Therapy Chronicles; The Upstart

The man- boy with drainpipe trousers

Talks too much

He claims the title of “empath”

And we know

So often narcissists hide behind a kind face

His is transparent and whorls with hipster beard

I hear the rub of his insincerity

Like familiar chaff

How easy to see the game pieces

When from the stage you step back

 

I am tired and old

I am young and quick

I am neither witness nor undertow

But some approximation of emotion

Observing sand-dial without taking turn

Til his upstart urges ego

To fill space with his lust to be seen

 

I let him know

You may have some fooled but I hear you gobble

Fat as Thanksgiving goose

Sucking all the air from the room

Hungry in unsalted desire to hear your own voice

Like a spoilt little boy, thin on holiday treats

And I long to switch you off with a flick

That others may speak and consider

Instead of your incessant bearded drone

Convinced you are humble prophet

why are the least, the ones who believe themselves the most?

Such delusion winds your faulty key

No words can find together to fabricate

The proof of your concave mouth

Slurping sound like a tin penny whistle

 

In years to come you may learn

When you meet a young version of yourself

Less is more

Save the pompous for Charades

Cut the roast, Pat the dog, be thankful for not

Gloating on naught

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Purple


Where did you learn

Your need to pull 

Away?

Burying truth behind

A visage of clay

And where did you start

Believing distance was safe?

Or ice over warm, each time you’d take?

I wished I met you

Before

You learned in reverse

Drove with eyes closed

Radio tuned to conflict and silence

If I had the power

I’d rewind you

Like a China doll

Breakable and yet

How hard your ceramic stare

You penetrate any pretense

Even as you hold your own secrets

Tighter than a rubber band

Turning pinky swear

Purple

Wounded bird

IMG_0920I tried with you, I really tried, and then I let you go

you flew out of the window even as it was closed

panes securely fastened

latch tight and unyielding

because you had never quite been

 

it was you see, a failure of mine

to find you flailing beneath yourself

with a few choice words you could

nourish from my adoration and mend

your rapid fast airy heart

containing only string

for what you need and not

enough for love

 

I was a clay maker

thinking fitfully if I put enough into shape

if my structure were sound and whole

if I poured water to prevent cracks

moistened over the thin spots

despite not being what you wanted

despite being a girl

despite having tired fingers

you would relent and

let me hold you in my lap

as crickets drowned the rush of air in hot melt

 

you were after all

used to mistreatment, I reasoned

surely a bird who had been injured

would long for peace?

the passion of sincerity

a terribly naive hope

when we all know

those who like the wound

will return to their abuse

not the arms of one who

is boring in her devotion

I never thought I should become

that very tedium

you strike against with mended wing

the one you answer last

when bored or idle

not they, who burn in your throat

wakefully lusting

whilst I feel already the part

of spinster and milliner

hemming your spare parts

 

it would be easy for me to

dress like you, smell like you

gather a flock of admirers

play midnight dalliances with

camera and music

cue ..  lights ..  pose ..  fizz

and now that you have shown

your true feathers

I see a little of why you prefer this slovenly approach

it suits your downturn

your denial of yourself

and I feel embarrassed that you had me so hot

as you pulsed beneath my wonder

with practiced charm

so used to hearing the false words you live for

 

I do not own

a penis

though my strength and my passion

would have surprised you

I do not possess

a penchant for games or

the worship sufficient to be

your follower

your worshiper

so little bird

when you escape

please do not

return when the skies fall

and he stops calling

or insults your honor

because my fingers are burnt dry

from believing myself

needy of you

 

 

(Daquin, 1997.)

