shadows to know

sleepless or lost in the fog. I hear the news but cannot see beyond myself. one step two steps somewhere drawn from dreams and my disgust. too many shadows to know. I reach for the moon like a child for the handle on the front door. in a few years maybe I'll be tall enough. for now we flounder in the thicket / where we are / having burned any map that might lead us home.

worksheets 4, 4a

we all have a pattern we must understand before we break it. emotions shape our beliefs. they may not lie but can obscure the shapes we draw to form reality. other factors shaped by context predetermine vulnerability. note their weight and work on regulation.

there are secondary emotions underscored by effects after the fact. anger is vocal. anger is the most primal secondary emotion. anger will always surface at some point wanting to get things done. anger drives us to do things and asks to be left alone. if anger is not getting what it wants it will tell you.

notice biological changes neural firing rising heart rate temperature any other body sensations. make allowance for expression face and body language words and actions.

every urge is a child needing somewhere to go. can you break down these feelings to keep them from completing themselves?

bluelit

reaching again

from one bar to the next

none low enough from where I sit

bluelit in the backseat

the head on my neck between one mask and the next

another treat to chase

running from the work of tears to come

I make room for strangers in brittle boned arms

too weak to keep the score

fine enough for hanging fantasies

to scroll into decay

I am happy without thinking

with the masses

on my phone

I smile through every gap

the headlines bleed into my dreams

distraction

or some other kind of drug

diluting the subconscious just enough to keep the rain

something else to witness

cause enough to ghost the mirror

til I’m running out of laundry

and I find myself again 

about our bones

they teach us about our bones. when enduring extended periods of strain, the body does what it must to refuel and keep moving. without knowing we do anything we can to make the energy we need and won't otherwise find. without enough fuel we make our own from ourselves. the body milks the bones if it must. the marrow makes a bandaid til the body needs more fuel but the bones are getting too weak to do what they've been growing for.

I think about statues in the sand and in museums. mud or marble every one returns to dust with time. we're just the same just lacking stillness / acceptance / nerve to stop and wait for what's to come. we fool ourselves forever moving just to hide from what we know. with brittle bones how much more can we be than sticks or stone?

if only we remembered dreams like we remember shibboleth

this is just medicine.

it is the way it is and that way is okay.

I am only ever where I need to be.

adults

adults in suits. adults on trains. adults waiting for something to change.

adults not wanting to grow up and give in to convention. crawling screaming clawing at the carpet for a trapdoor out of the performance / expectations / death and taxes back to the merry-go-round. don't they know they're bound to dust no matter where / how far they run? from a distance it's clearer; we all are. sitting in seat C9 wondering just how much I've lost doing the same / not knowing how / wanting to let go. I've chopped the trees I used to climb myself. the nights are getting colder and it's well past time to use the timber. the pyre would dwarf the theatre but I can't quite find the exit.

he is risen

I run myself empty

out of breath

to stop on doctor's orders

he is risen

have I lost him?

not wanting to grow up

through the city to the cemetery

coughing possibility

a fairtyale psychosis

or maybe just regret

reaching for absurdity

disowning fact like innocence

I wash my hands

not wanting tomorrow / the headlines / thoughts I author

waking to face them anyway

'we miss you' waits for rain on marble

like the end of summer when it comes

unwanted with the rest

betrayed

she is weeping on the floor in the dust

cradling another doll

can you hear her pleading change away

a little longer?

how much difference can a little make?

the door is still ajar