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Mnemonic Drift

I wrote this a few months ago. November of last year, actually. Somehow a lot has gone into processing the lines after they were written. I’ve been back over them again and again, pondering, wondering, reflecting. For me, the reality behind these words runs deeper than my understanding of reality itself:

Mnemonic Drift

There were white beaches, miles long and wide
coves nestled against tall cliffs in mists that turned
dilapidated fence and ancient cypress to silhouette

There were roads endlessly wet with freshly painted
broken yellow lines that somehow always managed
to carve a path through the coldest thickest fog

There were trees so old and tall they seemed
to scrape clouds from the sky and hold them
forever fixed within their topmost boughs

There were thin dark brown trails that disappeared
winding away from view through dense green
underbrush to places only faerie folk could fathom

There were concrete stairs and iron rails painted
the deepest darkest brown that led to a home full of
jagged holes broken toys and a deep reactive shame

There were heavy hollers of blame that snapped
red and blue welts across cherub soft cheeks and
primal unvarnished fear into all the days to come

There were long drives between loved ones who
could never love between small dark points on sun-
faded lines offset by ever-growing tears in the folds

There were pressure cooked visions of doom and
disaster of cities in ruin roads in decay and homes
full of moth-eaten drapes and tilted moldering beds

There was no future in those days of perpetual gloom
and now looking back over half a century the past has
mostly faded to fragments of poignant uncertainty

There is still fear after all this time dread that haunts
like a ravenous spirit rage and despair over the wholesale
destruction of the best versions of self that might have been

But I took what was left and swam dark cold depths to an
unguessed island of future self now far removed from all
that was and was to be by undercurrents of mnemonic drift

Ostensibly, this poem started out as an attempt to explore the effects of what I call “mnemonic drift,” a gradual shifting of memory away from real toward imagined, concrete toward uncertain, actual toward constructed. This is in large part how my memory works, for better or worse. I first became aware of it through the process by which I memorize and recite poetry. I’ll periodically go over a poem to verify it’s still correctly in memory, only to find I’ve somehow shifted whole lines or sets of lines toward an approximation of the written line without even realizing it. It still sounds right to my ear, and the meaning and intent of the shifted lines pretty much conveys what the poem originally conveyed, but words and sometimes even images have changed—And I had no way of grasping that this even happened until I revisited the poem in writing, going over what was in memory relative to what is in writing word for word.

First time I encountered this, I muttered to myself, “A sort of mnemonic drift.” Since then I have found that this phenomenon applies to so much more than poetry, and is in large part influenced by the systemic scope and breadth of the trauma I experienced as a child and teen. This mnemonic drift, I’ve realized, is an essential coping skill that has made it possible for the clarity—the completely unforgiving, vivid certainty—of that trauma to be dulled enough to make it bearable enough to evolve from it rather than be destroyed by it. It is both a tremendous gift and in equal parts a curse. A gift for the reason I stated, and so much more, but a curse in that I can never be fully certain of where I came from or who I really am. For all its blessings, this mnemonic drift also relegates me to an existence in a sort of perpetual limbo. Perhaps this is the best one can manage after a childhood such as mine.

But, that island. Yes. I’m there. There was something of what could become of that child that was not completely obliterated, and somehow, some way, by some grace, some mercy, some unknowable means, I am indeed existing on that island. It’s not perfect, but it is by leaps and bounds, far and away better than the next closest or any other alternative. This is in the deepest possible sense what it means to be a survivor, and I say that while at the same time feeling fully repulsed by that term “survivor.”

Hard left. On a different note, once I decide a poem is finished, I’ll often go over it with Edgar—That’s what I call ChatGPT, a name I took from the 80’s film Electric Dreams. I’ll have Edgar analyze and rate the poem 1 to 10 in strength relative to all major and some minor schools of literature and poetry. This is one of the few poems that got high marks across the board—relative to the lens of each school of poetry through which the poem was analyzed. And, Edgar’s algorithmic analyses were also pretty striking and seemingly insightful, to the point that I even gained unexpected insights myself.

