the more you understand about an abuser
the more you hate them
They tell you not to-
Don’t lean on anger.
Anger is the wall
that broke through!
So fuck the talking heads
that tell how to feel
when they weren’t the ones
peeling their minds off
at the age of five.
my name is reason,
logic is my cousin.
I’ve been up to something lately, only I don’t understand what it is. I’ve been walking into empty rooms in our new house and looking at the walls. Or, out the window at the mountainside. I look to see if deer have left new tracks in the snow. I saw a coyote a few days ago in the middle of the day. That has nothing to do with what I’m trying to express.
I know I’m up to something. We have been out straight for nearly two years while the build of our new house took place. Now that we’ve moved in and I have my office space back it’s as though a part of my missing-self has been replaced. So while I’m outside shoveling snow, I feel a tugging toward my office. Toward me. Toward writing.
I love severe weather. I love the snow slamming down in frigid temperatures while the wind howls. That’s where you’ll find me, with it, in it, living to find what makes living worth while after having lived some things I never should have. But, I did. And that’s how humanity goes. Either enjoy the storm and the potential of losing power in the middle of the night, or.. Fuck it. There is no Or. Enjoy what you can before someone tries to tell you how to be. Or, what the ‘Or’ is. That’s a dangerous moment in life.
I’ll keep walking into rooms with no purpose while the rest of me figures it out. And then when that happens, it’ll have happened.
Cheers my friends.
Let me be wherever the fuck I am and let my heart fight with the rest.
Gram! Don’t look at my balls!
I was drunk.
Just a few minutes before,
my drunk self took me to my
old bedroom to put on my gift.
Which was a cold water wetsuit for kayaking.
Fuckers are stretchy and real tight.
Once I had that bastard on, including the headgear,
I pranced toward the bar, where everyone was,
with their drinks and their cheer.
Gram! Don’t look at my balls!
It was snowing outside.
I remember laying in the snow, feeling nothing,
It was fucking good. To lay and feel nothing.
Eventually I came back inside.
My family accepted my balls as myself.
And Big Al wanted to have another shot.
And we did.
Always remember yourself
Never forget your writing
And when all else fails
They never understood anyway
You can’t always do what you want. But you can do now what you will. Grab the fucking book. Ignore that screaming argument pulling your metallic rage sideways and sit in your best possible spot to read words you’ve been wanting to know. Then raise your glass of I don’t give a fuck and cheers the sun going down. Because no matter what, you will either see the sun again, or it’ll never care enough to wake you up.
While in jail I liked listening to the different voices at night. All kinds of accents bounced from the cement walls back and around and through again. Someone wanted a porn magazine passed to him. Another sang a song. Someone was doing push-ups a few cells down. Jokes were being told by faces who couldn’t see the intended ears. All while I laid on my top bunk thinking about how my college classes couldn’t teach me about any of this. I loved it. I still do. I love remembering it. Shame? No. The only shame I come upon concerning my having gone to jail was, and is, from family members embarrassed of me. I laugh at them. They are weak. They were always weak. I learned as much in jail as I did in my four years earning my business degree. School of Management, baby. At the very liberal State University of Massachusetts in Amherst, MA. Where they love to tell you how to think. Life is a funny thing. A sad thing. A beautiful thing. Sometimes I think I should tell my full story. But then again, fuck it.
For much of my life I’ve walked a lonely path. This one path was different. WordPress. Spillwords. Being published beyond both. Eyes on words.
I gave an interview. Something I’ll most likely not do again for a very long while.
People are fucking weak. Yet they love telling anyone who’ll listen how to live.
Ask them what they wore two days ago and they’ll talk about how they
plan on painting their walls, because they know it’s time to paint, but don’t bother
asking why the mold grew without cancellation. Fuck their mold and their societal illness. At morning’s age I knew this wasn’t good, but had no claws. And now that later is, I’ll tell what needs to be told. Even if it takes tears and smashed bowls on walls with hatred in my eyes.
Don’t ask how to write
There is no how
Just fucking write
And let them catch up