Spirit

In the beginning
there was the word
and the word was good,
and the word was one,
and the word was whole,
and the word was sound,
and the word was spirit.
In the beginning
the word moved
for the first time
and the word made good,
and the word made one,
and the word made whole,
and the word made sound,
and the word made spirit.

After the beginning,
the word would be
alone no longer
but made plentiful,
and made multiple,
and made divisible,
and made audible,
and made material.
After the beginning,
the word stretched out
and unfolded itself
and thus elongated,
and thus sustained,
and thus enumerated,
and thus lengthened,
and thus continued.

       *******

Before there were spirits,
sprites, fairies, pixies, fae,
ghosts, souls, specters, spooks,
there was spirit;
before there were minds,
reasons, causes, rationales, logics,
perspectives, opinions, points of view,
there was mind.
These are the words of our wisest:
that before there can be many,
there must be the one;
and before there can be anything,
there must be some,
for you cannot get something from nothing
(and there ain't no such thing as a free lunch).
The quandary is how to determine
what came before the beginning
and what will come after the end.
For if time is neither infinite
nor a circle, nor a thought,
then the end will be beginning
and from the spirit wrought.

As above, so below;
as before, after so.
If the beginning banged out in expansion,
the end will shrink back in a crunch.
If the word popped into being,
it will pop back out again.
What unfolded will rescind,
what elongated will retract,
what sustained will disperse,
what enumerated will dispatch,
what lengthened will shorten,
what continued will lack.
The plentiful will coalesce,
the multiple will unite,
the divisible will mesh,
the audible will sigh,
the material will come spirit,
the word will absorb all light.
But fear not, friends,
at the end of the long night:
all thresholds,
like coins,
have two faces.
If to the spirit we must return,
be sure that some day again the stars will burn.
The moon which wanes
becomes full and reborn;
though it sets in the evening
the sun also rises in the morn.
Though death will consume us
like fruit we contain the seeds
of our lives once again;
so take heart all -
we can be forever friends,
forever loves,
forever alive,
forever and ever once more
afresh, anew,
over and over,
by and by,
in permanent
spiritual
reiteration.

Earth

My fate lies in the earth
as does the fate of most
who do not burn their dead
or bury them at sea
or in the sky.
Only those gardeners who know
the languages of plants
and bees
and mushrooms
can predict when
planting something
in the earth
will cause it to
spring forth again,
and which will swell
and rot
and deliquesce.
Let me be a stone,
that I may support
the foundations of new building
enterprises and projects;
let me be a spore,
that I may mushroom forth
overnight,
in the rain,
until new fairy rings
mark the openings
to new worlds;
let me be an acorn,
a kernel of gold wealth
which can become bread
or an oak
to supply thousands more
acorns and more,
tannins and wood and shade;
let me be a boon,
let me be a blessing,
let me be grace,
let me be gentle glory,
let me serve the goddess
and her people.
Let me be earthseed,
that I may extend my arms
towards the stars,
embrace the shoulders of the mountains
on worlds unseen,
kiss the face of the moon,
caress the rocky bosom of Mars,
sweetly skim along the starry belly of the Milky Way,
and push forward
into the very depths of the cosmos.

Water

Water is a medicine,
the first one we ever encounter:
floating on the briny sea
of mother's womb,
refreshed by the rich flow
of blood and all it carries,
food and air
and mostly water.
When you are ill
the doctors and nurses say
get plenty of rest
and you should try
to push fluids
down your throat
into your body
as much as you can stand, because
water is a medicine.
Water should be a medicine,
should cleanse and heal and renew,
the way tears should release
frustration and anger and sorrow and guilt and fear
rather than increasing our
emotional turmoil,
rather than increasing our
shame and lassitude.
Water should be a medicine,
except we poison it
with 'flavor' that causes cancer
and 'sweet' that causes senility,
or with more conventional poisons
like lead and arsenic
and the tailings of mines and factories,
with mysterious rumors
and bald-faced lies,
until the only medicine,
the only solution
the cup holds
is permanence.

