Something Awkward

all the matter is nothing

2012-01-12T12:18:00.000-08:00

I have absorbed your anger.

I have distorted space and time into a memory.

it is not our past or our future, a product of thought or accumulation

that could have set us free.

it is not tomorrow we should be living for.

it is not could, should, would,

but all that is the light within you and I,

now crushed into the vastest nothing

that cannot be seen nor heard,

yet holds the weight of our hopes and dreams.

there is everything in nothing

in this black hole that has slowly become my heart.

do you see?

your anger was too heavy for my fragile body to contain.

every beginning

2012-01-12T12:12:00.000-08:00

he says he loves you,

but does not love you when you grieve

or when you have the courage to ask,

never when you need him to just listen,

or open the box so truth can thrive.

he sought happiness with new eyes only for

a second;

love cannot be now, yet not last.

either one loves or does not.

da hood within is da hood without

2012-01-12T12:10:00.000-08:00

watch the walls go up the way they will when hearts break:
doors slam, emotions, turned up, drown out truth,
words spoken divide,
lies are accepted without question.
a clique where everyone is either us or them and never "we"
is the suffering of the world, inflicted by all
who judge without love--the unwelcoming, closed-minded,
violent beings, who never walk as they claim.
as long as they have each other's company,
a kind of misery, a cycle of using people and substances,
a way to wallow in self-pity and victimhood,
steadfast that this is what they choose--to die--
they keep each other from love.

Now that it's too late

2011-12-29T19:55:00.000-08:00

Yards of silk brought from Thailand
many years ago,
dusty in places,
a burgundy I'd declared pink, in disgust,
you'd chosen to match my skin tone.
I unfold it now,
not pink--
a ray of light on wet cranberries
loves my fingertips
as I wipe dust aside
and see the truth:
I cannot tell you it's not pink,
the petals of a rose not yet invented,
the lifeblood of who you were
many years ago when I saw pink
that I'd not asked for, instead of the light
in your eyes fading in that last photograph
taken at the airport of the two of us,
near the end, the month before
you slipped away.
I cannot tell you it's not pink,
that you were always good
at choosing the right colors
for my skin, or that you
are the fire that extinguishes the cold,
even now that you are nowhere.
Or that nothing sentimental means anything
when it comes to the wrong color.
The wrong color--
just a matter of perspective,
now that it's too late.

The Relationship

2011-12-22T13:34:00.000-08:00

The push and pull of thoughts
The displeased exclamations
What will you do when you find it's in you?
Then you will see it's your responsibility
No one makes you do anything
No one tells you what to do
You do what you decide to do
Then you are aware of yourself
Aware that there is no one to blame
Not even yourself

Each Time I Think Of You

2011-12-20T19:51:00.000-08:00

The sounds of learning you,
I can't help it--your childlike laughter tickles my indifference,
that raw delirium, spring-fed,
I'd like to bathe in it.
Have I imagined this,
or am I pampering desire?
I'm watching passion, observing
the urges that stand every hair on my head,
every shiver in my ears,
as I watch these thoughts go by,
reminding myself they are thoughts
that soon disappear.
Where do thoughts come from?
Is there something secret,
a connection that rides the air,
not from me, but of us?
Or am I still too weak to face
that I'm alone within?
I want to awaken this,
let thought become fact
in my insignificant mind.
It's difficult to grasp
that the inside is the outside,
but it's not.
To understand this is part of freedom--
not the kind we think we have,
but the freedom we're all afraid of.
If you knew, would it matter?
What does it mean other than
the fine hairs on my body defy gravity
each time I think of you?

Memories conjured from a photograph by Shanti Perez

2011-11-08T12:25:00.000-08:00

Seattle, the city where I loved you, where power lines seem to dance beside the highway as I drive away, the sun setting golden like a field of dandelions at my back, but I know you're not there. Still, I wonder, if your voice is suspended in electrical currents, crackling still, though it's been ten years, in someone's ear as bad reception, a flicker on a television screen, static on a radio. I wonder if fibers from your clothes drift on the wind or salt from your skin dries and is revived when the rains come. Each time I leave Seattle, it's as if I'm leaving you, because, in Seattle, you are everywhere and no where else.

