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Nap Full of Dreams

We decided on, faith and mark, because it was our names. It’s not my name anymore, but he’s still Mark. God, if I could do back and re-do things I decided, how fear and stress were driving everything, I would have known, You’re almost there. I gave up on a race that I was about to win. Maybe if my girlfriend didn’t dump me, and maybe if becoming a teacher hadn’t been so awful, I’d still be writing. I mean, here or there, this city or that one, I can write, I could write. Like, I could get healthier in all ways, and make another album. But I wish I’d never gone to graduate school in some ways. Michelle was wrong, when she said I could do that. That fucked up my band trajectory. That gave me an idea of normality that could be had. I had already not chosen that, several times. But I quit band number 1, and I quit faith and mark, and I ran to take a long ass nap.

But I knew it was sad, and a shame, and there might have been another way to chose differently and preserve the things I took decades to set into motion, rather than retiring so early. Trying to have the job I’m supposed to have: the profession I was educated to do: teaching. But I am like the kid in the book Stargirl, they’re just going to hate me either way, I should’ve said fuck it to fitting in all along. Aint no 401k out there for me. I’m supposed to shine til I burn out, properly. And I could still do it. My voice isn’t good anymore, but I could cut down on smoking more, enough to sing a few things, certainly. But if I don’t, that’s okay, too. I mean the creation or non-creation of music or isn’t something one should get hung up on. I hope I really get it in the next life. I went at least 70% of the way. But then my girlfriend kicked me out, I bounced living situations, married Jason, rock bottoms, moved here, Jason died, then time flew like a hungry hawk.

Nap Full of Dreams

We decided on, faith and mark, because it was our names. It’s not my name anymore, but he’s still Mark. God, if I could do back and re-do things I decided, how fear and stress were driving everything, I would have known, You’re almost there. I gave up on a race that I was about to win. Maybe if my girlfriend didn’t dump me, and maybe if becoming a teacher hadn’t been so awful, I’d still be writing. I mean, here or there, this city or that one, I can write, I could write. Like, I could get healthier in all ways, and make another album. But I wish I’d never gone to graduate school in some ways. Michelle was wrong, when she said I could do that. That fucked up my band trajectory. That gave me an idea of normality that could be had. I had already not chosen that, several times. But I quit band number 1, and I quit faith and mark, and I ran to take a long ass nap.

But I knew it was sad, and a shame, and there might have been another way to chose differently and preserve the things I took decades to set into motion, rather than retiring so early. Trying to have the job I’m supposed to have: the profession I was educated to do: teaching. But I am like the kid in the book Stargirl, they’re just going to hate me either way, I should’ve said fuck it to fitting in all along. Aint no 401k out there for me. I’m supposed to shine til I burn out, properly. And I could still do it. My voice isn’t good anymore, but I could cut down on smoking more, enough to sing a few things, certainly. But if I don’t, that’s okay to. I hope I really get it in the next life. I went at least 70% of the way. But then my girlfriend kicked me out, I bounced living situations, married Jason, rock bottoms, moved here, Jason died, then time flew like a hungry hawk.

grammar of poetry: actual, not showing off when i write poetry, i use “wrong” tenses because i’m channeling a certain voice or voices and that’s how they talked/talk

Happy Fuck you of July

Last night a couple folks came over, and we grilled on our ghetto balcony, for the first time. I did it to make Hopey happy, and even ate a hamburger. Hopey is my flatmate for a long time.
Somehow we made it work. Partly by being willing to let each other pursue our own addictions and happiness. For me, drinking, smoking, and writing shit online. For her, watching tik-tok, eating processed food, and drinking fountains of mountains of Mountain Dew. She walks my dog sometimes so I do (all) the cleaning for us. Sometimes she disgusts me by how much red meat, bacon, fat she consumes, and yet, I ate one of the burgers she made last night. I also ate my chicken, and drank 3-4 chocolate beers. Then I threw up, just kidding, I didn’t. I put a pillow over my head to drown out the fireworks and passed out at 9 PM. Hopey and her friends stayed up to “watch the fireworks” out the window, which is so dirty you can barely even see the neighborhood outside of it. But I don’t argue with everything. This morning, she said, We were able to hear the fireworks, but not really see them. like, no shit, Sherlock. you do the craziest things.

Would I know Hopey at all if we didn’t live together? No. Even if we worked at the same job (which, we do, as caretakers), I wouldn’t hang around her because she’s loud and never stops talking.

Talk Black Privately

I got a minute or two to write, so I’m'a do it. “Fight the real power,” said Sinead O’Conner, glowing
in the 90’s, on TV. Yes, she said it to them, the Roman Catholic Church, allied with the actions of actors for capital and terror. Ok, girl, I will.

