Somethings don’t have to be said
I know that all humans are not bad
But I have a hard time fingerings out the good ones
I don’t trust my ability fully.
There is always something I can miss
This uncertainty is my armor
I try to keep one foot on the ground
And one hand on my pistol
I not going to put up with bullshit
Its nothing personal, you understand?
It just, you see, I don’t know
how long I have to live
It may end soon or something
so I don’t want to waste any time
on bullshit -You get it
You’ve wasted time on bullshit
I see it on your face
Doing what I love.
There are a lot of things I love including writing, cooking, bodyboarding, reading, playing video games, playing ball with kids, dancing, painting, making sex with Henry, flying and taking a walk to name a few and if I die doing any of them it’s not beautiful. It is horrible.
It is always ugly to die, dip shit
Recently I’ve decided I want to get big muscles so I’ve been pumping iron and doing push ups. I’m going to get so ripped everyone is going to call me annie the body.
Pretty soon I’ll be so strong I’ll be able to pick you up and fuck you down
My dream is simple
It is to love
Don’t complicate it
I miss being able to call you
And hear you tell all about your day of weeding your huge garden or teaching English as a second language, or your studies of foreign language for another mission trip or about the new poem you wrote, usually about praising your god.
I could ask you for your oatmeal cookie recipe or crepe recipe or what temperature to roast a chicken and you would take the time to tell me, each time I asked.
I could have looked it up but hearing your voice gave me courage. I suppose it was a way to get your love and attention, even as a grown far away woman.
Now you are a broken baby crab, so diseased and crippled you can barely pick up the phone and can’t talk when sitting and can barely stand and you talk so quiet I can’t understand what you say besides the shuffling sounds of the 1 minute it takes you stand before you say hello. These sounds haunt me and let me know you are alive
I would share this with you but I can’t . This pain is not yours
You struggle in that big house next to the pack of wolves, with the forest and swamp surrounding you, falling and grabbing at the walls, banging off the furniture and wood stove.
You fight to get up.
you fight to stay up.
You fight to sit down.
You fight to lie down
Every thing you do is a battle
And I am afraid of what ails you is coming for me or worse, your grandchildren, zombie grandma
Each day I stand and clean my house I’m grateful. I have been pumping iron and dancing and scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees, smiling as I do it. The harder the better, if I can do it because I know how lucky I am to be alive and able to clean any of it.
I know you want to die fighting alone in your house in the forest of howls but it hurts all us kids to see you do it. One of these falls is going to be breakfast for a bear or pack of wolves but that is your choice and my burden and my brothers to hold dear
One that hurts more and more because it is the end of your fight, dear Mother
Stopped about a month ago
I waited until now to make sure or not to jinx it
They were bad. Everyone died. Night after night
They were locked and stiff
Grotesque with strange smiles and wide eyes, in fancy silks and cheap jewelry, shoeless with crosses wrapped around their hands
They were waterfalls.
They were moon illusions.
They were sun spots.
And I’d find them
in their beds and in the their backyard. I’d see their feet poking out of the lilac bushes and hanging from clothes lines
their hair grew and wrapped and knotted around my legs
Each time I leaned in, searching with fuzzy Dream eyes, trying to understand what I saw, then I’d realize in new shock it was my dead family. I was a minute too late . i dropped them and ran. But they stuck to me. They came out of the furniture, or the walls or other loved ones bodies.
I awoke scared and weepy night after night until I learned I would be lucky when I died
That’s when the death-mares ended
This language wants to hold me down and make me speak clearly or cure silence
But what I can’t scratch out or won’t whisper in your ear is more important then what I have
finite is mine or yours