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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

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The Outline

Since the mid 2000s, I’ve more or less tried to avoid using poetry to process traumas and strong emotions. This decision was inspired by a friend and mentor who expressed open disdain for such poetry. I suppose, since I was still working through issues of neglect and abandonment from my childhood, I hoped this would his win his approval. But that’s another story.

I think that—slowly, dimly—I’m beginning to realize that for me using poetry to process personal traumas, experiences, and strong emotions is not only essential to my process of working through the deep stuff and eventually moving forward, but to my overall inspiration to produce new material. Now, where I’ve actively tried to resist urges to use poetry to process my traumas, I’m working to move in the other direction.

The Outline

All around
                                   a storm.

                    Clouds
                              swirling.

               Winds
                          howling.

     Leaves
                    blowing.

          Walls
               creaking.
 

Through the window
          deep in the turbid havoc
     distorted by patterns of rain
               and side-blown rivulets

a thing moves massive
          amid black coiling clouds
     outlined only in part
               by flashes of light

                         and thunder.
 

          And there it is
               the Monster
     outlined in grainy gritty
                    shades of gray.

          The doctor points
               talks of radiation
     chemo and surgeries…
                    I blink back fears

          and struggle with all
               my might to see
     beyond reverberating peals
                    of terror and loss.

Of course, the storm is a metaphor for the emotional chaos stirred up by the diagnosis of cancer in a loved one. The outline in the storm adumbrated by flashes of light is metaphor for the image of the mass itself produced by scans—which basically use various kinds of flashes of light to produce the image, from X-rays to electromagnetism.

It’s been about two and a half years now since sitting in doctor’s offices with my wife going over scans and asking questions between long, strained attempts to breathe. And although my wife has been in remission for a couple of years at this point, I think it’s safe to say that I’m still traumatized by the experience of it all, hence this little bit of psychotherapeutic personal poetic trauma processing.

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Event Horizon

I am hoping to get back into the swing of things when it comes to producing poems. For now I’m setting myself the goal of writing and posting one poem each month. If I can manage this, then I’ll look at stepping it up from there.

As I try to return to the habit of writing, I find that most of what occupies my creative thoughts is the experience of dealing with my wife’s cancer. As of now, she’s been in remission for two years—a miracle in itself to be sure. But no matter how long we both may live, I’ll never forget the experience of being caught within the gravity well of that singular tumor and forcing ourselves to go about each day within its event horizon.

Event Horizon

Despite the aching crawl of time,
         I wake each day
               from fitful sleep,
      stumble to the car,
                  and drive to work.

      Despite the crushing pressure
            of uncertainty,
   we take our son to preschool,
         to the park to play,
               and ready him for bed.

Despite the all-consuming darkness
   that haunts every thought,
         we buy groceries,
               prepare our meals,
      and pay the bills.

The diagnosis was unexpected—
            I suppose it always is.
      In but a moment, all
   forward momentum was lost
         and we found ourselves
            locked in the fathomless
                     grip of a tumor.

         And yet despite
               the overwhelming gravity,
      we continue on and
                  go about our lives
            just inside the event horizon
                        of oblivion.

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The Survivor

It is common for those who survive disasters—especially lone survivors—to feel a sense of guilt about it. Maybe this comes from feeling like someone among those who died in the disaster would have been more deserving of that second chance. Maybe this exacerbates a sense of worthlessness that already lurked within. Whatever the case, not all disasters are created equal, though the guilt of having survived is just as poignant.

The Survivor

It was not a train wreck. The car
didn’t screech, slow, tilt and roll,
passengers sent flying throughout
the cabin with their tablets,
purses and cell phones. There
was no shattered glass, no screams,
no sudden eerie silence amid
cracked skulls, broken bones
and twisted frames of steel—
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t know how.

It was not a plane crash.
There was no sudden sensation
of lost momentum, no jarring
thrusts up, down and sideways.
The captain never broke over
the intercom in strained, measured
tones, “Brace for impact.”
I never tucked my head
between cramped knees
and waited for that last, terrible jolt—
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t know why.