Again

2011-10-23T15:23:00.000-07:00

if just once I could enjoy my evening
I would think differently, I would relax
I wouldn't feel the hopelessness that holds heavy my heart
I wouldn't look forward to another tantrum
as if it were the only choice I had
in this great big universe I am miniscule
I think I'll have a pizza and watch Twin Peaks

Waiting for Change: An Essay by Shanti Perez

2011-10-19T12:01:00.000-07:00

It all started when I was a child, before I could read and write, when I would draw story boards on discarded military computer paper my step-grandpa brought just for me to draw on, and my grandma would carefully write in her turn-of-the-century cursive the story I would tell corresponding to the drawings. What does this have to do with waiting for change, you might ask. Well...

By the time I was a pre-teen I was writing stories and drawing pictures of the things I found profoundly interesting. These interests of mine were, and always are, intense, to say the least. I would create characters by drawing them with colored pencils, cutting them out and affixing them to a bulletin board on my bedroom wall. These characters all had names and were ethnically diverse, their attributes written on the back of each. I also had tons of extra credit points in art, because I was an obsessive graphite artist. During those few years of late grade school and early junior high, I was chosen to represent my class at a young writers' conference year after year. When life got in the way, and I slipped into a minority of children who face daily challenges that are far-removed from the norm, I wrote poetry, albeit rhyming, sentimental poetry--beginner's poetry. But it was something.

When my mother, a journalist at the time, started a magazine I published my first article. It was about pet rats. She also asked me to create sketch boards of watermelon, telling me I was a good artist. I'll never forget that compliment, coming from her. I remember her saying, "You're a much better artist than I am." This is something I never believed, but the words meant everything and are part of what I turn to when I feel discouraged, even today.

By the time I reached age eighteen, I had undergone major life changes, changes many people do not undergo until they are in their thirties or forties. These changes, however, were external forces, mostly things that "happened" to me or that I had to endure, and were primarily situations of circumstance. Telling stories to older adults about my teenage life was, at times, exhilarating because the adults would always comment something like, "I can't believe you're alive!" or "You are an old soul already!" or "Wow, I can't imagine how you survived it!" and each time I heard these comments I took them to heart and took them as compliments, testaments to my character, or something inside of me, unique to me, that was a strength I could count on. I took it to mean that some of the choices I had made, given the circumstances I had been in, had protected me, kept me safe and even, in some cases, made me more stable than kids who had lived in "perfect" families where they were given everything they needed and wanted, yet who complained anyway.

My life has been a journey and a constant "finding of the way". With little to guide me, I'd set out on a path that I can now view as mere wandering, if it were not for the fact that everything I learned is important to me. For years I pursued business degrees and careers in corporate climes. Yet, here I am, at home, writing poetry, stories, blogging and beginning my first novel, finally. It has taken decades to prepare for the steps I started taking three days ago, when I began character outlines and research. I'm not the twenty-two year old novelist who steps into the limelight like so many set out so young to do. Although I was encouraged to do that, told I could go to Interlachen with my talents, I had a lot of waiting to do before it was my time.

There are many who are quick to say that waiting for change is unhealthy, that one has to go out and make change happen. I cannot tell you how many false starts I've had over the years when it comes to writing, or life goals for that matter. I'm not the CEO I once thought I might become. I haven't traveled to all those far-off, yet close-by places anyone who knew me as a child would have seen in my future. I have yet to do that, though it is often assumed I'm well traveled.

This waiting for change, I think, in some circumstances, is healthy. Yes, I have pressed forward, started writing, many times, what I thought would be a novel, but quickly abandoned it because it didn't feel right. It felt forced. During the meantime I continued to do what I've done since childhood: perseverated over my interests, researching and gathering data about them; blogging as a form of writing; dabbling in poetry; reading; thinking about what it was I was going to do, but only in a general way, such as "I'm going to write a novel some day."

