The Shootings

Last year’s Orlando shootings followed by the November National 2016 Elections were tantamount to the events that informed my going underground and to a better footing of safety in a dangerous terroristic world changing, shifting, abandoning, losing me.

The Depression ensued and it was terrible.

Winter came and left.

Spring came and left.

Summer was a wash.

Tonight’s Halloween and my forever lover and I will meet beneath the silvery islip of Luna tonight, hence.

I’m returning to Orlando the 1st week of December to meet with my Shaman for cleansing and visioning.

I didn’t believe I could go into the city again.

I didn’t believe I could go away like I did and like how I have been doing.

Hiding from the Trump Administration and seeing the world prepare for implosion is something now akin to a cigarette with 4 AM hot coffee. They are together, one and for always it seems now. He’s the shit under shoe that won’t wash away. He’s stink.

My world is changing again.

You must not ever stop being whimsical.

And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.

Mary Oliver, Upstream (2016).

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piano solo

“Give me the simple life…”

I must learn how to live again.

My surroundings meld to gray. Ignore the brilliance of the oranges, the reds, purple, tallowed yellows. They do not exist any longer. May my visual acuity turn bland.

Let my energy focus on turning off life force. I must not linger, too long, over music, my love, my Beloved. They cannot breathe where they used to prevent rain.

The rain outside seeping in and whimpering now where it used to be full-on blue rain no longer. No longer. The sumptuousness of the wet and her smell of the rain no longer exists.

Since the moment of bliss, the thrilling kiss, heaven has shut her door on me for romance on the menu. There is no longer the slide slide slide pushiness of sex to wound through afternoons. That part of me is dead.

Day in. Day out.

Gershwin’s horns and the strings meeting at crescendo mean nothing to me anymore.

It came out of my mouth quickly and without thinking yesterday and it was the opening of a door, “Mary is dead…” and my friend and I both were frozen, grimacing and nodding.

I will promise you nothing and promise myself everything for now on.

The next three months are an end of a season.

I will, I must make the lap to Christmas Eve. Marker

Hello to a death march of trudgery, of plannedness, for wellness to persevere, to a life where nothing at all else marks me, ever again. Never again. Never again. She has killed me already many deaths daily, night sweating into obliviousness, holding on for footing.

The pain and the harm experienced is grievous. Were I to hold unlimited capital, I would correct the crime breaking another’s Beloved heart, but I instead do not.

That I lack a tribe, a community, a family, a prompter, I task, now.

 

 

her hands

yosemite30 days hath september

april, june and november

from what summer did we have, now winter

did it any of it ever take place

any of it

i wonder
it was a dream
perfect realism
i was awake but briefly
belabored breathing
climbing to the top

was it real
was it real
was it real

i have some proof

rocks to hold in my hand

branches of trees touched, in my hand

sand from mexico in a honey jar

in my hand drip drip drip

were it not for the leftover solstice hat

it slumbers, it holds no shape now

far away from mine

remember hers

in them i am

 

 

the tempest

where is my Queen Leah now

carrie-fisher-2

i am forsaken

it is possible that the stars and moon and shapes of the world are behind the pine trees and the old oak in vines and the dogwoods are sleeping in the dark too

somebody let off a stream of fireworks sizzling and popping that stopped at the ground fast with reverb

yosemite

the air in atlanta in august smells like smoke and truck exhaust

it whips at the back of your throat when you inhale it

i am forsaken

after the knowing and lovely loving, there is but a draught of familiarity

of cold

my skin and my mind does touch off rapid fire memories and it’s war again

a high wire of white and silver ring high like lightning and thunder

it roars

my body scan depicts a swollen mind and my cave is empty and cock hard

pablo 3

 

 

Fall

I feel Fall and am compelled to her, haphazardly, clumsily.

Beyond August into coolness, peace – a blameless place.

September brings with it cooler mornings and yellows, golds, reds and browns and the kudzu is fading down off the Pines it has strangled with vines.

October my birthday and birthday anniversaries galore and on to Halloween.

Then November. Cooler times. Less struggles and there’s only the question to storm and rain horizontally, all wetness and branches failing.

In the back of everything to me, there is a trail to walk easy green deluxe

She calls me and I go to her.