Two Poems

Poem 1:

Mitosis is
when one cell splits to heal
repair and
grow
But meiosis makes new people
I don’t know which happened to us

Poem 2:

  
It might be a camp fire
or a small sun but
it is the beam of a lighthouse
to this blinding cone

All light penetrates darkness but
yours penetrates yet more light
That’s a hell of a trick reserved for
angels and
their baked goods

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Sense of Humour

  
I cried “Why don’t you help me?” and
God said nothing I could hear.

I said “You have abandoned me!” and
God said “Have I?”

I declared “You don’t exist!”
and God said “If you say so, dear.”

I studied and read, I sought mentors. I had
magic, incense, candles, bells, incantations, circles, water, salt, spells, dragons, quarters, elements, cords, herbs
fucking craft projects
God said “Well, this is all very interesting! What does this one do?”

I studied and read, I quoted Lao Tsu & Chong Tse & Sidartha & the Lotus Sutra & I breathed mantras to Kuan Yin through tears and then
God said “Well, this is familiar.”

And then God said “Look, here is a shiny thing. Behold; it is well formed and kind.”
I beheld the shiny thing and breathed in its light and cried.

God said “I am calling to you, but I know how you are. Do you know how I am yet?”
And I said, sniffling, “Maybe.” And then, “Show me more. Please?”
And God said “I know how you are & I know what you need. You are a funny girl.”

And he led me to a dense place, packed with love as gauze fills a wound. There was room for me.

I became sicker and God said “I know how you are. I know all of you. Help each other out.”

The power of Christ compels me.

I writhe unable to sleep just trying to comprehend
what is the end
why didn’t this one thing happen
or this other
then it does
and God laughs and says “You are a funny girl. Don’t you know me by now?”

Sparkling

 

You are every bubble that
spews from a champagne glass 
and 
you are every flicker of light
You are that stream that children let out under water when they are turning somersaults and you
are 
singeing the edges
and
warming the room
and clearing the gloom.

George Herbert Coughing In My Face

  Herbert died of tuberculosis at 40. I am 41. I have outlived George Herbert, priest & poet. I have outlived Scott Weiland. I have outlived Robert Loggia, many cats, my grandparents, my best friend in college, and it seems I will outlive a little girl who is the daughter or sister of my friends. I don’t know what to do with any of this information. I never know what to do with feelings.

Saint Thomas, my church that I’m always rabbitting on about, has an Advent series every year. We do some kind of educational activity that involves speakers or reading. This year we’re reading I Pray In Poems, & last Wednesday night we all huddled into Father Davies’ home, strewn about like books ourselves along the dining room table & living room furniture. We read George Herbert’s “The Collar” which I always thought of eye-rollingly as “the whinging priest poem”. No more. I get it. Especially after Wednesday’s shock in San Bernardino, when the Inland Regional Centre was attacked by ISIS sympathizers…radicalized persons who don’t care that these are the people who get my Downs brother his bus tickets, help him with job placement & IEPs, like so many other special people they assist. Father mentioned my brother & the IRC many times during the Mass, which was moving & tear-filled, at least for me & my sister, & then we read that poem, & it made a lot of personal sense.

Listening to my fellow parishioners…my family…give their various ideas about it was like a pleasant after-dinner conversation that I imagined normal families had growing up. I have since learned that that rarely happens, as all families pretty much turn on the TV or fight, if they even eat together these days, but it’s always been a fantasy of mine, & I got to live it. I look forward to the next two sessions.

I am reminded today, as I find everyone petulant or didactic or thoughtless or irritating in the face of so much loss, of “The Collar”, but more importantly that I used to write scads of poetry as a kid to deal with my feelings. At least before I discovered food, anyhow. Now that I refuse to use food, I am less stable again, more angry, more anxious, more depressed. But I am also alive. And I remembered that there is poetry. So in addition to the two or three notebooks I completely filled in high school & college (& indeed all my twenties), I may as well shove some down your throats here. It may even help me lose weight. HELP ME LOSE WEIGHT, JERKS.

It’s Still Happening

how can you believe all the things you believe about me when

evidence

 like

  rain

   keeps

    falling in torrents on your face
yet you persist in your madness to declare “You are a desert” and “Nothing grows in you.”

I have seen the desert! We have lived there!

A coyote once came up to me and
licked my jeans. She was so
gentle and
calm

This is not an account you could believe
You cannot remember
You believe nothing except the lie in your head
You will do so until you’re dead.

