Waiting on strings

Loss burns like a piece of red charcoal in my belly. An ember that would, were it outside me, provide light. But buried so, it doesn’t glow but gives me sleepless nights. Long aching nights of dreams cluttered with unfulfilled wishes,  confusing complicated terms of agreement, partners who aren’t partners, loves I don’t love, faces I don’t know. A stranger’s house and stranger sensations when some stranger across a strange room says, “You’re home.”

Home was a shrine and a gas lit fire. Home was a tent pitched on wooden pallets. Home was a room full of clutter. Home was mottled memories in sleepless nights that I could not place. Home was a treasure chest that did not exist. Home was spirits, angels, demons, ghosts (Call them what you will.). Home was your bed, safe and warm.

I feel restless. Trampled. Hopeless. Homeless.
Maybe someone took a knife in the night and cut my heart out. My soul, spirit, ghost out. Maybe we were right and I was the one who was never whole. Never sanded down or finished. Not weatherproofed or lie-proofed, or quick witted enough to know the difference.

Life is long and laborious once all your definitions have sad rings to them. Once all your explanations have loss attached to them. Once every dream is an out-dated stained glass window waiting for the next religion to come in and smash it to pieces. Once trust has all run out.

I carried in a secret case a thing I called faith. It was blind, untested trust. I carried it around everywhere I went only to empty it out. I may have drained it quicker than I thought. Now this case collects dust and ghosts of the past. Shards of reality as constant reminders of places and faces I’ve loved, known, trusted strong and fast. If I reach in now, they get stuck in my fingers, drawing blood.

But if life is pain and suffering brings realization, I don’t think it led me wrong.
I am only looking for what to dust myself clean with and what to refill faith with.
I have a feeling, a hunch, a trepidation in a sense, that reality will show me.

The wheel always turns.


I will always miss you.

But, seven years, and I was soaked through and you were turned to ash, so what were we supposed to do? Make soap?

It was funny. and we both laughed, “No.”

Doesn’t matter. You are now a character, a characteristic, a mood in all of my stories, and I will never let your ghost go. Whether you know it or not.

Seven years and I will henceforth carry you like a napsack, a messenger bag, a rolled up waterproof panier wherever I go.
How can I not?

Though it’s a shadow that lets me know you won’t know it. That autumn brought death of a kind I guess I was waiting for, but didn’t want. Death of a kind I always get. Death of a kind I never get. A kind I’ve been running from for years, seven plus itself four times and then some.

I love you anyway, water. I can’t change that. I don’t want to. Maybe, seven plus itself a few more times and I’ll forget how bad it feels on this side of it.

Maybe not.

Time to fuck off or get pissed off or quit.

Second time the joke’s on me. And you can bet next time you ask me if this is gonna fuck shit up — the answer will be “yes”. Nine times seven, yes. Oh, but it’s not because of me. It’s all you. Don’t worry. I get it.

I’ve had it up to choking point with dudebros and dudebros posing as over-anxious feminists who act like the world is their sandbox to kick around in. Like I’m a boat to row home safe in. Life if you act “as weak as me”, I’ll throw you some bones with a bit of meat still on ’em.

And I’ve had it up to suffocating point with being told what sex is. See, this box is mine and I get to say what goes in it. I’m not taking something away because its nothing that you had, so quit your belly aching. Your pouting looks pathetic and your jokes are worse and these are the reasons you’ll never hear from me again.

You don’t like it?

Go ahead and cry. I’m sure some dudesis will listen, willing to cave in and play the notes just how  you say.

In another universe we got along and I won’t let myself keep thinking that it’s too bad.
Godspeed to you all, for whatever that amounts to.

Displacement as a lifestyle

I made imaginary dog friends because nobody would talk to me. I wrote letters to imaginary future mates because no-one wanted letters to read. I passed notes in secret holes to people I didn’t know because I was getting used to the void.

I typed my secrets to distant strangers because I didn’t know how to speak. I created worlds and filled them with people because I didn’t know how to find friends. I whispered prayers to the stars because I didn’t know how to cry for help.