It was not a shipwreck. A massive
rogue wave never folded out
from the wake, snapping untold
fathoms against the wide, blue-gray
hull—covered orange lifeboat ripped
away. Steel plates never buckled
abeam at the blow, seams splitting
abreast open seas. Water never
flooded the holds, one by one,
as gunwales leaned in slow motion
down to drink in the surf.
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t understand.
 

It was the snap of his belt, the back
of his hand, holes gaping jagged
rage from the walls, a relentless
unpredictable fury that sent my soul
crashing around in the tumbling
train car of never-ending terror.
                                 Yet I persisted,
       and learned to curb his rage.

It was the bullwhip crack of her
tongue, the icy black slash of her
words, the voracious canine rip
of her blame, an ever present hair-
raising resentment that plunged all
self-esteem headlong into sorrow.
                                 Yet I endured,
       and learned to quell her malice.

It was an ocean of apathy where just
beneath the steady rise and fall
of visceral uncertainty lurked
sudden swells of violence that rose
and smashed through the wide hull
of sanity, sinking always again what
dim hope there was into darkness.
                                 Yet I emerged,
       and learned to calm my unrest.

The final three stanzas treat on the three parents of my childhood. First, my father, physically and psychologically abusive, who committed suicide when I was 10. Next, my mother, a venomous, vindictive, emotionally damaging woman with a form of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy that involved psychiatrists instead of medical doctors. The last was the Los Angeles County Juvenile Courts, who took custody of me at the age of 12, placing me in one abusive environment after another until I ran away and stayed away at age 15.

I have always felt like someone who has survived a catastrophic event on the order of at least a plane crash or shipwreck. Or maybe on the order of an major earthquake or tsunami. Or perhaps on the order of something even more catastrophic. For this was not a single event that occurred only once; it was ongoing and systemic abuse across the entire span of my childhood. And though running away at 15 freed me from the clutches of the abusers, there is never really freedom from the effects of the abuse itself. That must be dealt with and addressed every day for the rest of ones life.

The survivor of childhood abuse must learn to survive all over again every single day. In some cases, the survivor may even begin to show signs of thriving in spite of it all.

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Just call it cancer

If there is one thing cancer is good at, it’s sucking up the energy and brain space for creative pursuits. Over the past several months I’ve tried again and again to start or work on poems focused on this or that subject, but in the end I’m just not feeling it. Cancer, however, is another story entirely.

Just call it cancer

It’s okay, really. Just say it,
                                       “Cancer.”

You won’t be saying something
we don’t already know. In fact,
it could even be cathartic
to hear that quaver in your voice
as the dreaded word tears up
from clear, clean lungs through
unobstructed airways past vibrant
vocal chords, an articulate tongue
and pink, nonmalignant gums
that bite bitterly down at the end,
                                       “Cancer.”

It won’t add weight to the struggle
to hear it said plainly, clearly.
After stainless steel biopsies;
penetrating scans; reports and cross-
sections reviewed with surgeons
and oncologists; second opinions
sought from beyond the horizon;
radiation burns seared deep
into the soul; gut-wrenching poisons;
time lost to anesthesia; and the slow,
steady crawl of recovery—we won’t
buckle at the knees and collapse
utterly to hear that singular word,
                                       “Cancer.”

It won’t summon some ancient
terror from the void—It’s already
here, lurking in warm red darkness,
bending all of life toward the hazy
event horizon of uncertainty.
It changes nothing to call it
“the big C” or even “the struggle.”
Just go ahead and call this black
hole of mutinous selfhood by name,
                                       “Cancer.”

This is largely inspired by the tendency of people to go well out of their way to avoid saying the word “cancer” even as they ask about or otherwise discuss it. While I get that this represents an attempt to be sensitive, it can also be frustrating because it’s hard not to feel like you’re being coddled.

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Dislodged

Last year I bought a journaling application for my PC that I planned to use for drumming up ideas for poems and for logging lines and fragments that could later be expanded upon. The seed lines for this poem were among the last entries made in the journal prior to my finding out in November that my wife has cancer.

Dislodged

Your raucous call is the sound
    of an old friend knocking
        at the door. One not seen
                    in many years.

    I look up and my lungs fill
        with long sighs of affection
as your broad black wings
    flurry lightly north and west.

        Where you go each day
    the moment daylight pulls
your roosts from shadow,
                    I do not know.