I have hoped many hopes for you
I have prayed
Some of those hopes have been born
they are the best of children
Some were too high
they are experiments in a lab
perhaps they are monsters
    maybe they should have died
I have stopped asking much of the will of God
My hopes are unnatural
I want to fix all the brains that break
He works His wonders in the darkness
I would shine a light on all
 then cry at what I see
Maybe the problem is me

So see me as a desert but
treat me like a garden at least
You used to have a cactus
I figured that you liked it
You only had to water it a little bit and
it never died like
everything else did

 

Thoughts Without Context

I’m going to say something nice about the iPhone. Haters gonna hate; I’m sure your Droids & Datas & Daleks all have similar functions. But I love the notepad. I use it to make grocery lists, & also to write down now inexplicable things I wanted to remember, like this:

“hugpundit”

What was the purpose of that? Was it inspired by the conspicuously-absent-from-Twitter Killpundit? Was it a user name I briefly considered?

Here are some other notes, of varying import.

On January 5, 2010, I was evidently on the phone with Tabz, as I attributed these two statements to her:

“To me, he’s like…the Pope.”

&

“The pool is maturity.”

I recall wanting to make t-shirts out of these tidbits…t-shirts that would make sense to no one, t-shirts that hipsters would be over in 5 weeks.

I also write down what are to me significant visions, both waking & in dreams. To prove the dates, I’ve screen capped em:

20110612-050441.jpg

This one I dreamed was a tweet:

20110612-050534.jpg

On April 25, I wrote down “Oasis Wellness Ctr Thousand Oaks”, which I now recall has some kind of heat box that melts fat.

On April 27, I wrote this poem. I was apparently angry about the way someone treated someone I care about:

Look, bitch.
You’re a crass little piglet.
You flirt like an elderly whore.
Your mother had you in crinoline
Now you’re bracken on the shore
And your feeble lashes totter on the edge of
Something more.

About a month ago I wrote, during a function, “Advertisers are being SCREWED! Ben’s book!!!” I seem to be quite emphatic, & somehow Ben Shapiro’s ‘Primetime Propaganda’ was the answer.

In January 2010 I jotted this down. It might have been an idea for a blog post or letter:

“B4 my descent into illness-precipitated mealiness, I used to attend my fair share of hoity toity Republican soirée thingies.
Enjoy their $
PJ”

By “enjoy their $” I’m pretty sure I meant that Republicans acknowledge money & don’t agonize over it like limousine liberals. PJ has to be PJ O’Rourke, but it could also be Pajamas Media. God knows to whom this was directed.

The rest of my notes include classified information about my car & shopping needs, though you can guess exactly what my last one says…

“RockStar
Ham
White corn tortillas
Fruit
Creamer…evil??”

Agony Chorus

Tepid afterthoughts where oft
Such monsters loom amid the pangs & pains of
Sullied births & unearthed rage
And all is quiet and still except the bestial electronic thrum
Air beaten into submission because you hate noise
And all the while the loudest silence is bitten by the
Fetid discomfort of no talk and words
For words are foreign and intrusive
How will we function without words?
My God, how do we WITH?
There’s so much goddamned talking and I want to join the Air Force so some
Kind commander will send me
Three miles below the earth
A silo, a silence
Please, talk is cheap & cruel
Not one soul knows another while they blather and they
Scream through ribbons that tie us gaily
Merrily are we bound, wound round God’s finger
Reminders of lesser times when He was sorting out the darkness
And what did He want to make for Eternity?
And here these noisy beings
Hear me hear me hear me because
The other choice scrapes fear
But we who can don’t judge
We’d love you anyway
Your heart of sin & all that constant envy
None of us take it personally
Well, none except the fakes.
So please, the sake of Christ, just cap it off
So few say the thing they mean
It’s like at the red light and
The one car is bumping Lupe and the other
Is Michael Jackson
And you know each song and one has more base and
One is the truth and
One is your incessant chatter
And in my heart they clatter
And the pain is thunder.

Single Broad

Power is sketchy in Los Angeles’ odd rainy quasiapocalypse, so I thought I’d write some crappy poetry while the phone can actually charge.

The finite days of my life stretch out before me without foreseeable end
What is the use without the time when I am for you
Why else exist but to prepare
For when at need you call me
And I ease the passage of your time with quiet watches or cheerful musings
And prepare the hour of your greatness with bravery & unquestionable love?
When you come to me I will leave it all
A cocoon I’ll shed of this preparatory existence
My past of errors and lessons will I use to serve you wholly
And made to do your bidding will I absorb in full
As only God can know where you are waiting
And how you’ll recognize my heart I cannot tell
I pray you comprehend it when you see me
And in your heart will know it fully well
For I am not well versed in understanding
How these things appear to well trained minds
I flail & wonder where the light is streaming
From a distance patch of warmth I’m ill equipped to note and find
And why does this now have a rhyming scheme
When earlier it seemed as prose to come
It’s probably because I’m very silly
I hope you never mind that I am on occasion really, REALLY dumb.