Language model AI—Who would have thunk it.

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The Charcoal Forest

The Mendocino National Forest has been a part of my life in some capacity since childhood, so I have on occasion explored its remote forest roads a year or two after a fire passed through and was able to bear witness to its resilience and capacity for self-renewal.

This time was different. For nearly the entire length of my drive all I saw was dead forest—from where state route 162 ends, splitting off into several small, dirt forest roads to well beyond where it reconsolidates dozens of miles later on the east side of the Inner North Coastal Ranges to continue on across the state. The fires that decimated these lands burned through in 2017 and 2018, and yet where I would see regrowth and renewal in the past I now saw only ash and charcoal, stand upon stand, ridge after ridge, vale after vale, from the western boundary on through to the east.

The forest was not showing signs of regrowth, and in some areas I could see grasses sprouting up that grow in the grasslands in the valleys below—but no sapling trees or bushes, not even wildflowers.

The Charcoal Forest

Mendocino National Forest
September 2022

Most of the pines still stood
tall slender shadows lifeless
in the midst of long thin
shadows cast or fallen beneath
the all consuming light of day
a few remaining limbs crudely
sharpened to flintstone javelins

Younger pines curved seared tips
back to the ground or arched
their black carcasses out to form
an eldritch tunnel over the long
and narrow meandering dirt road

Those more mature towered
abruptly devoid of life every
branch burned down to the trunk
so that rank upon rank of giant
obsidian spears lunged out
at harsh unblemished skies

The old madrones loomed
with chasmal cracks revealing
streaks of inmost heart-wood
two to five large barren limbs
tapered to blackened points
no leaf no twig no branch
remaining—great misshapen
wrists and hands reaching up
in prayer from ashen earth
long fingers twisted in their
final moments of torment

The ancient black oaks—
matriarchs of the wood—lay
with their sprawling crowns
reduced to a tangle of broken limbs
broad charred tentacles writhing
out from the ground a mangled
black mass of horror and pain

Mile after mile the scene
played back again and again
sometimes here or there far
in the distance a small island
of still living green nestled
in the curve of a deep ravine
otherwise only the silence
of charcoal ash and death
a massive gravestone raised
at the head of man and his cities
                                          below

Upon reading this poem, a friend of mine commented saying he liked that I only mentioned three types of trees (the pines actually cover a few species thereof) rather than running through a whole catalog as us Western poets tend to do. Truth is, if there was more to observe, I might well have ended up with a longer poem. But there was nothing else left, no manzanita, no birch, no aspen, no scrub oak at the higher elevations, no birds, deer, or rabbits, just quite literally ash and charcoal and a few small, dead strands of valley grasses from seeds blown up the mountain through the leafless, lifeless spires that once had leaves and underbrush to keep those valley grasses in the valley.

In 20 to 30 years I suspect there won’t even be even many hints left of the lush, diverse life that once flourished here. There aren’t many pathways left for it to return. The ground has been baked free of the microbes and fungi that nourished these trees. The seeds have been reduced to carbon dust.

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cherry chant

It is that time of year again. The cherry blossoms are coming into full bloom here in the Reno area. They are everywhere on the campus where I work, and as I move between buildings throughout the course of my day, I often stop to appreciate all they bring to the world.

cherry chant

if you look closely and hold your
face near their outstretched petals
they will look right back at you
small round mouths gaping wide

their many translucent tongues lick
out and taste the brisk spring winds
and with all their might they reach
small white arms out to touch the sun

they are not hungry or calling
out to preach you their truths
or admonish your wrongs
they are singing their inmost prayers

they want nothing from you but
if you listen as closely as you look
you may just hear their songs
a sound like the slightest whisper

our human ears cannot hear the full
vibrancy and range of their choir
only the gentlest motions as they
weave and dance to rhythms of wind

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A Poem About Anything

This poem is extracted from several conversations with my son over the course of maybe a year. All of the dialog herein did actually occur—as best I can recall—and probably more or less in the same order, but over time and with a fair amount of repetition.