    I cannot follow your omens
over street signs and power lines,
        over the tired old grid
    of run-down homes and businesses,

over the brick, wood, and chain-link
    fences that partition every block.
        Yet I swear my heart lifts from its
                    white cage and chases after,

    leaving me just a little empty.
        Sometimes I think you carry
my spirit to me. Sometimes
    it seems you carry it away.

        We are bound, and I know
    you know. Karma is a twisted thing,
involuted with the daily
                    struggle to survive,

    the ancient force of past being
that somehow led to now, and every
        hidden longing that forever
    tugs at my soul.

Sometimes a feather drifts down
    and settles by the curb. Maybe
        I am that feather.
                    Maybe long ago

    I was dislodged from the body
        of my flock and left behind
to settle into the sod. Maybe I am
    fallen feather become man,

        forever grounded, looking on
    as black wings call with stern regard
from beyond the constricting ache
                    of warehouse walls.

I work the night shift at a group home for at-risk teens. This home is in a renovated warehouse in a neighborhood that is zoned for both businesses and residences. Before waking the kids in the morning, I’ll gather my things and take them out to my car, which I park in a gated courtyard. During those times of the year when this coincides with nautical dawn, a massive storytelling of ravens will fly directly overhead.

I’ll hang out and watch until the last straggler flies by, then I’ll go inside. A lot of them will tilt their heads sideways as they pass, making direct eye contact. Once in a while one or two will land on the top of the building, perching at the edge to watch and sometimes interact with me before continuing on. No matter my mood, I’m always in better spirits after spending a few moments with these creatures.

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New Tomorrows

I have recently reconnected with a friend from many years ago through Facebook. He and I were both residents of the Job Corps program in Clearfield, Utah back in the winter of ’88 and spring of ’89. We’ve really hit it off as we started talking again as middle aged men. As is my way, I’ve sent him a copy of my book, an inkling hope. Every copy I give away has a personal dedication. Sometimes it takes me several weeks to decide what that will be. In this case, it was a poem.

New Tomorrows

for Veldon Black Tail Deer

We are creatures of the dreaming
poured forth from the stars
into every shape that roams
beneath these ever changing skies.

Long ages before our ancestors
fought on open fields of battle,
they were brothers who danced
stepping circles beneath the moon.

We are creatures of the drumming,
our spirits joined in a rhythm
that forever intertwines our histories
into the memory of new tomorrows.

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Talking with Angels

I wrote this a few years ago as a prose comment to a Facebook post. I recently stumbled across it again when Facebook showed me the old post as a “memory.” Part of the dialog that inspired this response involved a discussion wherein I was asked to explain what I think angels are. I responded saying, “Any life affirming entity. Today I talked with a number of them,” and then the poem.

Talking with Angels

Today I talked to the angels.
                       A lot of them.

They thrust into the air
         and took the horizon.

They gathered above peaks
               in lenticular folds.

They congregated whispers
        along rocky slopes and
     they clustered long sips
            from canyon creeks.

Their stony gaze bouldered
      from mountainsides and
   they rose in meditation
              from valley floors.

Today I talked with the angels,
        and they sang me songs
                 I have not heard
    in very a long time.

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Riptide

A lot has happened over the past few weeks. But, first the poem, then the news.

Riptide

I used to bodysurf.
It was years ago, as a child.

I lived not far from white sands
    and long curling waves,
from sailboats and oil tankers
that loomed like quiet phantoms
at the liquid edge of the world.

Wearing dark blue trunks,
I would wade in through broken
waves until the brine lapped
softly against my chin.
As whitewater neared, the sea
would drop just low enough that
I could push off and join
the tumult, turned briefly
into a crude, knobby surfboard
    sliding amid the swell
until at last my trunks scooped up
    a little sand, and I found
myself beached between worlds.

Once, while waiting for just
the right wave, I bent my knees
and dropped below one not quite
    big enough, pushed up
to the higher water behind it, and
came down on absolutely nothing.

The sand was gone.

I extended one leg, toes spread
down to find it, but all I could feel
was grit rushing around my foot,
    my ankle, and shin.

There was a moment of uncertainty,
as if the wily sea were merely playing
a practical joke, then on instinct
I began to swim toward shore
where I could once again find sand
to stand on. But, I went the wrong way,
swimming forward, my body slid
back toward those distant ships, limbs
useless as seaweed on the wake.