Now it's time. Just like the story writer must know why now for the characters to become three dimensional and for a story to have subtext, I had to wait for the time in my life that is that now. Everything I've done in the past makes sense to me now. I can see how it's culminated into the concept I hold in my mind, a concept that's quickly materialized and inspired me in a way I have not found inspiration elsewhere or during any other time for any other idea, no matter how much others encouraged me that that idea was the one.

Yes, I've had to wait for quite a while, decades. Now I'm ready. I have a solid idea, though, at this stage, it's a bit of a secret. I think it will be important. It is important to me. This makes all the difference. For this I had to wait.

He Tells Me I Hate His Friends

2011-09-04T18:44:00.000-07:00

(Based on a ridiculous conversation overheard at a bar.)

He tells me I hate his friends
I'm so wicked and full of spite
As to never make amends

I wish he'd stop telling me what I think
Or how I feel and listen
But he doesn't see the link

Between the times I tried but could not
Bridge the gap through communication,
All those times my words fell through a slot

Lost into nothingness before I even got
A chance to answer the how have you beens?
Much less form a coherent thought

Just forget it, forget it all, I'm done
With feeling the way I felt then
It's not hate, I say, It's just I don't have no goddam fun!
He tells me I hate his friends

I'm Full Up To My Neck In Grief (Triolet Poem)

2011-08-16T21:12:00.000-07:00

Stop the silver lining bullshit
I'm full up to my neck in grief
Each time I see his old hand print
Stop the silver lining bullshit
Don't tell me to get over it
His life is but a handprint, brief
Stop the silver lining bullshit
I'm full up to my neck in grief

Copyright © 2011 Shanti Perez

Wings Ghazal

2011-08-07T12:26:00.000-07:00

Greener Pastures

2011-07-06T20:11:00.000-07:00

The burrows dug by my hoofprints you've crawled into.

I've said your eyes resemble monarch butterflies,

faded yellow like satin wings.

You've recoiled without warning,

drawn back your diamond-shaped head.

I have no regrets; I understand it:

you're not a butterfly.

That mouth you've opened

spits poison into the eyes of all who look at you.

You strike, driving home your wretched point,

your forked tongue hisses blame, always the same

time-worn excuses and madness about how

you slithered away, about how the mongoose

tried to trick you, about how snakes are not

raised by caring mothers.

This ox does not cling to swinging branches,

nor burrow into the cold ground, but stands

with one hind foot rested on its tip as you strike

your fangs into its sturdy hoof.

I must not have seen you slithering down there

as I was busy napping.

Now I'm wide awake, with shadows of your bite

visible to the wise world I've entered

where the temperature has fallen

below what you can tolerate.

As you creep beneath the soil in search of warmth,

prepare for the worst winter of your life.

I can see my own breath in early July

and my coat has filled out as if it's fall.

With you frozen by a slow metabolism, I move on

to greener pastures.

See photos and listen to the poem read by the photographer/author:

Autism: Co-Morbid Conditions, including Connective Tissue Disorders (Personal Essay from the Spectrum)