I took a nap yesterday and dreamed that I saw this little child with her head blown backwards, like back at a 90 degree angle, from a bomb or grenade or a hard fling or fall. She was cracked as an egg. I rushed to her. I thought, I KNOW THEY SAW, AND I KNOW THEY SAY DON’T MOVE THE BODY, THE SPINE MIGHT BE BROKEN But I tried to lift her head anyway for some dignity. It felt like breaking a twig, breaking small bones, how they snapped as I lifted her head back to 0 degrees, and I thought, with mild to medium remorse, Goddammit they were right about that. But she’s probably dead, anyway.

Juniper

Juniper is 20 years old, and she looks like a regular Nancy. She looks composed thoughtful, and makes some appropriate comments while sitting in her swing. She might say, I don’t have to talk to you. She’ll say, “PU, what stinks, did you fart?” She’ll say hi to people by name. When she stands up to change locations (not a preferred moment), she twirls a full, slow 360 degrees for every other step. She wears a pull-up. She looks like a “young maid,” with two dark braids and a freckled nose, eyes that blink and give the illusion of involvement.

Last week, when I had to help her move into the kitchen because a fellow resident was starting to smash and punch and throw and break things, there was no skipping the twirls, but I tried to rush them, and cover for her. We sat in the kitchen together for 10 minutes, talking. I made the mistake of engaging with her request to watch Annie, which for me, and most people, would mean, “soon” or “sometime,” but for her meant, right now. So she said Annie about 300 times at the end, as I started to get tired with it and need to switch or simply going into a spaced out zone. It became intolerable, Annie Annie Annie Clifford (the Big Red Dog?) Vigorous head nodding, Annie Annie Annie watch Annie? But for a while we just talked, saying hi, and talking about the imaginary smell.

Her: it stinks, did you fart? Me: PU, what’s that smell? Her: What’s that smell? It smells like fruit. Me: Did you fart? PU, it stinks. Her: What’s that smell? Me: It smells like hamburgers Her: It smells like hamburgers *smiles

Upstairs: crash bang, crash bang

Her: damn Me: damn Her: What time is it? Me: It’s almost time Her: It’s almost time. What time is it? Me: It’s 4:30. Her: It’s almost time.

*crash bang

Her: are you hungry? Me: It’s almost time Her: What’s that smell? PU did you fart? Me: What time is it? Her: What time is it? It’s almost time. Me: Are you hungry? What time is it? Her: Did you fart? It smells like fruit Me: It smells like fruit Her: Are you hungry? Me: It’s almost time

Her: watch Annie? and that’s where I lost control of the thread, but the other kid became calm enough to come to dinner, and so that’s what we did next.

“I don’t have to talk to you.” She says that because like everything else she says, someone in her life said it A LOT. They mimic and communicate more tangentially than Jesus with his little parables. Follow the steps of the script to something concrete, as a general rule.

Last night when I got to Will’s house (lives in a small mansion on rich side of city limits), his sister and mom was fawning over him, trying to help him calm down. They said he wasn’t happy with anything and couldn’t choose anything. I suggested “go sit in bed, watch TV,” because it’s the baseline place to start. His main perseveration was going to the bathroom and then changing his mind, leading his caretaker in maddening circles.

I have a similar IBS situation as he does, for different reasons, but I know a bloated belly when I see one (usually just looking down at my feet), so I dug my fingers into the belly at different point like how my old chiropractor and his assistant did to me. Finding the valve, flexing it open, hearing the gurgle of moving fluid. He said, :wow and whoa. Then we stood up to sing and dance to “happy and you know it,” then I suggested we use the basement (it’s finished) bathroom just to see if a location change would help things move, and it worked.

Not a great poop, still loose and appearance of heat *see Chinese Traditional Medicine, but at least he got some out. I hate wiping up a diarrhea butt, but a caretakers gotta do it. I helped him take a bath later, and I make sure he’s clean and once out of the bath, dry. I feel like I give him the best cleaning of his caretakers. He looks sad when I wash his hair because some water always drops into his face or eyes, but other than that, he doesn’t fight the bath, or any of it. He wants to be clean. He just cannot get his hands to do the hand things necessary, that connection is severed. Hands are for flapping. But my hands are for working, and cleaning.

I think the most important thing I do though is function as a verbal filter, where I like translate every event into a 2-3 word descriptive phrase, that we repeat and make into songs.

I look forward to working with Juniper again, because she’s funny, and her scripts are fire.

