…more about the problem…
(Setting: a year later and still in pain. neatly summarized on my medical record: bloating, s/p cholecystectomy, irritable bowel syndrome, generalized anxiety disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder, major depressive disorder. forgot to mention smartypants, exceptionally restless, eternal questioner, singlemother and slave to computer screen.)
more – about the problem
I’m not writing – that is the
problem – but why does it matter
if I have an audience – or if I have
time
the belly:
I don’t know if fructose is part of the problem
the problem:
The world is intensely bright even if I try to stick myself
into the wall
What is the problem? Well, I’d
hoped it would go away
the problem isn’t startle – the knives on plates banging – or
not getting caught drunk
the belly:
I learn about gluten free bread and grams
of fat in bags of chips and eat
dark
chocolate
anyway.
the problem:
I wish a little bit for a prince to come -yes
I do.
We would duel. I’m in a fighting mood –
For someone who writes all these words –
for they’ll never see
the light of day (I said, it was bright in here) — So, I ask you this
What if I brought my following? Would you hear me then?
Grant me the space to be free and clear?
acetabulum, mandibular, joints, synovial fluid and answers
that crack in translation
Not a word was spoken – my fingers stain
paper with grease — students
study anatomy on a laptop at a nearby table
I place another whole chip in my mouth
and clamp down and
wonder
if this will be the one to reject and send me into a frenzy.
I can’t stop. It’s as if
I had never eaten chips before. And I see I’m running out of paper.
I must crack the chips
until they break
I remember the time when I wanted my break. And after I got it
I was
Supervisor Manager, you
and sucked it up for a while , being Health Care Manager
And when I became jaded, I became passable, and had to quit
because life is too short.
It’s a headache waiting to happen, Rememories of this past. Ah,
cannot be so bad as it seems – and the present either –
and the desire
the desire, bigger than me and yet willful to live inside of me
I may be on to something when I feel
hot and sketchy and exposed.
maybe decaf was the wrong
medicine — I do want to go home to
him (the man)
and when I do, I want him to be somebody else.
The steam from latte escapes in the form of headburn — and
I think I forgot
to breathe. All this shit I’m writing… it could be
my grandmother’s perfume. It could be
just another trigger. a green muffin or
crushed almonds.
Potato chips meet 12% of my nutritional need for vitamin C
on a daily basis
The problem:
My give a shit sense is broken.
I’m either tethered to the impossible or
hiding in my bedroom and
blaming the alarm as someone else
I can’t believe in the back sheets of papers on which
I imagine I could write volumes, even as I work
I dove again into the places that doubt – I wrote on the other side.
I wrote:
“understand the problem before trying
to solve the
problem”
I understand the problem all right, that humanity is a sham,
that death is inevitable
and when in life, all of everything and also nothing matters–
and pain, it does this to you
So now, go live your fucking life (the things I say to myself).
I’m gluten intolerant as proxy for answers, and sitting in the sun
wishing for rain. For someone to save me
so I can battle them by moonlight.
A win means trek up lonely mountain and sit under the stars
in wet grass and also eat alone, sleep alone and prove once again,
there is no hope (for me, at least) and most of which,
there never was! which I would paint in blood on the faces
of the traitors
eat your illusion
i’ll eat mine
until I can’t go
any further
Good god, why
you’ve put us all here to
die. Say it again—
my Name.
Tell me that you Love me.