Waiting for Lego Club

Free camo camp chairs and
The cool breeze
Uline branded on the backs
Glass bottle sodas and
Time spent side by side
A huge robin lands in the grass
Rust breast
And you point
Whisper
“Look, but be very quiet”
We stare at nature
Lilacs and tulips
Goose flesh on my legs
And he flies away
And we sit back
Pick up our books
Refocused
Quietly passing moments
From the brains
Of different people

I Write Haikus Not About Nature

We Become Who We Are, Who We Were, When We Listen
Friday night I drink
And listen to NPR
Tiny Desk Concerts

The Utility Bill Guy Was Awkwardly Attractive And I Probably Spelled His Name Wrong
Zach knocked on my door
Had questions about my gas
Utility bill

Strep Throat Doesn’t Actually Steal Your Soul Unless It’s Some Spell That An Ex Casts That Is Specifically A Strep Throat Soul Stealing Spell
Strep is a shit guy
Who takes and takes and wants more
Like maybe your soul

That Year Spiders Plotted To Take My House, and Invited The May Flies Along For The Ride
Spiders in my house
They gather where the wall meets
Ceiling, and they plot

The Day We Saw Dead Bodies in the Museum And Some Other Things

That time I went
To Chicago
The three hour train ride
And you bought me coffee
from Starbucks
We went to the library
And the stress of
Being on a trip all alone
Caught up with me

We caught the first bus
To the museum
Where the bodies
Of dead donated people
Made up a whole exhibit
Made up a whole floor
And later
A nice stranger took our picture
In a place I can’t remember

In a diner on Michigan
I played Frank Turner
From my phone
Because I knew you needed
Love Song and Ire in your life
Told you I’d been there before
The same diner
Six years prior
My best friend and I
Spent lunch in before
Flying to England
Where we discovered underground murder
How to hide in a water closet
And encountered a mime by the Eye
Shown a friendship
By a dancer from Detroit
And her drug dealing friend Ben
Who bought me a shot
And everything was so loud
Like a car driving straight
Through the hostel walls
on the fourth floor

I saw a picture
And the memories make up
My over crowded brain
And I can leave it here
Can leave it on this page
A piece of something
In a place where
A puzzle will form
As I make room
As I make parts of a whole
As I Build and break
Build and break

Chicago Flower

This Is My Brain All Of The Time

It’s like waking from a dream and I get up and have my coffee with far too much creamer because damned if I can quit and the mess is just not something I can be in and around and it makes my brain crazy. I wake up and realize that I have to clean. And I have to clean everything as thoroughly as possible and as quick as possible and I have to do anything I can eke out in the time that I’m functioning on a ‘don’t just do enough to get by’ basis and it’s either falling asleep after I make dinner or the inability to fall asleep and stay asleep which causes zombie like tendencies the next day with a complete inability to focus properly or remember anything and the rest of the week and all I have I give while I’m at work, because my coworkers and the kids need me to be my best me and then I come home and I try my best to be the best mom but sometimes it’s hard and I yell and I’m lonely and I’m so overwhelmed with the bills and the bank account and the responsibilities and the keeping house and the getting groceries and the doing extras with my son and the need to exist outside of this bubble I’ve created is just impossible and I am so goddamned alone. This is my brain. This is my brain all of the time. If I don’t give my brain something else to focus on, sometimes two something else’s or even three it will just drive me absolutely insane. There are people who wonder how a person can drink alone, because when I was younger I always wondered how people could drink alone, but now I understand and now I understand the struggle to not drink alone because being overwhelmed doesn’t get fixed that way, but just existing in this state isn’t going to fix my brain and I worry about my quality of life because it slips by so fast and the time with my son because he’s already seven and he was just a tiny toddler hardly tall enough to see out the window but that was years ago.

My brain is filled with words all the time. Some people see images in their brains, but mine is a stream of flow consciousness all of the time unless otherwise occupied and some days I just need it to shut the fuck up and leave me alone.

Alternative Reality

Science is just
A word
And words
Have been made by man
Have been manipulated
Mangled and mutilated
Fit to the purpose
Fit from the speaker
Fit to sequester the audience

And language is arbitrary
To follow
Reality a construct
And it has never been
More real
With all this
Surrealism surrounding us
As a new reality
Is being constructed

Language makes meaning
Spreads ideas
Ideals and affections
And disease
Disaffection and disdain for difference

There is dissent
The divide
A crater in the center of
This reality
And reading this:
1984 has become a bestseller
In the year 2017
The terrifying nature
of an Orwellian society

This is a society
Where facts are becoming
A choice of belief
Reality being purported
As a construct of
Alternative facts
Also known as
Opinions
And when science becomes opinion
truth become obsolete

Take away the shared reality
Allow the ‘new words’
Remake history
Dare we utter the idea
Of dissent
The idea
of silence
As a form of dictating

And the reality of
The question
The reality of
The outcome
This has become the new reality

To Disappear

*This was written sometime before Christmas, before I started working full time again, when I clearly had too much time on my hands and in my head. However, though I feel more stable in my life, the sentiment is still with me. I am terrified; of the big things and the small things, of my freedoms and choices, and of the 1984-ish aspect of the way facts and history are being handled during these times here in the US. Reality and subjectivity are two of my favorite ideas to debate philosophically,  but the goings on here are most certainly playing a joke on me, like the world has turned into one big, unfunny satire.

 

It is easy to disappear.

Three weeks ago, I was livid, hurt, scared and decidedly ready to get involved. Today I sit, trying to not let something small but maybe big deter my goals, deter my ability to function as a human. A week after the election, it was all so much, so overwhelming, I quit. I deleted social media off my phone and quit reading the stories and quit giving all of my mind to the overwhelming depression.

A simple, “I’m fine.” It keeps even the closest person from asking more, asking those questions, keeping you from facing the truth: Despair. Unaccountable sadness, despair, anxiety and fear.

Death. Failure. Loneliness. Disease. Disaster. Pain. Suffering. Add in family and friends and the pain the death the disappointment the overall sense of failure to know anything and help anyone because…

It is easy to disappear.

I will tell you: A bottle of vodka. A twelve pack of high gravity beer. An empty house. No phone calls.

It is fighting to stay present for a child, for the only child, the only person with unconditional love. This is my reason. He has my eyes. And he’s so intelligent and funny and he makes me want to be okay.

I want to not want to disappear.

Today. On the computer the news headlines terrify me. The posts terrify me. The tweets are disheartening. The hate is so much more palpable and lasting than the goodness. Think back. Try real hard. Those negative comments, those mean people, they’ve stuck in the bank of memories and they’ve taken root, grown black branches, spread the significance of what a negative action is capable of.

Stir with a ceaseless self loathing and

It sticks with you.

And my head is filled it’s always going with the this and the that and the what did I forget what did that comment mean this person probably didn’t like me anyway how can a nice guy care and definitely how can one care after getting to know me and the insecurities and selfish behavior and the me and me me me.

Fuck.

How will my child ever be okay?