cloistered

don't believe in love
but i want it
in a stranglehold
beating it down
I can wrap up in
a pale defense against the elements

elements walk by
they never see me
but want to fuck me anyway

i wonder if anyone sees anything
i know it happens
i've read books
i can tell
they see pieces

it's hard to see
in flashes
but so much
i should have gone the other way
just opened the view on one piece
and that would never have been enough

i always come here
breaking behind my eyes
the beauty and horror
it's too much terror and wonder for one person to hold

but letting go...


ceremony

pale shelter

homecoming

listening to nirvana, over and over, because the ipod is way over on the table, 7 feet away.

All Apologies was playing in the cab that took me home from the hospital, after my suicide attempt. something about it made me happy, riding home, a beautiful sunny southern california day, having rested up, having been to the garage, where they fix you up (so they say, but really you sit and are kept from sharp object for 72 hours). there was an art class though, and you were meant to draw a circle (this represented the world, specifically your world) and you were to draw something that represented you, i think just a dot, and then around that what your world felt like. so this was meant to show me what, that i didn't know? that my existence was unhappy, gee, you think? but i was happy coming home, having rested for 3 days, well 2 really, the first day was not restful, starting you out at county as they do. have you ever seen The Snake Pit? well, neither have i, but i know in general what it is about, mental hospitals 50 years ago, when mental patients were dumped and abused and neglected. it was kind of like that. there was an obese black woman draped in a blanket (i had one too, it's supposed to be comforting, i guess) and she was in bad shape, ranting and agitated. i had my wits about me, i was despondent, not mad. and i saw two doctors walk by my cot laughing about her. i've seen that kind of callousness in doctors before. the time i was hit by a car, when i was 17, having been on the road for a few months, and gotten involved with some despicable characters, like the one that had just stolen all my money, so i was walking fast to get away from him, he was trying to keep up, trying to deny that he had done it, and i thought the light had changed. i don't know if it had or not, but the car hit me nonetheless. i was thirsty already, i'd only been that thirsty once before, when i was sixteen, and walking home from the bar at 2 am, down a very long, very deserted road, several miles. i think the thirst was amplified by a more metaphysical craving, since i was walking home alone i had not even found an imitation of any sort of pleasure or communion. i knew there was a drinking fountain at the custard stand, about 3/4 of a mile from my house, and the last mile before i got to it, that knowledge sustained me. i felt ready to collapse, but felt joy at the expectation of being able to quench this thirst. i saw the fountain, a dingy little oasis, but it was such a cruel trick. i pushed the button and nothing came out. there was a soda machine there as well, and i had money, but no coins. they only took coins then. i cried in frustration, but there was nothing to do but make it home, which i did. so i was that thirsty, and still metaphysically starved as well. i was begging for water at the hospital. the hospital they took me to. charity hospital, in new orleans. it's as bad as it sounds. close to third world bad. i was on a gurney in the hall, for i don't know how many hours, being ignored. they wouldn't give me water until the doctor looked at me. saying i could have injuries that would make water contraindicated. i begged more anyway, as thirsty as i was, i didn't even care if it hurt me, but i knew it wouldn't, that that was bullshit, but it was policy. and the doctors there were as callous as the ones at county, laughing at the woman. they stood next to my gurney, having a nice chat about their golf games. while i lay in agony for hours.

in the sun i feel as one, married, buried... and it was a mixture of good and bad, i knew what that was, buried in marriage, all apologies, mine, his, all i was ever owed, but still i was in the sun. and i got home, tentatively opening the door. what greeted me was surprising, a house that had been cleaned for my homecoming, and a husband and son genuinely glad to see me home. that was a nice moment. but it didn't stay. whose fault, doesn't matter, both of us, to one degree or another. i tried, but it didn't work, for more reasons than we had hands to fix.


edit: the custard stand i mentioned in passing, i was remembering from when i was a child, i loved going there, once i walked with my sister, sometimes the family went at night which had a special atmosphere, there were neon lights lit, and the heat and humidity and mosquitoes, and chocolate soft-serve cone dipped in chocolate. the old cones, they tasted like cardboard, sugar cones came out a few years later, i was maybe 10. i couldn't remember the name, so i googled it, Serene's, and the fucker is still there! not only is it still there, it looks exactly the same, the sign is the same, everything, only they've added miniature golf now. Serene's

light a fire

it is cold and damp. a fireplace sits unused; i cannot get to it. i miss the fire. i remember a time, a fire, long ago. curled up together, dreaming of better days. days when we might have our own fire, warm, happy, home. a dream of home, of warmth, still a dream. lost then, cold and scared, battered. longing for the protection and comfort of a home, so out of reach.

now i sit in my home, cold. having to weigh the cost against the comfort of heat, as i had to weigh the desire for the TV, its size only accommodated by sitting in front of the fireplace. a trade-off i don't regret, such wonderful things brought right to me, things sharper than real life, no need to leave. i can hole up here, protected, for now. still, i miss the fire, it's unique warmth, warming through and through. i'll just go turn the heat up.

i wonder what's on TV.

coming out

where is that elusive dream? happiness, freedom, meaning? i'll never find it hiding like this in the dark. but i have searched, and have come away scarred and tired. i'll face it again, the world, the unknown. i'll start tomorrow, always tomorrow.

it doesn't let you hide forever, always changing, shifting around you. you find yourself exposed, and all the best spots taken. so pretend this was your idea, a spark of life burgeoning forth. go on, go on, you can only fail, and all the novelty has left that long ago.

angry young man

i was an angry young man, as there is no female equivalent, sadly. we are left to flounder, without identity, home, or understanding. i stayed an angry young man until about 40; now at 45 i am entering a different stage.i may eventually come through a curmudgeon (again, no female equivalent), but i don't think so. i am angry still, but it is not an anger that wants to fight any longer. it is full of sadness and resignation; it only wants to find a home to hide from all of the horrors, and to nurse these wounds which still remain. and just maybe, if possible, alleviate the horror of someone else.

containment

i have a name that contains the essence of who i am; a cryptic way of sending that message to anyone who cares. but who could be so perceptive, and who even knows what the wire mother is anymore? we are down to a null set now. i'll keep writing, my words will survive forever, and one day, another lost monkey will find them, and i will sit with them, and smooth their hair, and we will speak of beauty and the soft, and the savage beauty of truth. - softmonkey

cult victim

let's put aside my dream of riches. i'll settle for comfort and health and be satisfied. but for a mind like mine, comfort is a complicated thing. health as well, for that matter. these things are rare in the world, comfort and health. we forget how rare in wealthy countries. in cases of having enough to live on, the question of comfort comes down to feeling. are we all victims of western thinking, despite our best resistance having taken in a warped view given to us with the explicit purpose of manipulating us to pursue money only to hand it over for shit we never needed? could we be deprogrammed, like cult victims, removed from the source until the lies become apparent? but we will cling, like cult victims, convinced that we sincerely love that which anyone else can see only wants to take as much as it can, wholly without regard for what impact this has on us. it is like racism, in that we all have been tainted to some extent in this culture, no matter how insistent we are to ourselves that such things do not live in us. let us acknowledge that it is there, and then address it from there, in all things unsavory. you can do like most, and pretend the rot is not there. you can even get used to the smell, especially if those around you are full of rot as well. or you can admit it's there and try to clean it up.