And one day, what was born of desperation became a craft.
And what became a craft grew into a passion.
And that passion sparked fires that lit the ground and exposed new paths in the night I could go by.

If I could redo it all, I’d have come the same way. Made the same mistakes. Been the same me.
In this shifting flux, at least that much is a comfort. That I will look back and think — those were necessary rocks to scamper across and I’m glad I took the passes that I did and made the scars I did and went the way I did. It all evens out on the other end.

And I’d never be this if it wasn’t for the forced isolation, cultural disconnection, and confusing barriers that my semi-nomadic beginnings instilled in me. And I’d never be where I am without delving in and exploring those depths.

Autumn and change and a chill is in the air. Wet drops of rain fall like tears of nature on my cheeks, and I am reminded that I am a single thread in an expanding universe on a multi-dimensional landscape with infinite possibilities, all just as real as any choice I should ever choose.

And that regardless of where I stand at one point, I could always find my way to another.

On and on

You made me learn that I took “friend” too seriously. Didn’t realize it’d make me the chaff. Didn’t know I’d get blown away in the wind when it blew across your summer skin. Oh, but that’s just the way it is. I can waste time saying “I hate it”, but why bother?

Moments shone bright like they were stolen secrets we shouldn’t be allowed. We were children sneaking treats. We were rebels stealing lights from the main streets of this town. We burned it up. Paper, plastic, or charcoal — it didn’t matter much.

Scars bled black ink down our skin and stain pictures on the walls. Reminded us why we’re here and what a mess we’re all in. And do we think we’ll change the seasons because we don’t like a few of them?

Death and life is just a wheel, and you know I know that. But nobody likes it when the wheels turn and it’s you and I that get twisted up in the spokes. Like we weren’t as far in the center as we thought. Like when we held hands and said things we meant, it meant nothing to the wind. Nothing to the ghosts that drive change. Nothing to the causational vibrations of the universe.

It’s probably true, but I still consider you and the universe my friends. If that means I’ll get screwed again? Ah well, so it goes.

From a different place, older and gone now.

Skepticism, cynicism, nihlism.

I’ve swallowed enough of that poisoned water to get me in trouble. Now, I’ve got these lumps in my throat and I’m pretty sure it’s cancer. The rich doctor thinks I should het my tongue taken out. “Save my life, anyhow,” he tells me.

And you tell me what’s the point of a life without a voice? I’m a homo sapien sapien and that means physically, I’ve already lost the evolutionary race. Not even in last place – we didn’t even finish before the banners  ame down and the tents were all packed up. I mean bottom of the fucking barrel we are. So, don’t think I’d like to keep on in tbis ramshackle body with the couple of tools nature:s left me.

Language is one. Spiritual sensibility is the other. Put them boh together and you’ve got a story. That’s all this bllod and bone doll is worth and I know it.

I’ll stick to what I’m passably good at. And if its cancer and I’m dead tomorrow?


A rose by another other name, eh?

What good did it do? To have grown wings but not know how to fly? To have unravelled ready sails into a dead sky? To have sung along, out of tune? To have tried and failed, tried and failed, tried and failed on an infinite loop?

I got blamed so many times for never seeing. But truth was I stopped speaking. Kept quiet, to myself, because I got tired of calling things out. Worried the bruises from beatings like that wouldn’t ever go away. I walked on broken stones and felt I’d carry the splinters burrowed inside everywhere I’d go.

And from those depths, I called myself zero. Nothing.

A seeker is what others called me.
Strong. Fierce. Passionate. Hospitable.
“Bound” is what my parents called me before I was born.

And for years, I tried to smother all that out. But fuck. Don’t you know I just want to keep you safe? Protect things with my life? Bind ties and wrap lines of truth, trust, love around all of us?

Slowly I’m learning that I’m willing to play the fool, to jump without knowing what’s below if I know with certainty that — in the end — it’ll mean something.


A smile in your memory. A shadow of happiness cast over photographs no-one else will ever see. A glimmer of some hope, some knowledge that — come anything, it’ll be okay. There is always a way to get up, carry on, try again. Because peace and love must be within and among each one of us.

It’s what I’m betting on. I wonder if I’ll lose?