Fire

Once burnt,
they say,
twice shy;
but how many times
can a body burn
before there is no more shyness
to increase?
When I was young
the fires of desire
somehow seemed cooler
than the embers which now
are dying
in my heart;
flesh healed faster
and left fewer scars,
and the burns
were never so deep.
The need for others
is constantly sizzling away
within my mind,
releasing the odor
of desparation
so strong
that it drives those others
I need
away.
This forethought
places all other concern
on a back burner
including even minimal self-care.
My injuries grow:
scorches and blisters
and burns
fester from inattention
or inappropriate attention
(I scratch)
(I pick)
(I pull)
sending inflammation
radiating from irritated wounds.
There is no time
to pause or to heal
when you are still
fighting a fire.

Air

"You've got to be able to breathe - "
grandmother said,
before she could no longer,
the cancer having finally taken hold
of her breathing apparatus,
having filled her lungs with fluid
no matter how many times
the surgeons drained her out.
The day she smoked her last cigarette
was the day I smoked my first;
she,
before entering the emergency room
because she had a heart attack,
and I,
after graduating from high school
because I had never smoked anything.
Theoretically,
some smokes have different effects than others:
one clogs, the other clears,
one cools, another sears,
one cloys, another tears,
but strictly,
smoking is dangerous to your health
and the health of those around you.
These days,
some mornings when I wake,
I cannot breathe so well as I used to,
and while I want to quit smoking,
living simply isn't any kind of motivation,
because I first desired death
when I was ten years old
and my desire has not decreased since that day.
There is no one who needs me.
There is no one who needs me to quit smoking.
There is no one who needs me to keep breathing.
There is no one who needs me to stay alive.
And as the pain increases with each cough,
and as the breath I draw becomes more like knives and fire,
and as I
go on and
have another one
the air tastes increasingly bitter
like poison.

Alphabet of Triggers

A is for Abuse
B is for Bestiality
C is for Cannibalism
D is for Discipline
E is for Egoism
F is for Fetters
G is for Guns
H is for Hatred
I is for Incest
J is for Jeering
K is for Killing
L is for Lynching
M is for Murder
N is for Narcissism
O is for Ostracization
P is for Pedosadism
Q is for Quietism
R is for Rape
S is for Stalking
T is for Torture
U is for Uxorcide
V is for Violence
W is for War
X is for Xenophobia
Y is for Yelling
Z is for Zoonosis

Isn't She Lovely

Sometimes I run out of words
Other times I run out of breath
Every morning I rise to meet life
One morning I shall rise to meet death
I'll invite her in for tea
with little sugared cakes
I will treasure every blush
and every laugh she makes

A Series of Notes

Why are you suicidal?
It is a simple question,
but impossible to answer.

