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A Woman, god Forbid !

Corpulent: having a large, bulky body

“Are you Expecting?”

“Expecting … ?”

“Um … Expecting … ?”

“Hmm … expecting What?”

“Oh. You’re Not … ?”

“Oh! No. and I don’t Plan on Expecting.”

I don’t Feel Corpulent, some of “The Time”.

I do, Many Others of “The Time”.

But

I do know that, Objectively,

I don’t Look Corpulent

Any of “The Time”.

What generation feeds eating disorders? I think “they” (these Old White men) were born somewhere between 1950 and 1970.

Walking and Talking Corpulent Corpses shaming and blaming and accusing Other’s bodies.

“Expecting” isn’t a compliment.

“Expecting” is an Accusation.

The Voice in my Head knows your Motivation.

I am a Woman, god Forbid. That doesn’t mean my tiny little Gut,

Won from years of Battling food, makes me Pregnant.

Fuck off, Old White men.

by

Many mini Deaths

Limits. Respect. Boundaries.

… It felt like an AirBnB, where they hide everything but what the guests need, everything but what the guest might relate to, like a goddamn hotel room. (Bibles in the end tables, maybe) Cold, bland surfaces.

Self-empowerment. Letting it lie. Not being the yes-man. I think and feel how I do and you can take it or leave it.

__and all along it is never that simple.

… similar to anorexia, where you have incredible control

UNTIL YOU DON’T.

and then, you don’t. Substance abuse and self-misuse and seclussion.

If I learn how to want TO BE IN IT, which I absolutely DO want to do, I’ll love who is already here better– I’ll love myself better.

I haven’t gotten what I need yet so I don’t have motherhood to give. This world didn’t make me, shape me, help me, groom me to be a mommy. I got broke over and over and the absolute last thing I will do is pass the torch.

Because I KNOW no one “intended” to hurt me. THEY were hurt, THEY didn’t learn limits, THEY didn’t get the right training and

I live with that everyday. I live with what I TOOK from them, what I TOOK on. What I WITHSTOOD, what I SURVIVED.

What it took to get by.

To exist in a world where, really, all they did was take.

And I took it.

by

“It was a Monday …”

It was a Sunday
there was a football game he watched

with reverie.

I played Pretty Pimpin’ until my fingers felt like they were

going to bleed.

Alone together, he laughed

when I came downstairs and

just screamed

after I deeply gulped some air

then disappeared again

into solitude

until he came up to visit me

with a casual and affectionate attitude.

Alone together,

what a wonderful way to be,

where space and attention

are balanced and given away for free.

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Attending

“More than intending, the poet attends!” -Dean Young

How do you bend the mind to change it? Expand it, step inside of it, push out the repetitive, the ruminative, the dead-end future-pursuing want-to-be problem solving Effort-For-Nothing?

The Effort-For-Nothing

Not a Dominatrix

But a pigeon-holing

Good-For-Nothing

Two-Timing

know-it-all

piece of No-Peace-Giving

Bullshit.

I think you have to embrace It.

“Attends to the conspiracy of words as it reveals itself as a poem, to its murmurs of radiant content that may be encouraged to shout, to its muffled musics there to be discovered and conducted” -DY

There’s something violent in me. Something that wants love and hates ignorant impotency, the cat-calling cacophony surrounding innocence, purity, relief, Genuine-Being.

The Question:

When does It Break-Free?

The Break-Free.

The Violent Innocence,

Robbed of Naivety.

I still love the smell of wetness clinging to growing leaves on sad trees, seeing us abuse and violate and obliviate ourselves as if nothing was ever real or worth anything.

Innocence can be a mean,

Thick-Skinned Giant.

Innocence is wiser than the wide mouth of a mentally ill world devouring the Real, vomiting Treachery.

Innocence is something the world and I have tried to suffocate in me but it is there

and It Is.

It Is.

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Tales of Ordinary Madness excerpt

I got through the first 30 minutes, asked for a ten minute break, got down off the stage with my bottle and sat at a table with Belford and 4 or 5 students. A young girl came up with one of my books. God o mighty, baby, I thought, I’ll autograph anything you’ve got!

“Mr. Chinasky?”

“Sure,” I said with a wave of my genius hand. I asked her name. Then wrote something. Drew a picture of a naked guy chasing a naked woman. Dated it.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Chinasky!”

So this was how it worked? Just a bunch of bullshit.

I took my bottle out of some guy’s mouth. “Look mother, that’s the 2nd hit you’ve taken. I’ve got to sweat another thirty minutes up there. Don’t touch that bottle again.”

I sat in the middle of the table. Then I took a pull, sat it back down.

“Would you suggest writing as a career?” one of the young students asked me.

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked him.

“No, no, I’m serious. Would you advice writing as a career?”

“Writing chooses you, you don’t choose it.”

-Charles Bukowski-

by

They’ll Fall Down

The irony of backing up is I don’t know what’s behind me.

The irony of backing up…

A blind backing out of safety.

These comforting cold monoliths

are limiting my vision.

”You were three hundred sixty degrees—I depended on you for a lot of things”

I can’t believe you allowed yourself to know, that you found such strength, without me, to grow,

With my back against these self made walls, I’m bottomlessly grateful.

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Dead Growth

There was a place you went with her

that I didn’t understand-

a place where the line was drawn

clearly in the sand.

 

We went from a place where I was sure you would die under my “protection”

We went from a place where I felt unseen, beaten, misplaced, taken for granted—manipulated, hated, used, just stuck

 

The

Dead Growth—

 

that feeling that someone will make it better when you’re stuck—

 

that feeling that someone New doesn’t get to give a fuck about the hours you pull, the things you see, the loneliness at night when there’s no one to be.

 

who do you become

 

Among the dead growth?

 

Who dies,

Among the Dead Growth?.