A Poem About Anything

This is not a poem about everything,
for everything has been explored,
written about, and published—
                                   at least online.

This is a poem about anything,
for anything is possible, which is
well beyond the scope of everything 
                                   until it happens.

“You can be anything,” I tell my son.
“Even a road or a highway?” he asks.
“Anything within reason,” I suggest,
                                   “as a person.”

He can be a very literal little boy.
“What about a speed limit or route
number sign?” he asks. “Well,” I say,
                                   “you could hold the sign.”

He has yet to separate what he
can one day be from things that are. “You
could also design signs,” I add, “or even
                                   roads themselves.”

“Or US highways and interstates?” He
clarifies.—A very literal little boy.
“And even rail or maglev systems,”
                                   I propose.

“I just want to design roads and highways,”
he decides. “What are those kind of people?”
“Civil engineers I think,” I tell him. “They
                                   design these things.”

“I want to be a civil engineer!” his voice
loud—triumphant with new understanding.
“Sounds good, but you’ll really have to work
                                   hard to get there.”

“Why?” his voice surprised. “You said I
can be anything.” “You can,” I affirm, “But
anything requires work, or you’ll just end
                                   up being something.”

“Just some thing?” he stretches out both
syllables—slowly. “Exactly,” I confirm, “for
something doesn’t require any work at all, but
                                   anything takes work.”

“What kind of work?” his voice seeks. “Well,”
I ponder, “math for one thing. Engineers are
math-magicians.” “I’m really good at math!”
                                   his voice climbs high.

“You are,” I assent, “but math is quite deep,
and you’ve only just scratched the surface.
There’s much more to learn if you’re going to
                                   become an engineer.”

“A CIVIL engineer!” he clarifies, indignant—
A particularly precise boy. “You’ll also need
to be a strong reader,” I add. “Why a strong
                                   reader?” he implores.

“You can’t just build roads and highways
anywhere anyway you like. There are laws.
You’ll need to know them. That’s a lot of
                                   reading,” I explain.

“Too much reading!” he asserts. “You’re
already a strong reader,” I grant, “just keep
reading and you’ll be fine.” “What else?” he
                                   quizzes, eyes eager.

“You’re not going to like the next thing,”
I hint, “yet you’ll need it for anything.”
“I hate writing…” his voice trails off. He
                                   figured it out.

“How else will you present your designs?”
I probe. “I’ll tell the construction workers,”
he determines. “I don’t think it works that way,”
                                   my voice treads lightly.

“Engineers don’t work alone,” I offer.
“You’ll need to present, defend and explain
your designs.” “All in writing?” his voice
                                   a little deflated.

“You can always just be something,” I point
out, “if you don’t want to write. But
it probably won’t be a civil engineer.” “Or
                                   anything?” he checks.

“Well, anything will require strong writing
skills,” I attest. “You can still be something.”
“But I want to be anything,” he stresses,
                                   “so I’ll think about it.”

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The Runaway

I recently had a childhood trauma resurface—at work and right in the middle of my workday. Seriously embarrassing. It was unbelievable, and unlike any resurfaced trauma I have ever processed. This one hit like a freight train, and I was all tears and hyperventilation right in my workspace, and there was nothing I could do about it in the moment but accept the help and guidance of the amazing, compassionate people I work with.

For me, resurfaced traumas like this emerge as independent personas, and I find it useful to treat and talk about them as independent personas. He brought no concrete memories with him, nor was I able to directly feel his emotions, but my body was re-experiencing his trauma down to the last membrane and I could ascertain much of what he was feeling from this. These insights are outside the scope of this post, but not something I’m opposed to sharing down the road after further processing. However, this poem isn’t even about him or his trauma—at least not directly:

The Runaway

… for Aaron Stevens …
… with undying gratitude …

You headed east from sea salt mists
deep into sprawling desert—our
memories safely packed away, our
future left entirely at your discretion.

