Withering wisened widows watch wunderkind
Knowing the maid doesn’t make her your friend
Wombs wantonly whispering western works
Next on Broadway: Aborted Baby Monologues
Wrinkled women wistfully weep while wasted
Heavy pour for my dead dogs and aching knees
Whales willingly wallow weighted with wanderlust
Rent is the cost of sleeping closer to happiness
All posts by Ro
Sauntering by, so sure
The gang of boys
Good boys, old boys.
If you only knew
I see you.
The weak you.
The wanting you.
I see you in a dark room before you fall asleep.
Cuddling. Comfort. Care. Caress.
I can provide these things.
But first you have to do me a service.
Touch me where they said don’t touch.
Wiggle my squiggle with soft attention.
Let me know
That you know
I’m different.
Not you.
Just into you.
Hoping I’m the one.
The prize mare
You choose to breed
And feed
Unbridled affection
For your hopes dreams and desires.
The desire unfulfilled
Yields more empathy
And the story not told
Suspends empty disbelief
Victimism
When asked about your pain on a 1 to 10 scale, always say 10.
(If you worry about opinions, try to ham it up a little.)
The person paid to care dispenses tablets
The rats learn to say it always hurts.
Do we really know pain?
Savoring the searing tattoo needle
Wincing at a sharp word.
Teaching mortals the way of least resistance
Daring heroes to dance with the devil
Deepening dependence on material cures
Numbing the squishy awkward parts
Until there’s not even a seam between the two
Personalities colliding overhead
On the bench, from behind, with 2 fingers.
No Clue. It’s a game we call Snatch.
Don’t tell them it hurts, just scream.
Only feeling pain, the hunger goes away.
A dull heart beats, aching agony all-consuming.
Just remember no one cares and go to sleep.
This broken system won’t stop working.
Gonna have to break it to get a new one.
Crying out in a silent voice
I wonder if whales could hear me
Nonsequitering through conversations
When the keyboard stops swaying
I realize it’s my own tempo with gravity
Able to discern the thoughts I’m most intersted in
Being in my body doesn’t always translate to awareness.
Bring on the court and let me plead
My case is a simple one.
Let go of your misery.
Alone, looking at your phone
On the misshapen couch you call a bed.
Stop.
Look
Listen.
The creaks aren’t all in the walls anymore.
That blue glow lighting your face
Only attracts vampires.
Head up.
The things you want are within reach.
Clipped wings preventing hidden genius.
Don’t penalize those of us that got there first
Just be glad our numbers are growing.
I was alone for the first part of my life.
The more wrong I’m proved
The less I feel cheated.
Relativity Speaking
Here’s what I think.
When it comes down to it, we don’t get to choose very much. From birth, thousands of decisions are instantaneously made for us.
Age, sex, location.
Name, address, SSN.
Size, weight, color.
Income level, insurance company, citizenship.
DNA map, eventually.
Seemingly unimportant, mostly indisputable, these are the tiny clear rods that Doozers use to build our fragile identities.
After that is just years of abiding by the choices of your literal guardian. Can’t choose your parents, can’t choose your siblings. Stuck with whatever blood you have in your veins. A ticket in the mandatory lottery of existence. By the time you’re old enough to have dreams most of them are out of reach. Cultivating a culture devoid of artists, minds numbed by aptitude tests and network television. Remake everything until you can’t remember whose idea is was in the first place.
The medium doesn’t change the message, just how powerfully you get to ram things down throats. Choking on tropes stuck in the back of my throat. Holding high standards is relative to your idea of rock bottom. I giggle at funerals but didn’t murder anyone.
Finished always looking over my shoulder. God gets to judge His children and I hope not to be here when that happens. Nothing personal.
Name Changed
The air in probate court is just as heavy as any other court. At least , for me because I always assume the worst where courtrooms are concerned. We all sat there huddled in squeaky leather chairs, footsteps shushed by thick navy carpet. Something as simple as a name doesn’t require much paperwork. The court only meets once a week for this specific reason and there are only half a dozen requests even that often. It’s the most service-like of the civil service proceedings I’ve witnessed. Continue reading Name Changed
Today’s Practice
Tadasana to
Uttanasana to
Adho Mukha Svanasana.
Lunge right leg forward and take
Parsvottanasana to
Utthita Trikonasana to
Virabhadrasana II to
Parsvakonasana to
Ardha Chandrasana to
Trikonasana to
Utthita Hasta Padasana to
Parsvottansana to
Virabhadrasana I to
Virabhadrasana III to
Virabhadrasana I to
Adho Mukha Svanasana.
Lunge left leg forward and repeat.
Vrksasana.
Salamba Sirsasana for 3 minutes.
Halasana to
Salamba Sarvangasana for 5 minutes.
Eka Pada Sarvangasana.
Savasana for 10 minutes.
As Saturn Turns
Last night, a truly odd series of steps led me into a parallel universe where people I’ve barely met know me better than anyone in the world. Among strangers, I’m able to shed pretension and relax. No steering against the whirlpool of emotional insecurity, avoiding the eddies and whorls of assumptions and misunderstanding. Previous house parties were always a syncopated dance among cliches of old friends and other-peoples-dates, never quite settling on any real conversation for safety’s sake. I’m unfamiliar with the freedom of tacit acceptance, so easily offered when you come with the right references. I’m not sure I made a good impression, but I definitely didn’t leave a bad one.
Happy New Year.
I, Gumbo
As the year winds down I’m artificially encouraged to summarize the past 12 months. That feels like summarizing every movie at a theater with one sentence. A horrific comedy of fantastic scenarios spread across space and time.
Ever since my non-new-year resolution to embrace change I feel less like a protagonist in my own one-dimensional story and more like a special guest star in various other tales. Sure, my story is still happening. I just feel like it’s best to let it simmer on low for a few while I go explore what existence means through the eyes of others.
From time to time, I’ll come back and add to my crock pot of identity. I’ll let other people get a taste to see if I’m ready. Once the gumbo I’ve used to recognize myself nears perfection, I can serve a feast for everyone to read and enjoy. I yearn for a time when I can sit across from a friend still prodding bits of my story with a toothpick, my personality on their breath.