Pain

painPain

It

is

A bundle of severed nerves

It

is

a cavity of carnage

and

the need to pretend

play make believe

and

self serve.

PainIt

is

like

preparing for a moment that…

may never come.

Laying out the

map

of your life

And,

omitting

the sun.

PainWe try to

decipher

the why’s and why not.

This the illegitimate

son of

Satan.

Torments offerings…

sentiment

oaths

and

vows.

Tributes

to the

callous cow.

Sore sorrow…

Paina fixture on the wall.

Oh,

how the not so

mighty fall!

Movements

slightest details

There is a time

a season

a reason

for the pain.

Afflictions

 will ask

a question

with

no need for an

answer.

Disability…

IMG_0551a

crippled

dancer.

It

is

like

a pond of glass

Thinning

thinning

thinning

fast.

It

is

like

the

day

has no

dawn.

There

is

never

any movement

on.

IMG_0552We

are

despairs okay

We

are

the cleavage to fine.

Infinity

to

broken time.

It

is

the

PAINsecluded birch in the

deepest of the frost.

Stoic and Proud.

With

roots

sodden and lost.

No Homosexuals at the Dinner Table

Mommy Dearest
Mommy Dearest (Photo credit: chrisfreeland2002)

The theme at the dinner table, large enough to seat a family of five, oak, antiquated and overpriced but bought by a set of show off parents; is where most non informative and task oriented discussions happen for me.

Father Floyd will make some horrible Mexican dish with his very white bread hands.  The spices are over the top and the main food item can never be found.  Mother Theresa takes a stab at cooking the only way she knows how; politically correct, gluten free, organic and bland as the facial expressions on her face.

Generic Roast Ambien Grace dinner conversation #1:

Mum came home and started throwing something together for dinner and decided to just yell at me for everything; smoking in my car, accusing me of drugs in my car because I said I would move my car for the landscaper!  Telling me how I’m never going to grow up!

“Mum, I was just being nice.  Fuckin A!  I only did drugs to get you out of my head!”  I say this to her of course, in a meek childish tone that gets me nowhere.

Finally I just said, “ I can’t wait to move out!  I need to get out!”

By now, I get the, Ambien Grace, its okay; just let things simmer down, from Father Floyd.  Floyd is nothing but wasted space with no backbone.

Generic Roast Ambien Grace Conversation #2, Auburn St., Concord, NH:

Camera pans away from the unpleasant stuffy  couple guarding the ends of a prehistoric non retro dining table.  Camera two zooms into a slightly puffy, slumped figure with stringy hair.

Alright, so I fell asleep at the dinner table!  Why?  Because it was and is the same shit every day, every hour and every meal.

Oh they just kept talking about mums department, what she would do to fix things if other faculty members were so obtuse, whatever that means.   And finally Mum was like “what the hell’s wrong with you!  Ambien Grace!”

I was tired and I had been bored so I fell asleep in the middle of spaghetti dinner and a topic on how wonderful Mother Theresa’s speech class is going!  So sue me!

Generic Roast Ambien Grace Conversation #3 in the big white house up on the hill:

This time I take the wheel and decide how the day’s events will get discussed.

“Well I am voting for Obama and I don’t care what you say!”

Mother Theresa spits out, “why would you do that?”

.”.So I can marry someone if I decide I’m gay and he’s pro women’s rights, whatever that means.”

Father Floyd pulls the head in the sand routine, no eye contact, and asks,  ‘pass the salt.’

Mother Theresa takes one eye off me and puts it on him and states, “Floyd, you know that’s bad for you.  Your food is salted enough.”

I’m not allowed to be gay. It’s why I can’t tell my mom right now or even ever.  When I remotely allude to the topic of homosexuality a look of disgust comes over her face and her demeanor is stoically bigoted.  I don’t have the backbone to stand up to her to cut the puppet strings she has connected to me

I don’t like my mother knowing anything, she doesn’t want to know who I’m with so I don’t tell her,

She cannot stand the thought that I might be gay!

There it is Theresa, Floyd, Beckett Couvillion the third and Ambien Grace handing out plates of pasta to each other, smiling and saying, thank you.  Reminding each other it is improper to eat with your mouth open or be a homosexual at the dinner table.

Amen to that!

I’m not OK with Gay!