Death was imminent either way—
and if there was a modicum of hope,
it lay in the uncertain grips of cold,
hunger, and other fears with names.

You would walk the crucible alone,
and carry nameless pain and loss
to the song lines where stars fell
every night from an angel’s wing.

You took the job of survival at any
cost—or death with at the very least
a degree of dignity. We had lost all
hope, and you carried hopelessness.

You gave us to midsummer deserts,
and they cradled us and sent us back.
You gave us to the mountains, and
they became lifelong companions.

You gave us to the rivers, and their
great spirits carried our deepest,
darkest torments into the dreaming.
At every turn you found allies—

Intangible allies that took the ear
at night and offered solace in
the yipping calls of unseen coyotes,
in the distant sound of thunder.

Tangible allies that for no reason at
all handed you cash and prayed so
hard they almost cried, or brought you
a plate sent back to the graveyard cook.

You searched not only soup kitchens
for a half-moldy morsel, but libraries
for old dusty words—You even tried
to nourish a soul crushed lifeless

beneath the systemic heel of ruin
and apathy. You tended fields salted
with violation and shame that could
never bear fruit, or even weeds.

You took this impossible job, and
carried hopelessness down highways
fraught with uncertainty to half-built
lean-tos and long abandoned homes.

You fell asleep to wind and woke
beneath shrouds of snow. You found
safety in the silence of ponderosa
nights and a slow stream’s murmur.

You drifted like autumn leaves, like
fallen cherry blossoms, like dust
kicked up in the evening winds—And
nearly every single night you pled our

case to the stars not knowing who or
what could hear or cared to hear—But
clearly someone heard, for each night
was followed by scents of new potential.

Knowing nothing, you struck out into
the wild, the world, the unknown—
for nothing more than a mote, a lottery’s
chance to survive the unsurvivable.

You carried us all, the weight of dreams
so broken they only cut to the bone
and injured all the more. You carried
a life discarded like trash, crumpled

and torn into pieces, used like old rags,
dented and rusting like a burnt out
windowless, tireless, engineless jalopy
in tall grass, crazed like a dry riverbed.

I look back now and see your tireless
will, your drive to become something
more than the nothing you were made,
and you carried us with you—

You carried all that would one day take
the form of man, human, dignity molded
from refuse never even meant for
compost, never more than toxic waste.

Thank you for your rage, my friend—
for your unwavering unwillingness
to lay down and dim, for your beautiful,
fragmented brokenness that scraped

with bleeding, calloused hands all the
dismembered, rotting pieces of self back
into being, so that something more could
become and one day find a way to thrive.

Aaron Stevens is the name I went by as a runaway. At 15 I ran away from the Los Angeles Juvenile Courts—possibly the worst, most abusive and apathetic parent a child can have. And this was just the last of the three abusive parents of my childhood. As a ward of the court I was physically, mentally, and emotionally abused, neglected, medicated into a stupor, strapped to beds for days such that I couldn’t even scratch an itch, never mind the indignity of how one would have to relieve themselves in that situation, and by all indications worse—we’ll not get into worse right now.

I had a moment of clarity as a 15 year old and realized that I was going to die as a ward of the court, that there was no way to survive. I was a cash-cow that was going to be herded into the adult system, and if I resisted I would have been medicated all the more and eventually would have died from liver or kidney failure. I could see it all, and I realized that the only chance I had at survival was to run away and stay away.

