive, well off financially (she’d seen to that). He had good grades. She’d been a good mother. She’d done well to raise him on her own. His father was a prick, an alcoholic but she’d even managed to get him into a program. She’d managed to repair a fraction of the damage he’d done and it was getting better. What more could she have done? No, she didn’t blame herself. She blamed Depression. She blamed the failings of psychotropic medications. Everyday she repeated to herself “No one is to blame.”. Everyday she read her journals where she had carefully recorded her son’s progress and there was progress, there had been significant progress. Had that been the warning sign? Had her son been faking wellness just as she was doing?

She filled her mug with coffee, nearly burning herself in the process. Holding the mug cautiously to her lips she began to blow and then inelegantly to sip away the excess. Work was the best thing for her really, work gave her life consistency and purpose. Cora was right about one thing she wasn’t over Kristian’s death but then again she never would be. That was the reality of all parents who lost children. That was the reality of loved ones who’d lost friends and family to suicide. There was no recovery, only the excruciating process of normalizing a life that never would be normal again.


I milk your improbable moats,

the borders flailing around your inundated head.

Dying occurs in stages, like grief.

Dying begins and ends with retreat.

Your eyes fill me with dysphoria

and sunken ships leagues beneath their peak.

If only we could be happier with ourselves.

Your aglet penetrates my eyelet,

a clever stitch that accounts for the passage of air.

Does your blood run cold when looking in the mirror?

A veneer like flypaper, intimacy attaches names and faces

to crimes that occur exclusively within.

Do I terrorize you? My questions resonating

like tinnitus in your keen ear. I could ruin you,

I could leave. I have no desire to do either

but convincing you has proven beyond my power.

I’ll believe for the both of us, some days that’s what

love is. Some days are impossible and others

improbable but each and every one of them

worth saving and in a pinch we can use

our collective baggage to start a fire.


I cut ribbons of silence from your tears,

A grief as tremulous as it is indelible,

And I wonder to what degree love can heal

If it is never accepted by those involved?


A short one today I am getting my stuff together for job hunting and it is stressful and confusing time. I have actually been working on a letter in Swedish to the employment agency so the writing I am doing isn’t very fun.

Drawing to a Close | OctPoWriMo Day 29

Your death took a long time

Too long, all things being relative.

Dying seems so Zen in the movies

But all that was ever borne

From your cracked lips was agony.

I’ve no idea where you went

When the moment finally came

Or even what you believed in

(if you’d ever considered such things).

I wasn’t even there when it happened

But I know it wasn’t beautiful

A man’s suffering never is and a man’s tears

Are always heart-breaking for they are never

Spilled carelessly but come from a well

So deep as to be seldom retrievable.

It was my mother who decided,

Who stole the umbilicus from

Your surrendering frame.

There’s no shame in asking to die

For you were so riddled with disease,

With sufferings inconceivable in nature.

Our hospitals are filled with corpses,

Empty folds of flesh and bones

Like barbed-wire fences, wrapped

Ferociously around an invisible tenet.

It ought to be considered murder

To stitch the soul into an empty sack

And leave it trapped there

Beyond any justifiable definition of mercy.


This was written about a step uncle who died of multiple types of cancer. My mom took care of him in her home until he needed to go into hospital. She told me the pain never stopped, he just screamed and screamed.

Photo Challenge# 80 and Wordle #218

Ade Santora

– art-spire.com

They spin overhead,

Their black feathers

In Reaper’s shroud dressed.

My heart kicks its cage

A terrible music revisited.

This system swallows

All who would validate it.

Remember the coven,

The moon level but intermittent

In a trump of indignant clouds?

Remember the busts

Of the girls we promised to marry?

Remember the dreams which

Proved too solvent to endure

Our myriad distractions?

I am not the same man,

Now it exists a blessing to wait,

To shelter the impatient sighs

Of children who depend

Upon my unconditional resolve.

I was young once, inconsiderate

Happy for my ignorance.

Now I know but not nearly enough.


And on a random note

A- Age: 34
B- Biggest Fear: Myself I guess I have a really hard time opening up
C- Current Time: 14:19
D- Drink you last had: Tap Water
E- Easiest Person To Talk to: Husband
F- Favorite Song: I am not sure it depends on my mood the last song I listened too was Sister Awake by The Tea Party and it suited my mood nicely.
G- Ghosts, are they real?: Yes I ought to know I have been mistaken for one 😛
H- Hometown: Somewhere in outer space. Have you seen the new photos of Pluto!
I- I can’t: Breakdance <——- totally true
J- Jealous Of: At the moment people who don’t suffer with back pain.
K- Killed Someone?: Never
L- Last time you cried?: A few days ago I think
M- Middle Name: Alishia
N- Number of Siblings: 0
O- One Wish: That I had more (any) confidence in myself
P- Person who you last called: Husband
Q- Question you’re always asked: How do I get to blah blah. People are always asking me for directions. I have a very poor sense of direction.
R- Reason to smile: Husband, daughter, adorable animals
S- Song last sang: I am not sure probably something on the car radio
T- Time you woke up: 6:00 am about
U- Underwear Color: Purple
V- Vacation Destination: Nothing booked in the foreseeable future
W- Worst Habit: Self-denigration
X- X-Rays you’ve had: spine, chest, mouth
Y- Your favorite food: Onigiri
Z- Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Wordle #75

Week 75

Grains of rice gather above like toy clouds.

Bleary eyes collide, an inescapable distinction.

They draw each other’s names in the sand

Clipped between overlapping hearts.

Love is the soul of all consideration.

Orpheus follows his wife into the meantime

But he cannot bare her, the thought of her

Not there, in the dark, a mere simulacrum.

He draws on faculty but his lyre deafens.

A proximate memory, a curse, preserved

Behind peeled eyelids and charcoal grin.




Wordle #128


My edges spill unbidden down

A hillside swarming with nettles.

They gather in forgotten places,

In snatches of penumbra.

I’ve seen it all with nothing between.

Ghosts worship in a stringent chorus.

Patches fail to conceal their truancy,

They are exhaust and ectoplasm.

The air in my lungs sharpens

To a shriek, I will never forget,

The exact spot where I died

Broken by my own menace.


On another note I am really struggling to keep up and catch up right now

Music Friday Prompt #4 and Wordle #132

Inky sheets bend in flame,

Pages ripe and yearning

Pulled from the safety

Of my still eroding heart.

I promised to die,

A martyr’s sojourn

But none would keep me.

I trip over stillness,

A pebble worn to silk

By the river’s condolences.

I wipe the clay from my hands,

Immeasurable resurrections

Replayed in the transactions

Between moon and sea,

A convulsive tide eating rain.

The shadows wake,

Ruins of crumpled shade

Hopes impaled on reality’s

Bitter black blade.

My child lost,

Within and without

A savior cannot be saved.