2011-06-27T13:47:00.000-07:00

Autism, as you probably know, is a spectrum and people who have autism may or may not speak or be able to take care of basic needs such as grooming, eating, managing finances, etc. If you or someone you know is diagnosed with autism (and I refer to the entire spectrum as autism as does the DSM-V) then you know there are co-morbid conditions that are, related or not, usually present in an individual who has autism.
   The posts at Something Awkward that have been read the most are the posts about my personal experiences being a person with autism, particularly the post about systems thinking and my take on Autism vs. Asperger's as a label, but I also have a post about a congenital condition called hyperfacial microsomia that has received a lot of attention and some admirable comments from others who have this medical condition which causes one side of the face to grow disproportionately, or one side of the face to not develop along with the other side, for which I've been treated with positive results in my late twenties.
   Since posting the essay about my experience with hyperfacial microsomia, I began having right flank pain (just below my right rib cage, practically beneath it), a burning sensation, particularly following a lot of movement. Several years ago I was told that I had a vascular deformity in the right renal artery and that it was nothing, just a branching of veins on the artery. This proved to be false--the condition was something to worry about and it was causing this right flank pain that appeared suddenly, the diagnosis of which was made on a trip to the ER for severe dehydration due to a spell of vomiting. During this visit last November I was told that it was a fortunate thing I had this vomiting illness, because I had a large aneurysm on the right renal artery. After much investigation and a lack of trust in the medical care I was getting in my current city, I contacted the chief of vascular surgery at UWMC and got the help I needed, which ended in a complete right side nephrectomy. (There was some hope that the renal artery could be reconstructed, but upon surgery it was discovered that up to nine aneurysms, the two largest the size of a grenade and a golf ball, were so twisted and interwoven into my kidney, that it could not be salvaged.) The surgery and my experience is not the point of this post, however, as I'd like to discuss my thoughts on co-morbid conditions.
   Can I tell you how many doctors, and other people in general, comment "You don't LOOK like you have autism!" when I explain my diagnosis? Well, they are wrong to do this, because, from my perspective it shows their ignorance, which is something they'd best keep to themselves if they are doctors especially. (They probably should take a class or do some research, because this comment of "You don't LOOK like you have autism!" is something those of us who have autism know as the stereotypical response of the ignorant and it does get old.) After all, how are those of us who have autism supposed to look?
   A lot of emphasis in our culture, in human society in general, is placed on looks. I've seen photos of people who have had hyperfacial microsomia, for example, and a pronounced, square jawline, which makes their condition more pronounced. Perhaps it can be said that the stronger features amplify the asymmetry of their facial features. I was lucky, some might think, to have a weaker jaw line and a pointy chin, which made the asymmetry more subtle. My features alone, from my perspective, though they are genetically determined, escaped a blatant telling of my conditions in general. Am I lucky? I don't believe in luck, but I will tell you that this has probably benefited me within the constructs of society, yes. However, it has also hindered me in some aspects, because I haven't gotten the care I've needed. Is this good or bad? I think sometimes it can depend. Sometimes it's been good, other times I've needed a lot of assistance I haven't gotten, particularly when growing up. I wasn't just a quiet child, I was a child who needed expert care that I did not get. I needed someone with an aptitude for connecting all of the factors of my being (medically) in order to make sense of who I was in order that I could receive real medical and psychological attention. But who is that quick when they only see you for a second? Many people, children, too, have to be observed in a variety of situations in order for anyone to know that they need assistance or medical procedures to make their lives easier.
   Here I am! I made it through the surgery to remove my kidney, but was this a kidney problem or something else, and how is this related, if at all, to the autism I am diagnosed with? Physicians often follow rigid guidelines when it comes to diagnosing a patient and if the symptoms are not blatantly obvious a person may go without ever knowing what is causing the pain or knowing how to make life smoother. I was "lucky" that I had right flank pain and that I vomited and became dehydrated enough to go to the ER and have a diagnosing CAT scan which, of course, saved my life. After all, how much longer could I have gone bouncing around in the pit at Gogol Bordello concerts with grenade-sized aneurysms that were symptomatic, nonetheless? Go figure! (Yes, I like Gogol Bordello--and only Gogol Bordello--enough to endure the noise just like someone's child with autism can scream but cannot tolerate screaming.)
   Another person who is reputed to have had autism, Albert Einstein, also had an aneurysm, except his aneurysm killed him at age 76 when it ruptured. He never knew he had it. Perhaps my aneurysms wouldn't have ruptured for a long time. Perhaps I, like Einstein, will die from a ruptured aneurysm. But my aneurysms are gone, aren't they? Well, yes and no.
   Like Einstein, I have a connective tissue disorder and a very large aorta (the main artery that exists in our bodies), which means aneurysms can develop at any time in my aorta. These aneurysms will likely cause discomfort for which I will seek medical attention. In the meantime, however, I will receive ultrasounds every year or so for the rest of my life. Let it be noted, too, that my grandma died at age 81 after suffering a brain aneurysm and she, also, likely had autism.
   Some connective tissue disorders that exist are Marfan Syndrome, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, etc. I think the doctors said I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome Type IV. I have also read in several articles that one of the symptoms (common) of people who have Asperger's is 'lax joints'. Perhaps there is a connection between some people's connective tissue disorders and autism. This would explain the joint tenderness I've experienced throughout my lifetime and the painful-to-the-touch areas of my body that hurt when people poke me lightly, a reason I prefer, like Temple Grandin and her famous squeeze machine, deep pressure massage including the squeezing (as hard as a grown man can) the muscle between my shoulder and neck.
   I am in my late thirties now and it's taken a long while for all of this to be diagnosed. Yes, I was a weird kid, but who in my immediate family wasn't, so it was easy to slip through the cracks. Barking like a dog wasn't considered weird. The only physically obvious issue I had was the crooked face, which actually extends throughout my entire skeleton as one foot is significantly larger than the other, enough to cause pain in same-size shoes. And then the autism discovery, which explained so much and made life much easier. Now the connective tissue disorder, all very real diagnoses. Of these diagnoses, the connective tissue disorder and autism are life-threatening and it is beneficial to have treatment.
   What? Have I just said autism is life-threatening? Yes! Drowning is the number one cause of accidental death for people who have autism. I know, now, not to swim to the middle of the lake even if I have a snorkel on, because the snorkel remaining free from water is the only thing that keeps me from panicking and drowning, as I've found out recently. I've never been able to hold my breath. The reason for this is unknown, but I read that people who have connective tissue disorders can have weak lungs. It seems I have always known this. Also, I am gullible and, therefore, it helps to be able to tell authorities that I have autism, particularly if, like a dummy, I have further impaired judgment from too much sauce (alcohol consumption), which happens occasionally. It is important to know that people who have autism are often affected more quickly and severely by alcohol than people who do not have autism, because alcohol acts on the executive functioning of an individual, something that people who have autism already experience as a deficient area.