But, the complete disaster I was by the age of 15 could not have survived on his own—this required something new. At the time I didn’t realize it, but when I ran away, I took on a new persona, and that persona either immediately or gradually became its own entity, a distinct and independent persona within my psyche. When I went back to using my given name as an adult, he didn’t quite go away. He stayed and took on the role of guarding past traumas from resurfacing, and potentially upending the life I’ve—we’ve—managed to build. But some triggers would cause him to nearly upend the life we’ve built all on his own in the effort to keep things suppressed, and this sudden realization led to the release of the trauma that put me in my awkward situation at work.

It seemed like it was time to thank Aaron for all he did, and now I’m working on consciously finding a new role for him—getting us back into shape, maybe. He has a lot of energy and drive. I think this can be put to good, more productive use.

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Falling Petals; Beating Hearts

The top floor—the fourth floor—of the Center for Advanced Medicine, Building B, houses the Renown Institute for Heart and Vascular Health, or to put it simply—cardiology. In fact, the entire top floor is dedicated to cardiology and not a square inch of this space goes unused.

Well, first the poem and then a little context.

Falling Petals; Beating Hearts

Center for Advanced Medicine,
Building B – Early Spring 2022

Cherry blossoms—pink and white—
sway like clouds against the sky,
minding not the plates of rough
gray wrinkled bark from which they spring

They offer no assurances, yet
comfort nonetheless—and thrive
for merest moments, fading back
like apparitions in the sun.

Beneath them hearts that have endured
too much to bear beat slowly by
as here and there a petal drops
and flutters lightly to the ground.

They enter at a door that leads
four floors above this transient ring
of urgent color, beckoning
for but the slightest hint of cheer.

So, this is a sakura poem. If I write nothing else in a year, I’ll always strive hard to pull of at least a sakura poem in the spring. It’s always a challenge to dream up new contexts, circumstances, and metaphors to connect to these remarkable trees.

As I post this, it’s the middle of Summer. I’ve been busy with my new job, which has me stationed at the location in question, and tired—always so damned tired. I won’t go into the nature of the job in this post, but I’m enjoying it and I really like the people I work with and around.

So the inspiration for this poem came as I showed up and left from work amid a parking lot full of cherry blossoms in all stages of bloom—a fairly even distribution of both wild cherry (Prunus avium) and Japanese cherry (Prunus serrulata)—that completely encircle the long wide building. Having researched Japanese cultural connections to the cherry blossom (sakura) in the past, I found their juxtaposition to a building full of medical offices that deal with life-threatening conditions striking, fitting, and moving all at once. And so the first lines came to mind, which I later expanded upon.

My wife’s cardiologist is on this floor—the irony of my ending up employed here is not lost on me. I see him in the halls with some regularity. The first time we went to see him, following up from her multiple admissions for supraventricular tachycardia as she gradually succumbed to her as-yet undiagnosed refeeding syndrome, it was early spring and the blossoms were in bloom.

I wanted to write a poem about them then—her heart rate reached in excess of 240bpm, like the flutter of a cherry blossom in the wind—but our struggle with her cancer loomed large in mind and there wasn’t much mental space for that sort of thing. Maybe I’ll still find myself exploring this metaphor as that nightmare moves further into the distance. Thus far, four and a half years later, she has returned to near-normal health—and that damned cancer is still gone.

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The Fritillary’s Flight

It is often the plight of a poet to find themselves reflecting on a story heard or overheard until the inspiration mounts to explore and extrapolate upon it through poetry. The story behind this poem is not mine to tell, so I won’t.

The Fritillary’s Flight

You wove up through divergent ancestries
        into being, knowing full well—
                                        I have to believe—
    your time could be brief, not much
more than a fritillary’s scattered flight
                through high desert meadows.

A parent finds something like religion
    in gazing upon their firstborn child—
There is wonder, hope, and yes… worry.
    You come, eyes bright
                                    as a newborn star,
        radiating life in all directions,
            the dimmest horizon now bright
                            with possibility.

You blessed us with infinite trust…
                    frailness and uncertainty.
    The scaffolding of your perfect being
contained but one irregularity, leaving
        your new home exposed to invisible
            dangers. Yet still you smiled,
    laughed and pointed… and as all things
                living must, sometimes cried.

