Exorcism of She, Part II

I don’t really have night terrors

Sweat

Blood

Fear

I used to have fucked up dreams

Now it’s when I wake up

Think about my own life

That’s when the terror sets in

Pounds of adrenaline

Pumping through a vegetable

With skeleton eyes

Fuck or fight mode

I fear I might die today

Or worse

Have to cast it past myself again

In pain

Of whip of possession

Why is it always possession

Escaping into my notes

When so many brighter words fade

Without their due

This is far too much for what

It’s worth

Black gloves do stain my arms

Do sting

And bruise and cuff

And it is not enough

To describe the circumstances of

Cruelty

More graphically

It does not do to dwell

On what is legal

Justice loves us

Not enough and

Everyone is potentially

A psychopath

So lock it up

Where it’s safe enough

They snuff us out

If we get too loud

The quota was meant for us

Down to the Cell

One must argue that if the fetus does have a soul, so then must the egg. For the egg is of course just waiting for it’s time to take a shot at life. By what mechanism it does decide or if it is the body that compels it to its loading dock I do not know. Some say fourteen days go by before the cell of lover’s sperm and egg call out to its mother for her blood. What single tryst goes by those two weeks in the cradle of life. A romance, ah but no more by comparison as that of the tragedy of hundred souls that wait by the hours only to slip through time.

Women carry hundreds of lovely unfinished children in their lives and each one a pain to lose, I can tell you that. Each one by the moon goes by and does not protest one way or the other so who are you, sir, to decide that the unfinished child would seek vengeance upon Mercury and Venus for their eternal divide. And the sun! Give birth to them all in another life!

Men their millions of smaller and swift particle child souls that choose their time in a more, shall we say, opportunistic way throughout their ride in sex organs. Still swimming in the primordial soup and genetically aware of ye old father time and what it shall bring with it on its journey to the nether-life if it should get so far. As is the case, it is a race with ye old father time to the moon that goes by and does not protest one way or the other if ye should get there alright.

The protest up to the mother at picket line. Protest ye mother, oh Nasty Woman, PROTEST. But all mothers of time have heard themselves screaming not always for their children. And sometimes some souls hear it all the time and still protest in silence, for the battle is within ourselves as well as outside and we do not wait for ye old wasted souls at the starting line! We lose them at their hours and there is more to say for that than can be said.

What to say today to you, my daughter or son or that by then had surely chosen one way, both, or neither. I write to you all the time but not often do the letters swim out of the pen in alphabet gumbo jambalaya chunky meats and holy vegetable and no gluten. Speak to me in soup my darling, for it is ash in my mouth.

I know we’ve never spoken, but I love you very much and hope that you have forgotten my awful touch and humanity. I have not. We’ve never spoken. I haven’t named you much. Just somethings and I hope someday I forget your birthday. I’ve forgotten, you see, like the letters before, to stop counting. The soup and the years that go by without them, I don’t miss them as much. But I still know how old I am. How gone you’ve been.

A decade older and still not rich enough. By and by. For mother’s love. Still bearing your aborted fetus in my ulcers. I wish we had never been born to each other! I love you more than ever. And maybe I should stop there and go away forever. But lo! There in that thing. There the very strange thing I say to you again is that I love you! Behold that northern star, kid! In it the ancestors of time have written love songs for our lost children. What I have not written to the desert sun. What I have not written because I am young and unfinished.

Coyote and Skeleton Man: A Hopi Tale

I am from the desert were Hopi face the burning sun and painted sands and are turned away to call upon the west-land fates. The desert faces the south sea and wastes away! Waste awaayyya awaayyya awaayyya.

A tale of the Hopi revisited: Coyote, foolish beast of the southwest has found Skeleton Man seated wily in his place and they do some things very strange. Coyote is watchsssssshhhhhhhing watching him waste away, he sings, “Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!” His eyes have gone south rolled away and came back into his cranium again just the same. His eyes go south, out of sight to see so many things and come back wanting for the south again he is bones away from his southern star. “I like that song you were singing,” Coyote says, “I can do that as well and will roll my eyes south like that. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!” Her eyes have gone and they have not come back. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Rolled out of her head and gone south. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! She has placed yellow gourds in her sockets. Holy yellow vegetable eyes of gourds. She returns home to her children and they scatter in fear across the earth, never to come back to her again with her unholy eyes of gourds. Cursing Skeleton Man, cursed Coyote curses the skies at night. OOOOWWWoooooo! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!

Fragile

My soul

My soul is the most beautiful thing on paper

My soul wants a lover

My soul wants a lover I don’t have to fuck

Jesus Christ, I don’t want to fuck

 

My soulmate

My soulmate is not here on paper

My soulmate is not a lover I have to fuck

Jesus Christ, get over yourself

I don’t want to fuck

 

My soul, baby child

Does not want to fuck your lover

My soul, man

Is not your cadaver to touch

Is not your cadaver to cut

 

My soul is not here for more lovers to fuck

Can I say it any louder?

It is the most beautiful thing on paper!

My soul is in tatters and blown

By all the dicks to suck

 

Soulmate?

I am glad my soulmate is not here

To see me cry

To crave my cunt

My soul is a lover I don’t have to touch

 

Hey you, my soul

My soul is beautiful

Fragile

And fucked enough

Keep your open roses to yourself

Doppelganger, Pt II

I want to consume your shape

Your silhouette

The vignette of the light behind you

A sizable man

I like your shape and

The cartoonish wisp of your hair

I want to consume your hair

And wear it on mine

I want to consume your outline

And if you let me stick around

That’s what I’d do

And what you’d do, too

Because we labor over love

But truly live to consume

I like the shape of you

I want to eat your hair

St. Joseph

She's had enough

She's had enough

She's begging, "Please"

Please

She's put her hand up

It's enough

To take down that cup of

Don't say nothing

Choke down what's in it

Don't say nothing

Enough to be free 

Of those walls and scrub

Enough

For a city window in the moonlight

At that night hour

He steps off

He's had enough

He's calling into the darkness, "Please"

Mercy

Saint Mary! Unholy!

At that night hour

Battering hands of dark are more kind to me

In the morning I've had enough

She's my captivity, and he

Oh darling!

I would set you free!

He, I hear you calling

And I would see you free

Bulletproof walls

I cannot get to you

She's begging, "Please"

To lead walls

Through double panes

He's calling into the darkness

I looked into the darkness

For someone to set me free

Set my voice free

Oh, Mercy! Unholy!

Can you hear me calling?

Calling rape in the morning

Calling chemical lobotomy

Oh, darling!

Does no one love you?

Would no one see you free?

Hands of darkness are enough for me

Double-pane moonlight

I do not need

This selection of prose is brought to you via my experience in Peace Health St, Joseph Medical Center in Washington state. Forced injections, inhumane treatment, and abuse of patients is rampant among this country’s Mental Health facilities. Institutions broken apart within the last few decades have been moved into Behavioral Health Units within hospitals, where medieval practices and shock therapies have been largely abandoned. Patients now have the right to refuse shock therapy, but it is available upon request. What is now common practice equates to imprisonment with a chemical lobotomy: forcing highly addictive and volatile medications into captive’s bodies. I was held down by groups of people, stripped (even had my clothes cut off), and was given mystery shots on the inside of my thighs near my genitals. I thought I was going to be killed each time. I was taken in and released with the diagnosis of PTSD. Go figure.