I am also aware, due to diagnosis, that I have what is called SID (sensory integration dysfunction) which is a neurological condition that causes sensory stimuli to be either enhanced or decreased, sometimes to the effect that I don't know what I'm feeling; therefore, I may overdress on a hot day, underdress on a cold day, not be able to tolerate certain sounds, or be able to process visual stimuli, such as movement in a crowded room. I have read that sensitivity to sounds (and double jointedness and spinal curvature - I have both) is also caused by connective tissue disorders. This condition varies: one day I may be able to listen to loud music, the next day I might not be able to tolerate the sound of the refrigerator humming. This is one of the very real factors that often frustrates people who do not have autism or related disorders: how can the person with autism be so inconsistent? It's as if they expect us to stop or change our behavior, which doesn't work. Those of us who have autism know all too well that we cannot be without our symptoms, many of which cause various agonies, and cannot turn them off for the benefit of others.
   The insensitivity of people who live without autism and related disorders often interferes with our ability to cope with the inescapable barrage of symptoms we already endure. I've been in situations where a boss/coworker/whoever has nagged as to why I cannot stop a certain behavior and why I am not expected to stop or change something when a person who does not have autism is expected to stop or change their behavior. Duh! I guess I wouldn't have a diagnosis if I could stop or change these symptoms now would I? And I am not WEAK. Autism does not mean I am weak. If a person who does not have autism does not understand this, and belittles me for not being able to change, then this person is the one who needs help. Sensory integration dysfunction means that my physiological system does not respond like that of a person who does not have autism. I cannot process sensory stimuli in the same way, blocking out or lessening sights, sounds, physical touch, tastes, etc. around me. I am bombarded with stimuli that directly affects my neurological system, because the stimuli is real and my neurological response is real, too. This causes severe discomfort at a level I cannot adequately explain, hence the shutdowns in public places, around new people, or during days when I am ultra sensitive. In fact, it is often the sensory disorder that causes the most discomfort and I don't know whether it is autism that is more of a challenge, based on my ways of thinking that differ from those of people who do not have autism, or the sensory overload.
   Connective tissue, skeletal deformities, neurological impairment (or enhancement), brain differences resulting in thinking differences (some bad, some extraordinarily positive) are all realities I live with every second I am on this earth as a human being, which I prefer to think of as my one and only shot. I don't see any harm in exploring a connection between autism and connective tissue disorders. Perhaps it will save someone else's life. At times, though, I think autism has many causes and we who have autism are different combinations of various physical differences that cause our autism-like behaviors and these affect us to varying degrees based on our opportunities and circumstances.
   Press on!