People 

samantha-sophia-195015People

May rifle through your life

Like pick pockets

Climb inside your privacy

Invade your quiet

They may leave traces

In your life line

Becoming family

Or staying just a season

You will wish many times

Not to answer their call

Tend to their needs

Spend your time building vines

From their vineyard to yours

But solitude

Is a hard

Endless

Winter

Only the most robust survive

Sometimes when you think

You’re better off

Isolated

Drifting off the main land

You’re over estimating

Your ancestors only got this far

Because of family

Relationships

Strangers become friends

To give you the privilege to choose

How much of a social animal

You

Want to be

But never forget

Yours is not the soul

Of a white snow leopard

Stalking endless silence

Cut off from her kind

Your kind were monkeys

Chattering noisily in trees

Yes it makes you blush

Wishing you were less a creature of gossip and small talk

But without snow boots you cannot

Hope to wade the drifts

They will consume the bravest heart of almost anyone

As searching in nothing but ourselves

We find less than expected

Consume my hope

If we leave the letter unwritten 
saying nothing

deer leaning in the window salvaging for morsel of night 
grimacing when we stir, wind chimes with pointed feet 
dancing awkwardly in ill-fitting clothes, vindicating a 
suspicion of absurdity

turn from me then, until you stop being and I sit alone
watching faceless walls communing with plaster
you shape my days and can as easily, burn me standing
waiting for a word, a finger-tip, a smudge 

for when you strike, you are a panther, encased in skin
charboiling my heart over wilting blossom 
it is not possible to deny you
the switch of myself shivering electric 
in that, we are alike, the one who loses her hair in bunches and you
who cook longing on high flame 

hang yourself up on the back of my hook, let me catch you wriggling 
in my wet fingers made into a cup
like rounding moons with promise will become fairy circles 

when you emerge, dry-eyed and hot-skinned, let me lick the burn 
ringing your throat like the words you will 
strike out again and again in every ink
catching river stones in your mouth 
under my tongue
stretch out, beckon me, consume my hope 

We believe

Use your long words

describe the smell of memory

antiseptic

there in your transparent igloo

born to incubate

smoke before it’s legal on your mother’s habit

bequeath me the tendency

to live without need

from pockets we pull

the nurture the seed

sprouting in defiance

when everything else died of frost bite

against the ire of a late Winter storm

gusting itself into white rage

through the glass you see

yourself being re-made

in the eyes of old women whose wrinkles

make a universal puzzle

and the swell of hills

cast over with violet

a heaven of sorts in setting light

glazing countertops

for foot prints of unseen beast

leading off into nearby copse

could we will ourselves

another go around?

stepping backward into

infancy, chewing the umbilical

surrounded by potential like

a wet firework strains to explode

would it be any different?

your hands, molding my shape

DNA

the type of pasta eaten

over Lake Como the day

of conception

holy was the love that bore the wish

lost in steepled weather vein

glistening against straining light

a mockery of control

just out of reach

there she is

eighty years from now and

just re-born

in unfurled leaves and first sprouting

green a forbidden thing

among the white ushers and

dark flitting ponderable

marveling we can be conscious

of ourselves and of nothing more

than a stream aching to unfreeze

creep closer to living

inch by inch

two warm bodies without a thing between them

aside the shame of knowing

we live both futile and richly

worming our way into the meat

and tender bruise of absolving

those things we believe we need

Clock-face

a-girl-a-dog-and-a-horse-1921Laughter spills out, an unexpected guest

been many seasons replacing themselves since

she danced to a good song

look! What shakes now that used to be firm

standing painting your public face on

you omitted to check

the clocks wound themselves forward

now you tear the grey from your hair and lament; how long it takes to recover yourself?

standing flat-footed before a mirror where is the succor for survival?

in the weight of your accumulation? Bales waiting tied snug and square

maybe the lake doesn’t ask for praise when it endures the ice

nor the escapees praise, their fortune

we wear the badges of our internal battles on the inside of our skin

nobody congratulated, the warrior who holds us from despair

media will not report those valiant souls making their way through treacle

and every once in a while it surprised you to witness

winter talenting to spring

water getting warmer

new generations crowd shoreline

unknowing in a blink

they too will wonder

how it had been so long?

since they danced

in the arms of someone who saw

the silver thread in their being

as if miracles were fashioned for the living

and stories of a shared song could rub true

instead of lifting your sagging arms toward heaven

halving wan light of a late winter moon

lighting the shift of clock-faces

tucking their knowledge in shadow