one week later

'... I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children...."
from 'The Invitation' by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

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it's been one week
and I'm too damn tired to slap on
that bright and shiny plastic smile
and say all the stupid pointless, and hollow words,
to pointless, hollow plastic people - with shiny smiles - who don't,
actually,
give even the slightest of damns,
to whom,
it has never occurred
to give a damn,
about anyone but,
themselves.

it's been one week, and
the best I can do is put my head down
to sneak the odd nap,
and hope I don't drool on my arm.

one week, and I still wish they did,
give a damn, that is
I think,
Really,
that they
Should
Give-A-Fucking -Damn
that we're in so much pain over here,
HELLO.... can you see me?
can anyone see us?
fuck it.

but thinking and wishing
for people to be different doesn't
do anything but make me more nuts,
and today I quit bashing my head
against that glass wall.
today, I walk away.

today, I made myself some goddamn tea
and lit a goddamn candle,
because, somehow that's suppose to help
with
something....
I have no fucking clue what.

and now I'm writing word, after word, after Mother-Fucking Word,
that mean absolutely nothing, it's just my
word vomit on a page,
I'll write till I can't anymore, then
I'm going to draw some really ugly lines,
some terrible pictures,
and doodles, that I will hate, and I'll crumple them all up,
and throw them at the wall

and I wonder
why it is I haven't cried yet (except for that one time).
shouldn't I be crying?
shouldn't I be on the floor sobbing?
I mean really, this is really awful stuff, the stuff of every parent's nightmares
and all I can manage is tired
and occasionally snippy?
what the fuck wrong with me?

I'm just so damn tired,
my stomach feels like cold black stone, and
a boot is stomping down, Hard, on my chest, and I can't breath
but no tears, no time for tears.

maybe I'm tired enough to finally see,
really see
who the love comes from,
who is my tribe, who will hold us, and sustain us.

the rest are dross.


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"What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage...."
from Ezra Pound's 'Canto LXXXI'