*No, my kidney functions were not affected by alcohol consumption
*No, the aneurysms have nothing to do with consuming alcohol
*Yes, I am affected more strongly by alcohol than the average person, but no I am not an alcoholic and my alcohol consumption is considered less than moderate, so it is occasional, which means a couple of times per month, if even that
*Yes, I consume alcohol as a coping mechanism prior to some social engagements, though this may not be the best way to handle such events
*Each individual who is treated for a medical condition should consult their physicians when consuming alcohol, but even prior to surgery for the aneurysms I was told to live my life and enjoy myself
*Life is good!

Lady-Slipper

2011-06-19T18:03:00.000-07:00

lady-slipper pushes through last fall's cast off pine needles.

you pick her up and hold her against the new green grass,

your hand a lighter shade of mauve as twilight's drifting

beneath the rock-formed cliff, and I think you want to show

me what you have there, tucked into a hillside.

see, I am proud of you, the digging in of your heels--

the fresh straw you put down for a bed--into the life

you seemed to reluctantly live a few months ago.

I always knew you'd pull through, though I am amazed

that I did.

too bright streetlights

2011-06-07T21:13:00.000-07:00

the rain, its rungs of sorrow-filled lullabies on the sidewalk in the glare of headlights too bright streetlights along the dead avenue down the dripping walls of dark alleys a veil of slick a slick sentence wound through metaphors that beat my plumbing heart valves tired of pumping the nothing along the dead avenue, scaffolding leans unfinished billboards peel wet and tattered like the turned pages of an abandoned novel half written ink-smeared rainwater-stained yesterdays future unknowns the waterline rising a bi-line of what is to come it always is washed down drain holes caught in gutters a swirling that has no end yet here I am standing at the floodgates

Ode to Mista Clyde: A Beloved Duck Who Died In His Prime

2011-06-03T19:08:00.000-07:00

I picked your body up in my hands after everyone
had said goodbye, touched your nose that had begun to thaw,
stroked your back, the softness of it still alive,
told you your pain is over.

Here I am. Thinking.
Strange things.
How is it you were here yesterday,
but now you're gone?

What is it I could have done
to save you so you'd be here right now?
Why isn't the sun on your back?
Instead you are in the freezer.

Icicles cling to your face and your eyes,
your eyes are sunken slits
where in photographs I can still see into them
forever--deep brown--as you look into the camera.

Everyone has said goodbye,
passed you in their own way,
some stopping to utter sounds,
others maintaining distance.

And now you are gone.
There is a stillness that was not here before.
A quiet, except for the ticking of a clock,
that I didn't notice when you were alive.

No shuffling of your warm body in the other room.
No more of the happy sounds you made.
No more glint of iridescent green against a backdrop
of blue summer sky. For you

summer barely began. For you
it is over too soon. And, in a way,
you remind me of James Dean.
Though you didn't run off the road.

You're dead. I'm waiting to save money
and have you cremated like the others:
Greta, Lou, Dali, even my grandma.
All who are no more, silent, a tear in time

like a tear in a silk scarf that blows in the wind,
tattered and beaten, on the side of a Nepalese mountain--
or somewhere else where I wish you could be,
but you're not, because you no longer exist.