I left a Part Out

To James, who wanted to start a family (a new one) in 1993, with me, and I wasn’t ready. Last night, when I came over, and told your friends and girlfriends to fuck off, so we could have some privacy, I was aware of my cycle. I knew I bled 3-5 days ago, and was at my most fertile point, perhaps the very last point, the very last menses, having already been diagnosed as post menopause. The shit paused, and actually stopped. Then it started up again. Rebecca laughed, and named her baby “Isaiah.” “Facts, I’m too old to be pregnant!” she told Mary. That’s why Isaiah means “laughter.” Nobody was laughing when I showed up at James house last night. None of them were worth worrying about; I told them all to fuck off, get lost. After we did the sex, which I mentioned was like 30 thrusts more or less. (Probably less), I held the stuff inside, and once I left his house, thinking, (super pissed off) that I KNOW he didn’t come, why wasn’t he more interested and invested, at least enough to secure some privacy?

But he must’ve ejaculated, because I was excited. I did it. I pounced on my last chance to conceive. I messed with my flower, and I knew some stuff made it, but also, white petals of something unknown were creeping out of the hole. What’s that? I pushed it, not wanting to lose the sperm, but get rid of the chunks, whatever they were. They were food, like flower-petal pasta, or seafood, something weird.

I left a Part Out

For James, who wanted to start a family (a new one) in 1993, with me, and I wasn’t ready. Last night, when I came over, and told your friends and girlfriends to fuck off, so we could have some privacy, I was aware of my cycle. I knew I bled 3-5 days ago, and was at my most fertile point, perhaps the very last point, the very last menses, having already been diagnosed as post menopause. The shit paused, and actually stopped. Then it started up again. Rebecca laughed, and named her baby “Isaiah.” “Facts, I’m too old to be pregnant!” she told Mary. That’s why Isaiah means “laughter.” Nobody was laughing when I showed up at James house last night. None of them were worth worrying about; I told them all to fuck off, get lost. After we did the sex, which I mentioned was like 30 thrusts more or less. (Probably less), I held the stuff inside, and once I left his house, thinking, (super pissed off) that I KNOW he didn’t come, why wasn’t he more interested and invested, at least enough to secure some privacy?

But he must’ve ejaculated, because I was excited. I did it. I pounced on my last chance to conceive. I messed with my flower, and I knew some stuff made it, but also, white petals of something unknown were creeping out of the hole. What’s that? I pushed it, not wanting to lose the sperm, but get rid of the chunks, whatever they were. They were food, like flower-petal pasta, or seafood, something weird.

narcissism

i still think i’m one of the world’s greatest poets at least of my time

Devilish

I used to want to be honorable: not steal, not lie, not be late, but no more. I don’t follow their rules anymore, none of them. I stole 100$ or more of groceries from Giant Bird yesterday, why? Because I paid 100$ or more for my oil change at Valvoline, and I needed to make up for it. This is what I did: I planned to pay. I brought my own bags. I filled them up. I pushed my cart, with my full bags, to the cash out lanes, but alas, there was no one to ring my shit up. Some were ringing themselves up, (definitely stealing 1/3 items), and no one was watching, and also, the way they set the store up, you come out from produce at the wrong end, and have to turn back. Am I turning back? Hell naw. I’m not making no U-turns for the patriarchal capitalistic Big Bird, and I just walked the fuck out. The fuck you gonna do, though. Nothing, that’s what I thought. Because you’re watching the black people with the hawk eye, and ignoring me, and I’m that white bitch who steal everything in a second, buh bye. I did, and I’m proud of it, facts. I don’t owe Big Bird nothing. They aint done shit for their people, farmers or shoppers, and fuck em. Spending all that money on air conditioning to air condition your meat, let me help you. I’ll take it off your hands. Shouldn’t trust any white people, that’s on you.

Today, I loved Will. We sang, exercised, took walks outside in the nature that money can buy, and ate meals and snacks. Every day, it’s his penis, in the bath, in the shorts, on the billboard: penis penis penis. Like a mother, I want him to get it, he deserves to get it for himself. But he doesn’t like using his hands, and never will. Will never will.
I think of “the World According to Garp,” (prototypical fate driving things), and also Jenny and Forest. Was she wrong to do all that? I never thought so. But then I heard people capping on her, like she’s your basic predator. White women prey on, pray on, anyone with need. I’d never do that to Will, but sometimes I think about climbing onto his bed, because it’s big, and we’re both getting sleepy, and I think, could we cuddle. Would he go to sleep if I spooned him? Does he realize I’m old af? Does he understand his own age? (no). And I think of that novel: Shame, by Shalamon Rushdie. Did you ever read it? If you read the title, how did you resist? I needed that book. The main character, a real weirdo, falling in love with the autistic daughter, the intellectually disabled one, in fact, he did love her. But he should’ve left her tf alone, based on what happened. He married her, yes, but that night, or some time later, an evil spirit (her) whipped through the farm and the barn, ripping the heads off all the chickens, dozens or hundreds of them. When he saw the chickens, he knew she’d be back for him. What did he do so wrong other than loving her? Examine your own shame, if you need to know.