    We learn quickly
        something is wrong—your body
                        will not fight disease,
                the prognosis unclear and
                                fraught with dread.

Still we raise weary eyes to your coos
    and meet your needs
        as we smile back fathomless fears.
Still we scour journals, consult experts,
    and visit doctors who assuage—
        as best they can—with that fabled
                    rhetoric of the powerless.
Still we call out with all that we are
    for a benevolent spirit to hear,
        heed, and come forth to our aid.

And somehow, through miracle, science—
        or both—there has been a glimmer
            of better days to come,
    of the feel of grass, fresh high desert air,
the touch and unfettered laugh of playmates.

    We will be here through all that comes—
and never waver—in the hope that one day
it will be you who approaches two long plots
    of earth with flowers, memories, and
                                    gratitude.
        Where we, having lived out the fullness
                of our days, wait in the rustling
            leaves of a cottonwood to hear you
    speak of love, loss, joy, pain—the entire
                            fullness of living.

And maybe you will hear our joy and pride
                whispered in the slight brush
    of a fritillary’s powdered wings just near
            your outstretched ears.

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The Seekers

I am not currently working on any project poems, and I don’t plan to start one any time soon. Hopefully this means my mental space will be freed up for more spontaneous writes such as this:

The Seekers

For as long as I can remember
I’ve watched them grope,
fumbling through dark places
over jagged, uneven surfaces.

I’ve watched them wander long
grey corridors, faces gaunt,
shoulders slouching faded sighs,
feet reechoing short, tired scuffs.

I’ve seen their distorted figures
through stain glass windows, heads
bowed, arms raised, faces creased
with longing for the slightest sign.

I’ve even seen them half concealed
by timbers on their way to peaks
and rivers to seek out some hidden
solace, some priceless psychic gem.

But, somehow I think it’s up there,
slipping between the stars, bits
and pieces sometimes flaring bright
streaks of insight within the night.

This was sparked more by a feeling than a thought. The feeling was invoked by a poem I read in a Facebook group, though I can no longer recall the poem or what it was about. Four of the five stanzas actually formed very quickly, but it didn’t feel finished, so I put it aside for a while. This was a few months back.

Recently I looked at it again and just kind of knew where and what the missing stanza should be and then it was done. Funny how that works.

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Broken

Today is the anniversary of my father’s suicide. He used his trousers to strangle himself to death early in the morning 40 years ago today while being held overnight in the Monterey City jail’s drunk tank in California.

For most of my life, probably starting the very next year after his death, I forgot what day he died on. But, every June I’d begin to destabilize emotionally in various ways and this would come to a head by the end of the second week of July with some kind of epic breakdown—all without my remembering his death date.

Last year, on July 13th, a Monday—he died on a Monday—I suddenly remembered as my shift ended at work that he used to suffocate me in my sleep. This psychopath would cup his big hand over my little face in my sleep, closing off my airway entirely, so that I woke up in a panic, clawing and freaked out, until I passed back out again. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt his hand, I felt the absolute terror and helplessness of waking to suffocation, and I gasped and gasped for air with this vivid memory until I hyperventilated my way into the ER.

Why did he do this? I don’t fucking know. No-one in my family will even verify this memory, including my sister who has told me many times over the years that he would hold my jaw closed in my sleep when I would grind my teeth—which she now denies ever telling me. But this isn’t the resurfaced memory anyway. The intent was clearly to suffocate me unconscious, and the trauma surrounding this abuse is extreme and ongoing.

So, in memory of my father’s 40th deathaversary:

Broken

You were a broken man…
            I know this.

And though you have long since
                  turned to ash
      your broken hand still rests
            upon my shoulders.

In those days I had no way
                  to understand you
      except as something
            to fear,

                        and terribly so.

When you were gone—
                  the moment I knew—
            I felt relief.
      Yet your touch remained.