Can(not) Ce(nsor) R(age)

2011-05-20T20:57:00.000-07:00

Can't you see
All the pain you cause?
Not the kind of pain that
Can be eased with time, nor
Ever released from the heart--it
Renders us, the living, helpless,

Causes us to tear at our brains
And hope and hope for
Nothing at the very end. We
Can see the chokehold,
Every breath squeezed,
Right out of their lungs.

Can't the suffering stop?
Ask us how we grieve, it's
Neverending neverending neverending...
Candles burn in windows,
Endless nights are spent reliving could haves.
Rage is now the place in us where their tumors grew.

20 Hours - A Poem

2011-05-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

you are given a white bottle of surgical scrub
told to lather up, from the neck down,
--don't get it in your hair or on your face--
use half of it tonight, the remaining half in the morning
because you will be sliced open from sternum to pubic bone,
an unusual incision for a rare condition
to lessen the chance that you'll bleed out, they say
when you wake up, you know it will be over
then you won't have to worry about anything
rupturing inside you like you have all these months
a surgery's a surgery and you've had several
why would it be any different?
even though you remember, during one surgery,
feeling nervous as you inhaled the gas meant to relax you,
you thought you might never wake up,
the last thing you heard was the nurses,
"Pulse rate is increasing!"
yet this time was different:
you do not remember saying goodbyes
there is nothing to recall of lying down
after the epidural was placed in your spine
and you were comforted by the thought
you'd awaken to a familiar grogginess
but you didn't; you awoke to commotion,
voices and faces like those on a sailboat tossed,
broken sail aside, everyone trying to right it
you know when the only breath you are able to take
feels inadequate to keep you alive
that you are in trouble, paralyzed, dependent
on these people to keep your heart beating,
your lungs breathing
so you lie there and struggle a kind of silent struggle
now and then, between shallow breaths
you say, "I cannot fall asleep;
I know I'll stop breathing."
it's a conviction because each time you begin to drift
into much needed sleep you feel your breath slowing
even more than the barely-able-to-keep-you-alive inhalations
and you realize, calmly,
that this may be the end, this is how you'll go
nothing sentimental about it, we all die
you stay brave, what can you do?
as the voices continue, some sort of professional panic
about your low blood pressure and what to do, what to do,
what to do to stabilize you, what adjustments are needed?
the voices grow calmer, your blood pressure rises,
after hour upon hour of near-death,
but now you feel the hottest burn across your lower abdomen,
a burning fire that creeps up your stomach,
along that 12-inch incision, becoming unbearable,
every inadequate breath to deal with it, no chance of taking a real breath
or crying out with layers of membranes, muscles, and skin
that are sewn and stapled, layer upon layer, a few hours
before now a fresh cut like most of an autopsy wound
that now you're afraid will rip if you vocalize
the growing pain now more than pain,
this hell you cannot escape, you wish would end
"Please take the epidural out! It's not working!"
you say over and over and over again
20 hours later you find relief
now you know what disemboweling is like
now you know a 12-inch incision
your guts stuffed back inside of you
merely hours before and all of it
without anesthetic
something went wrong
this was not like the other surgeries,
and
forget childbirth, corneal infections,
having your upper and lower jaws
sawed off and put back on,
concussions, falling out of moving trucks
or off of bucking horses,
forget the pain from any of that: it's nothing!
can you call 911 from a hospital
to have another hospital save you?
this was the only thought you remember having
throughout those 20 hours of painful hell
the rest of the time you were every animal
who's ever felt such pain:
you have survived the grinding, clacking
teeth that embed themselves in every tortured creature
that suffers right before it dies,
and you survive, still--

Napowrimo 2011, Day 30: Otok Krk

2011-04-30T22:04:00.000-07:00

the copper ewer gleams

as coffee boils, its fine grounds forming

Ex-Yu mud that will sit at the bottom

of my sky blue mug

as I read the newspaper

pausing only to nod hello to Anton or Vesna

when they pass, Anton smoking a pipe,

Vesna offering a warm loaf of bread,

as bells ring at the Catholic church

with its centuries-old stone walls

surrounded by cobblestone that presents

the finest echo of church bells

to signal the morning on Otok Krk.