I.
Begin with birth,
with two parents,
one who says you are planned
and the other who says you are an accident.
This is supposedly the same as the next child, as well.
Imagine this house,
for it cannot be a home
when one parent says you are planned
and the other says you are an accident.
Imagine the eventual divorce,
imagine being sent away with your mother
(the one who planned)
and rejected by your father
(the one who crashed into parenthood)
and imagine her in pain.
Imagine her childhood,
if you will:
the abuse not ended by becoming
a homeless fourteen year old child,
kicked out for being molested by her father,
the abuse not ended,
but increased by the presence of
precocious prostitutes and pimps.
Imagine her sudden adulthood,
her motherhood at eighteen,
her divorce before twenty-five,
her inability to care for two girl-children
as a single mom
without a little help
when there is no help in this world.
She cannot cope;
she sends the girls back to the father,
and now I am twice-rejected,
once by my accidental father,
once by my intentional mother.
II.
Childhood was a rude awakening
to how men take from women and girls
whatever they want
with no consequences.
First the family friend:
he is Mister Cold Hands,
and he touches what shouldn't be touched;
the breasts of children are not toys for adults.
My father sends him away,
I believe I never see him again
When I am an adult,
I see that he is one of my father's
internet friends.
Family friend the second:
also handsy,
below the belt.
I never reported him for myself,
but when a member of his family
told us what he did to her at night,
we told our mother,
and she told the cops.
He got out of jail recently;
I guess even pedophiles and child rapists
can be paroled for good behavior.
III.
Two boys in art class,
rude lewd crude dudes:
what are your digits?
do you even know what that means?
something something boobs
something something penis
and ultimately I report their harassment.
The principal pulls out the old trope:
do you have a sister?
would you like her to be treated this way?
something something be gentlemen
something something slap on the wrist.
We all return to art class;
they are not permitted to speak to me,
but this does not prevent them
from speaking at me,
around me,
over me.
Eventually we move
for other reasons:
my stepmother wants to be closer
to work, to schools she prefers,
to be further from her ex.
Now we have brothers,
now she is so tired,
now my father is sick
with the same sickness some uncle
forced on him.
At the time all I know
is that this is wrong,
he shouldn't do this,
but I cannot speak,
for even my words
and the words of my sister
are ignored.
I flee home at the first opportunity,
abandoning her to suffer alone;
abandoning my brothers and sisters all
to the tyranny of two
who are both too tired
to take responsibility for their actions.
When I confront him
by email
years after the fact,
she tells me not to send things like that by email,
he gives me an article about doctors who plant memories,
and obliquely apologizes
for loving me too much,
and nothing is ever resolved.
I worry what is in store
for my brothers,
especially when years again later
I learn that his uncle also hurt him.
IV.
Now I am a quasi-adult,
free to be snatched up by the first predators
who scent me.
I do not remember
how my hymen was ruptured;
I have reconstructed
what must have happened
when teachers and friends made assumptions
about my consent to do anything but sleep
with that man
in that bunkbed
when I was black-out drunk
for the first time.
Free to be messaged at work
by the techie
who assumes a friendly girl
is an available girl
especially when she is so much younger
and that is so hot.
Free to get blacked-out again
when rooming with another older man
who also makes presumptions.
Free to be groomed
into a fantasy submissive
for the boy who 'rescued' her
from her family.
Free to have every request ignored,
every 'no' translated into a 'yes,'
every interest thwarted,
every desire subverted,
free to be convinced that rape
is never rape,
so she can never have been raped,
she is just a dirty, cheating, lying slut.
The boyfriend trots her out amongst friends
to 'confess' to her 'lies' about rape.
The husband rapes her
and tells her she 'knows' that she wants it,
and that he has never
ever
ever
raped her or anyone,
not even the boy she saw him rape.
And the very word
'abuse'
is forbidden
under his roof.
V.
What are friends?
I have heard tales
of people who have been together
since childhood,
of people who are there for you every single day,
of girls who always have your back
of the inherent sisterhood of women,
of the possibility of real friendship
between men and women,
of long-distance relationships
that span decades,
of people you can always trust,
of people who will never hurt you
on purpose anyway,
of people called friends.
I am still not sure
I have ever met one of these people.
The first time I survived rape,
I did it alone,
surrounded by people who claimed
to be friends.
When I told these claimed friends
about my father,
they called me a liar,
said I was imagining things,
that they imagined terrible things too,
just to get off;
they said I was crazy.
When I told these friends about other men,
they said I just wanted attention,
that I was a drama-queen,
that I was so vain and presumed so much
about the intentions of my rapists,
my molesters,
my harassers.
When I told these friends about my husband,
they pretended to care for about a week,
and then decided I was exaggerating,
that he was the real victim,
that he needed their help more than I
during and after the divorce,
that he needed regular updates
on my activities,
because he obviously cared so much about me,
he was so upset,
he was hurting so badly.
They said I hated these men,
the ones I 'falsely' accused,
and by saying
they didn't want to take sides
they took the side of rapists.
VI.
These are not reasons to commit suicide,
some say.
What they really mean is that
there is no reason to commit suicide,
which is patently false.
Consider:
if there were no reason to commit suicide,
then there would be no such thing as suicide.
Hold on now,
you might think:
there are certainly causes to suicide;
for a thing cannot be uncaused.
However,
causes are not reasons,
and reason implies logic,
or good rationale,
or an understandable explanation,
and none of these things
could possibly be employed
when one commits suicide.
So you say, but
I think you presume too much.
Human action has reasons,
which are usually causes only,
logic being applied solely after the fact
in most cases.