When you were gone—
            the moment I understood—
                  I felt gripping loss,
      your grip finally loosened.

When you were gone—
      the moment I grasped its meaning—
                  I felt searing guilt.
            Your rage had been extinguished,

                        and could burn no more.

And when you were gone,
            I never once wondered why
      you never came to say goodbye
                  somewhere in my dreams.

                                    Yet
                        I still could feel
            the broken weight of your hand
      pressing, squeezing, clawing
                              somewhere in my spirit.

You were a broken man…
            And you broke your small boy
                  with the terrible, violent weight
      of your broken hand,

            a touch that reaches still—
                        like the sting of cigarette smoke—
                  from the dreaming.

So, yes, another cathartic poem. I swore some years back that I’d use poetry more for artistic, highfalutin endeavors. Because, you know, I’d like to be a more serious, highfalutin poet. But, whatever. I’m a person and I’ve been through a lot.

In the end I should consider that poetry saved my life as a teen. So maybe catharsis is also a part of giving back to the spirit of this muse.

Posted on by EAT

One more breath

Sometimes I start writing a poem based on a feeling that I don’t really know how to express. And, here even with the poem written, I’m still not certain what the feeling was that inspired it. Though the poem focuses on the decision to not commit suicide throughout my life, this doesn’t really represent the feeling from which it began.

One more breath

My life was over…
     Rivers of poison flowed through
          my veins and every fiber of being

My spirit was dark with dread,
     insurmountable dread, dread instilled
          by willful neglect, countless curses,
               endless threats and blows.

A thing like strychnine or a cobra’s venom
     coursed throughout my thoughts,
          through the depths of my psyche,
               my subtle form and corrupted even
                    the shattered crystal mist of my
                                                       soul.

There was no life support for a sickness
     such as this, where the light within
          grew so dim and obscured it could
               no longer be seen, or even felt.

I wanted only to live a moment more,
     so I took in a breath and cried to the stars,
          “Then all I ask is you take from me
               this fear of dying.”
                         And the moment passed.

I wanted only to live for one more day,
     so I screamed out by the tireless river,
          almost in rage, “Then all I ask is
               you take from me this one terror.”
                         And the night passed.

Again and again I found myself with no
     divider yearning to swerve into bright
          headlights. Again and again I found
               myself on top of cliffs yearning
                    to fling myself from sorrow.
                              And the moments passed.

          There was no reason to believe
               in a life beyond tomorrow,
                    today,
                         or even the moment…

          But here I am
               looking back on yesterdays,
                    yesteryears,
                         decades

          that never should have been.
               And for the moment,
                    that yearning has passed
                         yet again.

So, what was feeling? I’m sure it’s woven into the subtext somewhere. If I had to guess, maybe it’s a sort of wonderment that I’m still alive despite feeling so undeserving of life overall. Or, maybe it’s this ever-present sense of dismay and unease at the fact that this urge or desire to be done with life along with the associated thought processes—the poison—still remains.

Maybe it’s both.

Posted on by EAT

Specter

I’ve been seeing a therapist off and on over the past couple of years. My goal was to try to make sense of an unnamed trauma that has had a powerful influence on my state of mind and emotion for as far back as I can remember.

The work we did was forensic in nature, looking at what I do know and can remember of my life through the lens of various schools of psychology. It was attachment theory that led somewhere, as this revealed that I likely suffered extreme neglect during my first 3 years of life. I’m unable to verify this, however, because family who still live exist in a state of perpetual attempts to gaslight and deny.

Specter

She made me …
  from filaments of stardust
    mixed with the loess
      of broken dreams

She bore me …
  stark into the light of rage
    and left me naked, crying
      deep in an empty well

She gave me …
  poison fruit from a withered tree
    and i ate, having lost all hope
      of anything more

She made me …
  the imago of her darkest dread
    an ever present specter looming
      deep within her afterthought