My Middle Way

•November 12, 2015 • 2 Comments

Today I sit constricted
My waistband tied too tight
Until I sat down I had not noticed it
Digging into the forgotten flesh
Just below my belly button
But this time
I do not allow myself to fix it
I decide instead to feel it
An irritation around my middle
I hate this
I have always hated this
I have despised the soft center of me
Since I was 8 years old
I have rejected any sensation starting
From this spot
My entire being crawls away from it in all directions
Shattering me and scattering my pieces
I have always had a vague notion why I split
But today I simply feel it and let the thoughts in
And there it is

A memory as clear as the mark it left
HE used to grab me around my middle
HE used our childhood games
Of hide and seek
In a basement, dark and full of horrid hiding things
While the others hid, HE sought me out
HE would take me by my middle
Hauling me off with HIS giant hands
Encircling the entire middle of me
My flesh and guts a handle for HIS gripping

So this is why
I have punished and pounded and pulverized
This pound of flesh that lies
Between waist and once wasted space
This is why I crudely cut a giant jagged hole
And gladly let myself spill out
And happily filled it in with cold concrete
I have been terribly trying to loose his fingers
Trying to pry them off
The memory he buried
In the middle of me
I have been trying to reclaim my own geography
Violence for violence

NOW I return
NOW I am still, here
NOW I sit on solid ground, his hands are not around
NOW I hear the birds sing of safety
NOW after all of this restraint
I decide to forego formality
Before it is officially over
I move of my own accord, free
Not to fix with force but to find out for myself
To feel the spot where he used to handle me
To see if it still exists under there
And as my hands begin to move
The ending bell rings, allowing
Sounding as if to say to me

It is over
His grip is gone
Your center has returned
You may hold your own middle now

And so it is
And so it has
And so I do
Soft and gentle
I take myself in my hands
And I find
Only me

-a.r.

Middle by Patty Maher Photograph by Patty Maher

Reposted because I still struggle with this, this grip around my middle…as recently as yesterday.

Service

•November 11, 2015 • 2 Comments

What are you trying to sell me?
A grill, or a sofa, or drink
A red, white, and blue ideology
That ignores veterans’ lives on the brink

An article of faith wrapped in dogma
Tied with a star-spangled bow
A car on a lot, an appliance
To help us feel part of the show

I sit here conflicted as one who has served
And one who has questioned it all
We do not fit in to your nice little box
That on purpose is fashioned too small

Instead of a sale or a discount
Give us your service and time
Notice the ones that you’ve looked away from
We’ve been wounded, left waiting in line…

-a.r.

image

Photograph of Tomas Young, a veteran, taken by David Jay as part of his Unknown Soldier Project

Story

•November 10, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Like axe blade to bone
The thud and stick of The Real
Keeps revealing Me

-a.r.

image

Painting: Show and Tell by Matthew Price

Apparently this haiku is what happens when you are reading Lacan and Stephen King at the same time.

“Cheer Up”

•November 9, 2015 • Leave a Comment

We rarely harass happiness
To winnow out its many lies
But we question quick our sadness
Assuming it’s some shit-disguise

-a.r.

image Painting: Master of Disguise series by Jennifer Balkan

Slippery

•November 7, 2015 • 3 Comments

Stitching severed veins is messy work
They slip like clever worms from clumsy thumbs
Coating sanguine every surface that while fleeing flop upon
They are pushed by metered measure
Preprogrammed with desperate pressure
Meeting only free and empty air
Cardiac care gone wrong without such bodily resistance
I must anticipate these wild unwieldy worms
With insistence-soaked and trembling well-trained hands I try
Gotcha!
To spite my sinking lids and draining brain
I will work quick to fight the scheming dreamy fog
Poke, pain, stitch, pull, poke, pain, stitch, pull
To put these messy worms quite back to work
I stop this leak in service of a bloody life alive
I will clean the wound
And numb the pain
Tomorrow

-a.r.

image

Painting: The Bleeding Abstract by Adrianna Majewski

My Keeper

•November 4, 2015 • Leave a Comment

There is a violence to telling time
The winding up
The counting down
The second hand stomping around
Yelling
And slamming itself into the next
Black…hash…mark
A metronome
Except
For its massacre of pushing past
That last moment
Left too soon
Gone and dead
A constant monster moving
Without flinching
Stalking and continuing
To echo aching in my head
Maniacally compelling me

TO

HUR

RY

UP

AND

GET

THINGS

DONE

It’s too damned late
I sat so long and stupidly
Shocked still
By what’s in front of me
I should have moved
And acted quick
Before the final

TOCK

and

TICK

-a.r.

image

Etiquette

•October 29, 2015 • 7 Comments

Because I wanted
Contact without corners I
Sent a thank you card

-a.r.

image

Photograph: Cornered by lauren-rabbit on deviantart.com

Flames

•October 28, 2015 • 1 Comment

We may burn with it
But at least we are striking
Our own god-damned match

-a.r.

fire spirit-of-fire

Painting: Spirit of Fire artist unknown found here:

Serving the Elements: Fire

Expiration

•October 26, 2015 • 5 Comments

On this night I did notice my breath
And with each I grew closer to death
Holding it didn’t work
I exhaled with a jerk
I’ve no choice but enjoy what is left

-a.r.

image
Painting: Mung, the God of Death by Sidney H. Sime

Bare Branches

•October 26, 2015 • 6 Comments

I am letting go of leaves
Or are they letting go of me
I watch their downward drifting
Rocking back and forth by breeze
Cradled quiet on their journey
A silent lullaby
I hang with each one in the air
Summer flesh now flaking dry
I choose to watch their falling
My nature aches to be reminded
How very short a season lasts
Born sycamore instead of pine
I was made to shed this skin
Grey rolls of cardboard slipping slight
Leaning with the wind I have a look
At pieces scattered left and right
I shake the weight of my bare branches
Absorb the fading warmth and light
I was not made to endure changes
While remaining straight and green
From root to tip, where blackbirds grip
The travel of the earth, I feel it

-a.r.

Painting: Study of a Sycamore Branch by Drusilla Montemayor