The joke was over. Fear flashed
electric through my limbs. I sprinted,
kicking and stroking with all my might,
eyes wild and white, face pale, arms
and legs weakening until at last they
turned flaccid and ghostly as jellyfish.

Strength spent, I gasped for air
as my chin dipped into that salty,
half-lit world. And with that air
I choked and gulped at the sea.

Somewhere in the watery depths
of my soul, I began to accept this fate.
I began to accept that I now would join
and merge with the great abyss forever,
that maybe I would find my father there
in the cold blue depths, that the simple
    joys of breath were at an end.

Then, suddenly, a bright orange buoy
splashed near and I heard a voice
howl, “Grab the buoy! Grab the buoy!”

It was just out of reach, and I was still
being pulled out to sea. But I saw him,
a muscular man in glaring orange
    trunks waste deep with fear
in his eyes—he saw me, a lifeguard.
And seeing I could not reach the buoy,
with one great snap of his wrist,
whipped it out of the water back
to his hands. Like a quarterback
from heaven, he heaved back
and hurled that orange buoy as if
he meant to land it beyond the horizon.

It landed just past my head, and with
one feeble hand, I grabbed hold.
My body lifted horizontal as the rope
pulled taught, and for the first time
I could feel current rushing past
every inch of skin. My other feeble
hand took hold and the man full
of muscles reeled me in against
that all consuming tide until I flapped
and flopped onto dry sand, crying.

    I remember looking back
on that great ocean, waves weaving
docile patterns onto the shore,
        shaking,
heart hollow with fear and dread.

When the doctor came in, he asked
me to remove my sunglasses. His
face was granite. He said he wanted
to see my eyes. In that moment,
I came down on nothing and began
            to tread uncertainty.

I removed my glasses, and he began
to tell me about your procedure, tilting
his head forward as he tracked my eyes.
I toed for sand as he talked of polyps
safely removed from your watery
depths. Then he took a breath, almost
imperceptible, and said in dry, measured
tones as grit rushed past my leg,

                       “I found a malignancy.”

So, yes. We discovered a month ago that my wife has rectal cancer. The tumor itself has since been staged at T4n0, which means it’s a very large tumor that has not yet spread to the lymph nodes, though nearby lymph nodes are inflamed. The medical oncologist initially set the staging at 3b, which indicates the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes, but the staging may be lowered to 3a or possibly even 2, though the size of the tumor itself along with the inflamed lymph nodes makes stage 2 unlikely.

This poem came about as I tried to tell my sister what it was like for me to learn about the tumor, using this childhood experience as metaphor for the more recent experience. Perhaps the doctors involved, including the surgeon overseeing the case, could be the lifeguards and the treatment protocol the buoy. But, for the most part, I feel like I’ve already been swept out to sea. We do try to stay positive, though. That’s important.

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Before memory

Most of parts i and ii were excised from “What comes after.” I realized they didn’t really add anything to that poem, but could possibly become a poem of their own. And they did.

Before memory

     i

Do you remember your first thought,
 your first sight? Do you remember
                                 becoming?

  Can you call back the first time
     I picked you up in my arms
         and touched the pink new
             leaves of your fingers?

                     Probably not.

       These are my moments,
   memories I will forever cherish.

          Yet, you were here.
                  You existed.

      Your life already was. Life,
                          already beyond
        your powers of memory. You,
                             already beyond
                the touch of recall.
 

     ii

  There are many more moments
        I have the privilege
               of holding in mind,
                                     such as

          the first time you stood
    wobbling over your own two feet,
      your first three shaky steps,
         the very first time you rolled
             onto your back, and
                   even your first word,

                              “Light.”

      You may not remember
             any of it. Still,
                 you were there—
       you existed, lived, laughed
                                and flourished.
  Your heart raced behind your ribs
                          like a rabbit’s.
                Lightning arced
     through the plasma in your veins
              and kindled the presence
                               in your eyes.
 

     iii

   One day you will think back
         to your first fuzzy memories,
              maybe a yellow slide
         at the nearby playground,
              or the orange hue
       of cottonwoods turning
    toward winter, or perhaps
singing standards with Lola.