Napowrimo 2011, Day 29: Love is Not Young

2011-04-30T18:49:00.000-07:00

heartbreak is a time-worn lament
*scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim
words that mean something without meaning
ripped from a heart the mind believes to be broken
put on the page to quench youthful passions

love's not as easy as passionate word play
yet it's written about enough and at length
borrowed from in fantasy and perceived attainable:
the perfect love, the lover's look, embrace, kiss--
this love's light and speaks flowery verse

Love is the scar that runs the length of his body
that oozes necrotic fumes as she cleans it
Love is the arm that she's missing
so he reaches to turn off the light
Love is not yearning or obsessing

Love has no time for your selfish daydreams
it's about doing something for nothing,
Love is not a flutter of heart or a shortness of breath,
it's not the curve of her breast or his solid embrace
Love is the dark side of a young dreamer's light

dawn is a thin lining meant to start impulse flow
the scattering of seeds demanded of our biology
dark is the way you know that love has taken hold
when he helps him out of the tub, turns his body every hour
when she tastes the soup, ensuring its not hot before feeding,

Love is the thing that they're doing

*"Learned or not, we shall write poems without distinction" (Fielding's Tom Jones)

Napowrimo 2011, Day 28: I will always wonder

2011-04-30T18:14:00.000-07:00

When Grandma lay dying in Seattle,
my granddad, instead of remaining beside her,
went home to sit in his room.
He said, "We made a promise years ago...
...that we wouldn't see each other die."
I don't remember either of my grandparents
getting sick--never saw them throw up,
noticed them catch a cold,
they never broke bones, only coughed
from smoking roll-yer-owns.
When Grandma took her last breath,
I'd stepped out into the waiting room.
When Granddad lay dying two years later,
in a hospital bed in Montana,
near where my grandparents had first met,
he was alone; I had given him the flu
during a recent visit, after staying away
whenever I thought I'd be sick.
I've held the hands of the dying,
and each time I have, they've slipped away
only when I've stepped out.
But I will always wonder
if Granddad thought I'd walk in.

napowrimo 2011, Day 27: Untwisting Laundry or Thoughts On Writing This Story

2011-04-30T17:44:00.000-07:00

the details left in your wake:
a drainage tube, photographs, a cotton shirt
--and a few other things--
I've kept wrapped up in paper
tucked away in a drawer
somewhere in my mind
these are sentences of life,
combined, they tell stories
I am afraid to tell-------yet,
some day, perhaps, I will
pull them out like untwisting laundry
arms, legs, and cloth belts knotted,
a mess to untangle, one word at a time.
I could begin with a photo
or, maybe, your cotton shirt,
leave out the drainage tube,
and the bed sores you had near the end,
craft a tale fit for most movies,
back before the doctor shook your hand,
the photographs, the cotton shirt,
something more real than this epilogue
written before telling the story, but after you're gone.

napowrimo 2011, Day 26: Autopsy Scar

2011-04-30T17:28:00.000-07:00

the autopsy is done
no need for a "Y"
when a straight "l"ine
will do
and so many bodies
in magazines, on television,
fighting for perfection,
that smooth, sleek, flawlessness
the outer appearance
that glowing metabolism
airbrushed and always tightened
invisible stitches
beneath the bikini line
the mother who had babies
is told never to wear

Napowrimo 2011, Day 25: Being Too Sentimental

2011-04-30T17:20:00.000-07:00

No matter how hard I try
I cannot let down my guard
these words have to stay
within a realm of safeness
There's a way to say it better
without being too sentimental
without talking about things I hate
or diving too deep into feelings
Show me a tear
I'll show you a drop
driving down from a gray sky
that falls on my cheek
causing you to turn and think
I must be feeling it all finally