Not from any petulant resentment,

Nor a lack of matriarchal love, but

It does not bother me much now

That mom died a decade ago.

Worry distracted her and kept

Her distant. She wanted me

To be something she wanted

To be, without regard for me.

Her love, no doubt, was sincere,

But was obligated, and entangled

With obligations in return with

A thousand hair-thin lines to untie.

Like rags, I wring my hands, like her;

And wish, like her, I was someone else.

(October 8, 2018)

A Part Apart

A story’s comfort
comes in retelling.
The pattern laid out
like a blue quilt;
each square tightly
stitched to someone
else’s contribution,
someone’s scraps.
It’s taken time
to listen close,
to follow a thread
from knot to knot;
until I, too, am
woven whole.

(July 9, 2016)

Basic Training: a faux fable

                                    “Who do I think I am to decide that she’s wrong?”
–Townes Van Zandt
“Tell me a story; maybe I’ll believe it.”
                                                                        –Iggy Pop
Once one morning in Virginia on the Appalachian Trail,
we stepped out from the dark forest
onto a ledge of rock jutting into the air,
the view across the Shenandoah Valley stunning
enough to almost make one believe in God.
A few feet from the escarpment’s edge,
like a sacrificial gift upon an alter,
a pile of human excrement lay covered
by a few scraps of paper as if with a bow.
Some after partaking in drugs, relate
an experience, a vision if you will, most profound,
transformative even, like a pocket
pulled inside out – – – often comparing
their evening’s chemical experience
to the weeks-long vision quests of some
native American tribes – – after all, this is
the age of convenience – – the quick fix,
even in spiritual matters. So listen close:
Back in my distant youth, almost a man,
during my sophomore year of college,
I often took hallucinogens.  One night,
I sensed I had to use the restroom; so I sat,
and wandered through the bowels of my thoughts.
Among the many lost profundities, I thought
about Elvis who had recently died, and heard
like a voice from heaven, my Aunt Hazel
bending over me fussing about wasting time.
Then I was home somewhere between two
and three years old, screaming for help,
my pants dangling at my feet, screaming
for my mother to save me, to help me
clean up my mess. Aunt Hazel stepped
in, cigarette dangling, grabbed some paper
and roughly got to the bottom of the problem:
You’ve got to take care of yourself,
no one wants to clean up your shit.
(June 29 , 2016)

cutting the umbilical

what comes before us
sends multiple strands
through the warp and weft
of the time allotted us
I try to trim away the false
bits frayed through retelling
but the whole cloth’s tattered
rent beyond redemption
what matters what holds import
after years of listening to stories
is the silence to hear myself
my story told by me to me
free of other’s impositions
and the lies of the dead

(April 6, 2015)