Pseudocode stage


The same machinations
but you hacked yourself not to comply
Still childishly craving distance through sexualization
you rewired your adult conscience to override

But all this new code doesnt change the power of one good look or a shaking hand or a wry smile

A strong hug makes the system default

You’ll
still
fuck
anything
that
walks

Zeros and ones baby
That’s all we flesh machines have got

Bittersweet

bittersweet

Why do we reminisce
About faces with sad brown eyes and pouty lips
Warm hugs, taste in wine
Harmonious musical tastes
Kisses?

What is the point of going backwards to beauty
When there were moments of tragic inconsideration
Rabid neglect
Obviously noncommittal lifestyle choices?

Why do the shiny, slick thoughts persist
When the pain was so much more pungent?

He liked the same music as me
He was only a little taller
He was a flirt
He was a connoisseur
He gave me a Tom Robbins book
I wonder how many women have Tom Robbins books

I don’t know why
I just don’t

He’s a sad case of singlehood
He will never father his own
Never spread roots

But there was something
Something different
Something fun
Our limited time was full
Formative years under the same roof
History made us closer

When certain songs play
I am taken back
I still think of him first
But why?

When they weren’t your first
Or a reason you moved across town
Or the closest thing to real
When the most significant thing they ever did was leave you alone in your car and disappear

Why would you feel something you would have liked to be love?
Why would you hold on to a single thing?

 

your stepfather

smoke

Uncomfortable silence.
Somebody turn the radio on at least
The quiet hurts
It’s not a reflective, meditative quiet
It’s the quiet of rage and fear and ignorance and denial
Of codependence
Resentment
Poisoning by secondhand smoke
The residual smell
Acrid and nauseating
Chemical
Noxious and toxic
Like the waiting room of an auto body shop
But it’s the family car
Brings me back
My teen years
Rides to family dinners
Yeah huh
Family
Put that in quotes
Because it was silent
No one talks
There is no bond
No kindness
No humor
No fun
No FEELING
Now it’s the smell of age
Impending Death
Putrid vapor discharge from regular medications and Marlboros
Just as bad as the black coffee cups
And cigarette-infused car upholstery
Drive for miles
Say nothing
No wonder my mother rambles
No wonder she can’t be quiet
She can’t wait to get out of the car either
Talks about traffic lights like they’re jailers
This is maddening
Talking to yourself is better
Than having to endure
The selfishly shy and socially deficient
The consciously unnecessary stoicism
The anti-person
The unspeaking
Walking dead

Resettlement

bub
This is my kabubble
My small hovel in the suburbs
where I drown out the sound of the screaming from within
with some kindness I’ve been learning

I’m still needy for action
but I already fucked the men sent to guard me
oh wait no
they were working for the enemy

I’m not in combat
“harms way” is where I was
this is no man’s land now
Or so I decided about six months ago

And this is seven years
after i said i was sick and so tired
of being lied to
of being a liar

Tonight someone said he was so used to lying
he didn’t know anyone who sucked at it
until he stopped and thought about how easy it is
the comfort of the untruth
and it was sickening to him
that it felt normal

the new normal

What IS that?

It changes every week
from big screen to smaller or bigger
How often we transmit our success and failure
How we dress
How we GMO or don’t

How do we follow something that is moving at the speed of light?

I don’t know if we can catch up.

America is a bubble
Because fantasy and dreaming means reality is somewhere else
We fancy ourselves a great shining land of dream manufacturing
But really it’s all levers and pulleys, maintained by drones and the angry disorganized
and later unknowingly disenfranchised

Red pill, blue pill
doesn’t matter anymore

We are way down in this hole
We are so far down

People with perfectly manicured lives
attempting to re-interpret words that were created before there was even electricity
Confidence so high in words thousands of years older, written by scribes based on stories told by men centuries earlier
Not a woman’s voice in the crowd
But we made you
We nursed you
We clothed you and kept you

I don’t want to talk about world affairs
I’m overexposed to infotainment

Here in my bubble
Feeling like something has to be said for my sanity
but not knowing why I type another word

should I try different punctuation?
stop using capital letters in protest?
I is so much cooler when it’s i

or is it

as my son would say

I feel something in my bones that wants to tell everybody something
Say something with a meaning
It’s quiet and bleak in my kitchen
Cinnamon bread I botched earlier today(too much butter)
Still makes it smell so homey

Too late to go sit in a bar with a rocks glass half-full of whiskey
And pretend I’m a writer type with a passion for random opinions
How precious

Sitting here in my bleak, cinnamony kitchen instead

Bubble

Thinking about a dream of kissing
And the usual torment that comes on waking up in an empty bed
The further ache caused by knowing
I was being kissed in my dreams by a jackass in sheeps clothing again

But it’s the bubble I’m in right now
I made it mine
I’m here until I’m ready to shut it down
part of some journey inside
It will always be part of me

I’d rather it be this part of the desert
Than the flooded toxic swamps of the life I left
Any bubble is better than choking on your own bloated inertia
I can’t go back there

This is my normal for now

Cords and tech everywhere
Receipts, files, tissues and grocery bags on the table
purses on the floor
Cinnamon bread in the pan and in the sink
Vitamins and fiber and probiotics in the cabinet
TV and the tractor beam sofa
Laundry. Always the laundry
Windowless bathroom and shower with the door open please
Once a month bleach the grout
And open the windows for the cross breeze that sends the piano music
to the floor where it sits while my son hammers villains and foes online
Calling “mom…mom” a hundred times or more
The bedroom I call my sanctuary
More like an inner sanctum for the lack of sunlight
Good for vampires
And me
And it’s all mine
Plus the noise of the neighbors and the pipes
And the fire trucks and trains and garbage and snow removal men
For now

This bubble
is where I reshape my life