Identity on CrackIf I were to die tomorrow, found by an unknown and the parents were called in for questioning, if Mother Theresa and Father Floyd needed to identify the body; they would not know want to look for!
Up at the Cinema on the heights I currently sit, awaiting the fantasy film of the week. I am invisible, I am alone and I am no one to anyone around me.
What worries me is this;
My mother picks out my clothes. She won’t let me wear men’s jeans. We have matching shoes. She makes my appointments for spray tanning during the winter months because as she puts it,
Ambien, you just look so pasty and unhealthy!”
Theresa does not allow me to wear hats for hats remind her of gay people. She gives me my chore list in the morning and I receive no ‘Atta girl’ until the list is done.
When I volunteer somewhere to make this world a better place, Theresa has already told me that I am not allowed to touch the paperwork.
My mother dictates where I go, who I see and my sexual identity.
My father. Well he just balances my checkbook?
For all outward appearances in the tiny theater awaiting Bella my heroine, no one would know I was a college graduate. My life is planned; therefore, I need not worry.
Yet, worry I do. I know it is unusual for anyone to tell another adult who they can and cannot love. It is just that I don’t think I care that much.
I live for the Bella’s of this world, the Pocahontas’s, the Twilight’s last gleaming and eternal love affair.
Do I have a need to ride off into the sunset with a woman? No!
Women and I don’t mix because my mother tells me so. They are too controlling, too wanting of my attention and too much a female and not accepted by the moral majority.
But, Mother, the sex is good with women!
When I sit alone in the dusty theater watching an actress on the big screen, I hold my breath and think, I could do that! I could nail her!
Are women attractive to me? Certainly not! Older women, younger women, women friends should never be allowed to enter the forbidden zone, sex devientcy!
So, I make the most of it with toys and the occasional, masturbating in the back of the movie theater. I am quiet in my rhymic responses to myself. I arch and ache at the ‘once upon a time’ scenario.
I’ve been told by many that I don’t stand a chance with a ‘real’ relationship. A ‘real’ relationship would require giving of one’s self and understanding that identity is part of the process.
As the Twilight begins to open, I wonder about my mother and me. Our sordid relationship. She is just out of reach, just one Clonapin short of stealing my identity.

Woman on Fire

Fire in the soul
Fire in the soul

There is a cathartic release when disclosing a written description of self. Big words? Ayup, that’s me. Actually, I pulled that line from a movie, wrote it down and looked up some of the bigger words to make sure I had spelled everything correctly.

Do I have a college diploma? Of course, received via the money in my parent’s checking account not on merit. Fine Arts? What does that mean and where the hell can you go with it?

Drinking, drugs and downright horrible behavior were on my list of core electives. Not much changes. I stained the brick and solemn walls of my New England Catch Phrase College. Just as I have left a skid right down the rows my life and others.

Am I a woman on fire? Shit, up until 21 I wouldn’t have called myself a woman. I look like one. I have definitely put the junk in the trunk from junk food and lack of bodily self-respect.

Only a woman on fire takes nude photos of fellow employees. Only a girl in wait for adulthood picks up straight women. Yet, that is a lonely child and that is me. Sure the photos were discrete. Did I see anything? Did my friend A La Carte care? No!

What does Adopt-A-Mom do?

“Burn those photos right now, Ambien Grace! What the hell were you thinking?”

My retort?

“But I was off the clock Ma!”

Go figure? No one gets me anyhow. And, no one has been able to put the fire out.

Tunnel Vision

What if we all ranted for just one day a month?  What if we were all allowed by the law’s of nature and the powers that be; to get it off our chest for just one day?

Wouldn’t we all be nicer people?  Wouldn’t those of us that keep things in; didn’t?  Those of us who are commonly known for being strong; weren’t?  Some of us who hide behind our shyness; came out into the light?

My partner has a disability and therefore, so do I!  There I said it, got it off my chest!  This is my once a month ‘oh, woe is me’.  I love her more than my life itself.   I would give her my last shirt.  I have on more than one occasion gave up myself in order for her to save her ‘self’.  Yet, sometimes I don’t want to be strong.  I want to break down.  I want to hand responsibilities over to someone else.

Sounds awful, right?  But I know I’m not the only one out there.  I’m not the only Wanna Be Bad Samaritan!  I see my friends/acquaintances on Facebook.  Smiling.  Posing.  Posturing.  Beneath the veneer, however, there is the smallest crack.  The slightest hint of What About Me?

My brother and sister are quite a bit older than I.  That’s fine, it works.  Growing up though, I distinctly remember one book that had been a favorite of mine, it was entitled, Me too!

I suppose that just every now and again, I want to be like the child in that book.  I want to think more about myself and be less self less.  Once a month, probably on Tuesday because I have way too many responsibilities on all the other days.