You may find yourself wondering
           where you were before
     blue swings and spiral slides,
        before autumn scents
   and colors, before old songs
     with loving grandparents,
before drifting down from the stars
                 into mother’s womb.

  All I can say is that you were
     here before you remember
                                          being,
   and that all my life
            I sensed you were there,
    long before you were here.

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What comes after

I thought I’d try to leave some thoughts on how I eventually came to reach a sort of homeostasis with the fear of death for my son to one day find in the form of this poem. Turned out it’s not easy to put into words. In fact, I’m going to venture out on a limb and say it’s impossible. Such understandings must be discovered—they can’t be taught, disclosed or otherwise imparted. The best I can do is leave a few bread crumbs that may or may not lead my son to eventually finding his own peace with the inexorable reality of the circle of being.

In writing this poem, I did ask myself how I came to my current place of peace with death. The answers were slow to come even to my own mind. It’s a peace found in the seat of the soul, so deep and so obscure that it evades all attempts to grasp at it. But I did come by some important insights, some of which I found words for. But these words would only mean something to one who has already acquired a similar understanding. To the rest, they are probably meaningless as the ramblings of a lunatic—not all that useful for the goal of this poem.

So what small bits of wisdom could I impart to my son’s future self, considering there’s no way at all to impart the understandings I’ve come to acquire? Well, maybe this is at least a start.

What comes after

One day it will dawn on you:
this is not forever. Like the milk
in the fridge, the multigrain bread
on the counter, the lupine blooms
by the driveway, you too have
an expiration date.

This notion may come with a sudden
sense of shock, electrifying waves
of terror. You may try to imagine
existing beyond existence, awareness
beyond the withering of skin,
the bubbling putrefaction of flesh,
the slow return of bone to dust.

Your imagination may conjure images
to mind of all long decomposed
humors magically resurrected,
judgment at the feet of a golden
almighty, or angels leading the way
to long green valleys rowed with white,
columned mansions. You may imagine
nothing, suspended in eternal, black,
weightless solitude—or perhaps
the eternal peace of a dreamless sleep.

When the time comes, I imagine you
will ask me, eyes wide with wonder,
love and anxiety—me, who merely
helped bring you into being, as if I
had somehow unlocked the secrets
of all—what happens to the driver
of all these years, months, days, moments
once the engine of living has ceased to run.

Though I have also pondered
such questions for a lifetime, I will
have no concrete answer for you.
Though you will find many opinions
and declarations of faith from nearly
everyone else, I will offer mostly mystery.
Though friends and family will speak
with inflexible conviction, as if they
themselves have traveled beyond
the thin, black veil, strode the great
marble halls beyond, and returned
to tell all, I will have no simple response.

What I can tell you is that some comfort
may be found in mystery, the kind
of comfort one finds in looking upon
the full moon at midnight, the soft white
river of stars on a moonless night,
the deep green rolling expanse of pines
from a mountaintop, or the all concealing
blue-green wake of the sea, forever
hurling its thunderous foam on the sands.

I can tell you whole lifetimes are wasted
fearing the unknown, years frittered away
dreading the long, thin shadow that falls
on every brow, the cold, grey hand
that cups every shoulder. I can tell you
that one who spends his days marking
that shadow’s slow approach through
time—who merely passes all waking hours
in solemn wait for that last chill touch—
is one who will never know the wild thrill
of spring blossoms arching up an alpine
vale, who will never wonder at the sight
of massive lenticular clouds amassed over
wide autumn valleys, will never feel the giant
triumph of cresting a rocky peak in the broad
Sierra backcountry, will never test and find
his limits or discover what hidden reserves
of strength lie within—will never
                                                actually live.

I can tell you the question itself is misleading,
for it draws all thought away from where
life is—here, now—to a place beyond
the sound of wind in tall desert cottonwoods,
beyond the touch of morning sun on the cheek,
beyond the smell of sagebrush through wide
open windows, beyond the sight
of thunderstorms lumbering flashes of light
in the distance, beyond the electric taste
of love’s first kiss—beyond all that is living.

A more important question, perhaps, is, “What
happens before we die?” After all, this is where
everything takes place.

And for the most part,
                             you get to decide the answer.