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My last post of 2012, last outpost, ahead images: fuzzy and distant as the wind.
It’s much too dark for going
It’s much too early for a new start
The year is much too much new for this new year shit:
Why wasn’t the old year good enough to fuck up without needing a new one too?
Why weren’t you good enough to make last year’s point?
Another year goin’ to do to you what you did to it. Last post, fuzzy and distant as a bitch, much too much shit.
My oldest daughter, Poppy, doesn’t qualify for health insurance.
Website says, We’re sorry. My daughter’s age and/or pre-existing condition(s) disqualify her for true coverage but as a soft sendoff, I could purchase an “accident only” plan, which would not cover hospitalization or the setting of bones or the stitching of wounds. It would “cover” a lady bug bite.
This is a true story.
Being a fag doesn’t seem that hard
what’s discrimination to you
what’s civil rights to you
don’t you care too much about your red vests and purple stripes
the gel in your hair, the lotion on your skin
walking in high heels
like sissy boys
Group think equals group fabulousness?
Fags of the worse sort
striking down as they are stricken down
Try fighting slurs that the gays fling about
hag as if insulting good friends
isn’t the same thing
as the jocks, the Christians, the Muslims, the Red Texans shouting
fucking die fag
Between Birth and Decay
My aunt had cancer.
Actually, she still does.
It’s just rotting with her bones in an underground cavern.
Between birth and decay,
it’s the suffering that counts.
Two other aunts have cancer now.
Don’t they deserve it, never coming to visit
never seeing the suffering until the end.
More endings coming forthwith.
My ex-boyfriend had gone to Miami for four days in April.
I know because I drove him from the airport.
He went to a strip club.
He met and took pictures of girls he met there.
One night on the town, three pictures of these girls.
I know because one morning after he’d gone to work, I looked through the pictures on his camera.
Six months with me, not a one picture did he take.
I know because I was there.
I know because he’s so predictable.
I know because I drove him to the airport.
My dog had a bone
but no meat on it
not even much of a scent
where there should have been flavor and bite
My friend nodded
saying it’s a shame
puppies having puppies
but she didn’t know better
She just wanted a chance at a real bone
but she has the real thing now and I give her bacon-flavored bones everyday
See poeticgrin.com for the rules of this exercise.
Note: “Miami” and “Bones” appear to have 11 lines; however, there is one line in each that is too long for wordpress’s sensibilities.
Consider it written in stone. The stone at the head of a non-descript grave at a non-descript cemetery on the outskirts of some field in the middle of nowhere. Here she lies.
This is how it will go. Tomorrow, there will be tears. Tomorrow, there will be a long, sad drive home and an even longer, sadder drive back to the place I live.
It’s hard to say how many people will be there. It’s summer, you know, and there will be no church service. I imagine only family and one or two friends will come.
The family will hug me. They will tell me how thankful they are that I went to see her when she was so ill and no one else was able to visit. Able. Inwardly, I will cringe at this word. Inwardly, I will feel hate and spite.
The family will tell me they love me after they’ve told me and each other what a big “help” I was, as if I’d gone to pick up their prescriptions downtown and not sat beside her for hours while she cried because she was in pain and no one else would come see her. They’ll say they don’t know what they would have done without me. Some of them will list all the reasons why they couldn’t come to visit her when it mattered. I will make a parallel list of all the reasons they should have come. My list will be longer and more substantial.
They did not kill her, but they did break her heart. My tears will be for her and for the injustice of it all. Their tears will force me to forgive them, to stifle the outrage I feel, because I, of all people, know guilt and grief.
I wanted her dead and now she is.
I yelled at my brother because he wronged us, because he wronged me. My aunt is suffering through cancer treatment that will most likely result in her death, but the odds being what they are and her will to live being what it is, there’s no other option. I yelled at my brother because he wants to believe she doesn’t know what’s going on. That she’s drugged up. That she mindlessly drifts in and out of a slumber from which she remembers nothing.
She’s conscious, you idiot.
I realized that he wants to believe—and the rest of them as well—that she’s dying without pain. I think it’s cruel of me, but I tell him, no, she is not out of it and she feels lonely and unloved and how could you not call her ahead of time to say you changed your mind and weren’t going be there?
I don’t know what it’s like to be her. In my own narrow-mindedness, I think I would like being alone. It’s heartbreaking, though, to see someone alone who doesn’t want to be. To figure out that your friends and your family are no where to be found. That you have less than a handful of caring people who visit you and a niece you were never close to as your primary source of support.
So I yelled at my brother, because he has illusions of his own good-guy and godly grandeur. He will tell you about Jesus, if you want. He will invite you to church. He’ll tell you God will set you free, but I imagine he would look puzzled if you asked him if he actually follows the WWJD mentality. For example, would Jesus bail on His aunt? How would my brother have felt if he were left to rot within the confines of four white walls and a number on his back? The rest of my family, they will shoot the breeze with you. They’ll adamantly make promises and say they are 100% behind you…unless they are out any gas money to come see you.
So, there you’ll be. Alone when you don’t want to be. Unloved. A chore and a burden. Outright, no one even bothers to say you’re not a bother.
You are a bother. You will continue to be a bother. Can you die now and let us bury you in the mud where you won’t take up our time and energy?
So I’ve made matters worse, at least for him. Now in addition to my unaccommodating aunt and her silly sickness, I have inconvenienced my brother with my anger. Why do you have to be like that, he asks. I repeat his question with bitterness in my voice.
I hang up.
*Written by emerging poet extraordinaire, Straight Up Carol
To my dearest.
Fuck you for leaving me. I actually loved you.
I actually loved you and that is why I am hurting so much
even now after all this time.
You seem to be doing fine and I am still openly hurting.
Fuck you for not loving me enough
maybe you didn’t even love me at all. Fuck you.