To Live

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Hieronymus Bosch

I will meet you

somewhere between the

theta waves

and this wounded refusal

to die.

 

But you have to be there,

truly be there

amidst the graves

and the killing laughter which

revels in your

every death.

 

The thefts,

and the burns

broadcast

a sudden madness,

your premeditated

deterioration.

 

Only when I washed up

on these brinks,

did I choke

on the tombs

of those killers.

 

The next storm

has already been planned.

 

I will be here

if you need me

with nothing left

to be taken.

 

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Growth

Linda Vachon. Tete De Caboche

Linda Vachon. Tete De Caboche

Whatever was left of me/ after the dream/ the night watch prowled/ wolves/ looting uninvited orgasms/ I am still/ one of the hunted

How could those/ so rank with sin/ with misery/ and hopelessness/ claim sainthood/ proffer a living, breathing/ judgement day/ guarding/ no/ this/ this was never about protection/ The disappearances/ crimes against humanity/ unspeakable/ new and improved/ methods of torture/ silenced poets and artists/ sickened the healers/ corrupted altruists and heroes/

The impossible became real/ we didn’t know where it was coming from/ sudden shooting pains/ dull aches/ we were being burned alive/ They called us schizophrenics/ they were stealing our country from us/ we had to find a way/ to defend ourselves/ we had to fight/ an invisible enemy/

These were acts of war/ unauthorized invasions/ turning us against ourselves/ against each other/ the final stop/ complete control/ enslavement/ they had such/ as sense of entitlement/ no boundaries/ ownership/ burning red/ they were stealing our country/ from us/ a burning red flat line/ our children would have to battle/ if we couldn’t overcome/ an enemy/ we could not yet locate/

It was never paranoia/ rather/ it was that we were/ fully aware/ of the capability of evil/

In the absence of choice/ lies enslavement/ violation/ both internal and external/ In the absence of choice/ there is a ravine/ of lost souls/ stolen selves/ and whatever is left/ on the other side/ of this makeshift reality/ is paraded through the streets/ what was once brilliance/ now a laughingstock/ by a torrid, mindless mob/ of witch hunters/ destroyers of dreams/ and potential/

All which was once held sacred/ now disposable/ to a frothing/ insatiable/ void/ of broken killers/

They are everywhere/ the Devil’s Herd/ the bringers of death/ holding/ what Aristotle named/ ‘The Immovable Movers’/ hostage in their own lives/ and make no mistake/ they will break you/ if it is the last thing/ they ever do/

For now/ all we have is our humanity/ that part of us/ that cannot ever be broken/ residing somewhere between/ freedom and struggle/ each/ our own compass/ metaphysical/ free to choose/ our own transcendence/ a destination

 

 

He Is the Reason I Don’t Trust Men

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(Art by Linda Vachon)

 

I speak on behalf of

oppression,

obedience,

silence.

Hey, motherfucker.

Yeah, I’m talking to you.

I know what you have done and what you continue to do.  I will expose you to anyone who will listen.

You are the one who beats the woman you claim to love.

You are the verbal/ emotional/ psychological/ spiritual abuser.

You are the sadist, the rapist, the kidnapper, the sex trafficker.

You are the waste of a human life who partakes in female genital mutilation.

You are the sex offender, the predator, the child molester.

You are violent against the minds, bodies and souls of women.

You are the reason I don’t trust men.

You have become so ingrained into the collective consciousness of women that, therein, lies an innate fear, a survival instinct that keeps us looking over our shoulders, questioning the kindness of strangers.

You are the invader, the manipulator who seeks to destroy our sense of self-worth by showcasing violent and over-sexualized images in the media.
You sanctify compliance and crucify defiance.  You teach our sons to desire this.

You seek to weaken us, corrupt us so that we will never feel beautiful or good enough, and we will pass this down as a family heirloom for our daughters to inherit.

You are the reason I don’t trust men.

You have pervaded the lives of women in every corner of the world for far too long now.  You have been let loose and shown no respect, no self-control.

You foolishly believe that violence against the
minds, bodies, souls of women implies that you somehow have conquered, and will forever dominate these territories.

You are the reason I don’t trust men.

You are the one who is convinced that the force to which you operate under is somehow more powerful than the one that drives me.  Herein lies your greatest weakness because you perceive that I, alone, am driven by this force.

You are the reason I don’t trust men.

You are the one who does not understand that these acts of war against women will always cause an uprising, and that the call will be answered from another woman, somewhere in the world.

You are the reason I don’t trust men.

And the words will follow you, echoes driving you into hiding because too many voices will sound the call:
You are the reason I don’t trust men.

(This was originally written in 2012, and is a catalyst for a future project I will be working on.  I hope to collaborate with other female poets and artists about such issues in a self-published book which all the proceeds will be donated to organizations dedicated to ending violence against women.)

On Torture

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(Fernando Velazquez; oil, 2012, painting, “Mago.”)

Excavators
burn Acacia to
collect the echoes
of Mephistopheles’
broken souls.

So high they were,
chained,
speaking of nothing but
freedom.

A rising power
unlike any
invisible fire
forgiven.
A snagged attempt to
self-actualize through
blunt thorn
euphemisms.

Why such panicked eyes?

Let he who is within
a stone’s throw from
lacerating cold,
forced entry,
floods to drown,
unending fatigue,
both mindless and mindful
dehumanization,
be the first to
transcribe the
primal scream of
true sin.

And why is it,
why must it be,
that when we
extract the information
we seek
by brutally and sadistically
deteriorating the
spirit and psyche
of another human being,
is it finally,
supposedly,
possible to reveal ourselves
victorious
and acknowlege,
as humanity,
just how far
we have come?

(This piece was inspired by the recent torture reports.  Some of the prompts implemented were from Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, The Sunday Whirl, and Poets United.)

Parallax

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(Photograph by Donata Wenders, The Prayer)

What concerned me most
was the fervor
of pirouettes.

“Aren’t the crocuses lovely
this time of year?”
There was a rift
in your tone.

All I remember is
being pulled away
from you,
from the shore
as we listened
to blackbirds.

A new strain,
another feigned bridge.
Still,
I am feeling less
vaulted lately.

Long ago,
I stopped underestimating
the power of environment
upon the
fragile human psyche.

A nocturnal bloom
more than you
could ever know.

Andromeda petals reflect
a light year’s longing.

In these
darkest of hours,
it is less about poetry
than it is
the poem.

(Parts of this were inspired by prompts from Poets United, Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, and The Sunday Whirl.)