De Novo Soldier

My ugly secrets hide beneath my thin skin.
Infinitely fighting in my lonely final tour,
Not making the cut for
A battalion of beautiful survivors who stared directly into the eyes of the freshly dead.
Limping home and stitched together, held upright on a single crutch.
Marching in the endless parade
They inch away for you see how far things have come,
bathed in the glow of pink light.
Open their uniforms –
Discover traces of ink from the triage tents
Their tattoos from strange archipelago parlors.
Arriving home one by one
home to their places as plumed birds in cages.
You tie ribbons around trees,
draw a pretty pictures of pity,
Run tearfully from the doorstep leaving offerings of happiness,
Quickly cobbled with gum and string,
with a note to “just keep the dish.”

Yet in the dense tropical foliage,
no one saw the soldiers hiding in my trenches.
With unsteady eyes I scan the papers for new strategic positions,
After training to uncover sleeper cells of suicide bombers.
I want to wear my cancer on my head like a turban, on my chest like scars,
My arms decorated by kisses of needles in iris colored bruises,
In the cover of an empresses’ new clothes embroidered with test results and dyed in thin blood.
I’m too ugly for a bouquet of flowers that I’m too pretty to receive.
Instead, you see all this so called beauty upon which you judge me:
Looking too good for you to see through to my truth.
My lies hide inside tunnels, only discovered by lighting them up with my beautiful bones.
Your eyes downcast rolling inside your shaking head in disbelief.
To you I’m just another junkie begging for a day without rain, without a pill to
Ease my pain, find me anonymously sweating in a red curtained opium den.

I am the Marine who comes home in a body bag without any glory, no pink procession, no honorable discharge.
You turn and march away, goose-stepping in formation waving goodbye to a familiar face in the crowd.
I bravely smile at you, while my raving mind searches for the stolen words I can’t find anymore.
You look down at me through a rifle’s sight, I find myself in the crosshairs.
Pull the trigger as I say goodbye.

Letter Rite I Cannot Must

Tear up the calendars of the days when my heart boiled over with the heat of blood lit love.

I buried myself in your scent. I luxuriate within the velvet folds of your robes, yet I am incense. I’m  curling like a cat’s tail around your head and finally come to rest in a pool filled by all of your layers.

When we slept alone. No one spoke to  me in my dreams. I shift away into black clean sleep, farther away than consciously knowing what to do, I followed the echoes home.

Late again, I found your back to me.

Now without a sun it looks wrong across the dark sea sky. I no longer know who hooked a wrong turn, and you were lost in the wrong direction. I’d forgotten how to write a postcard.

Right now with a look invented by yesterday, slip your card secretly into my pockets. You added to my risk profile a division problem with a remainder of

suffering that’s the equal to infinity which holds in its palm all of the numbers, even the odd imaginary ones,

and the one that cannot be divided except by either one of us. As two we fell into an affair of afterthoughts. Stupid throw away lines like “all the stars ever born.”

We embodied all the love ever swallowed. It was as if by will of force someone moved to live right now, and a life declared itself lit by our success.

But we failed. Tested low. Us so unaverage, painting with our blame we blacken our everythings. Spending a dollar meant more than my Cheshire smile in a body washed up on a Royal red blood tide upon the lights of the Queen’s necklace.

Failure listens through walls. It hears drumming, but shouting so much more like distant children getting slapped in shame, which is owned by a hand. It belongs to God’s voice, and you bestowed on me the right to forgive only one of us.

It’s easy to forget when you can cast the last stone during a secret ritual in a dead language. How I cannot write this down now, because I have loved only once.

My doubt exceeded measurable magnitudes, too much to write a simple goodbye. The letters cracked my body in half, and in a desert pond I lay thinking I must die just now. The dice threw themselves at my head as I woke up in a hysterical position.

Because I do remember justice’s blind compassion. You saw blindly into me and I heard you silently say, tracking me everywhere in your blue gaze – hide and never forget us and the forgotten will never find us.

So where now do I go to find you and make our new roots green again?

I can’t leave here knowing that we became each other’s closing doors. The endless slamming made us mad with deserving so much more than this.

It’s so bright outside and I must go touch the sun or the earth will split in half like an egg and lose the life we meant to live into it’s bath in the universe.

And the last sound you hear is shattering of my iced soul and it’s cradled body hitting the hot air and then gone forever.

Canferatu VS The Depression Devil

One night last week Canferatu possessed my intestinal tract. The inhuman noises growled low and deep, as surely once awake, I’d look in the bathroom mirror to find I’d become vampiric, zombified, even bloodless. Only the undead, at least in movies, moan as though they’ve contracted a case of projectile diarrhea. Further proof of my dance with the devil’s own son, the sounds indicated subsequent sharply intense pain each time the idea or slightest notion of eating or drinking entered my mind. I never knew 25 feet of tubing could sound so evil.

Why the thunder from down under? Invariably, this abdominal symphony of the undead crescendoed every single time the husband became angry with me or yelled. It’s decibel rating increased to 11 on a scale of 1 – 10, somewhat like Nigel Tufnel’s guitar amp goes to 11 in “Spinal Tap.”

Some days Craig’s monster depression devil slips an itchy gray Soviet-issued wool military sweater onto his already uncomfortable skin. Its on those occasions when to simply “touch” my husband could bring on a fight to the death between Canferatu and Depression Devil. What this all means is I will not be touched by anyone more than the occasional friendly hug for days, weeks, or in worse times, months on end.

Yes, relationships can wither and possibly die without physical intimacy. Every book, every psychiatrist or psychologist, and anybody who has been married will agree that the three ingredients that keep a relationship together are friendship, trust, and sex. All three elements have to be in place although sometimes not in equal parts. It’s even more frustrating because we used to have an amazing relationship. Since his depression hit hard, he rarely talks to me about anything substantial, we don’t go out alone together, and we certainly don’t have sex but once in a while. Oh but he does yell at me. That’s so comforting…to know I’ll get yelled at…

Detrimental to my health, a lack of physical intimacy can decrease my lifespan, and is scientifically proven to increase my rate of mortality by 50%. (I don’t know if it’s 50% but seems good enough number to plug in for the purpose of this blog post.) It also bothers me that instead of reading a book on depression or cancer he’s solving his past marriage psychological fallout and is reading, “Walking on Eggshells,” a book I gave him a number of years ago. It’s an excellent resource to help people who have had any sort of relationship with these inhumane, vampiric assholes who suffer from borderline personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorder. And he leaves the book out to annoy the living shit out of me. Actually, I know it’s not purposely left around to eat away at my cellular structure, but it certainly feels that way sometimes.

Anyone can get lured into relationships with these soul suckers. As long as you’re a good source for what they want and don’t have any needs of your own, they will pretend to love you. But never call them on a lie, a trick, or their own self aggrandizement. You’ll be sorry. I was made to suffer at the ugliness of my mother’s NPD symptoms, and I suppose that’s why I’m immediately sensitive to feeling my love being yo-yo’d by my husband’s depression fallout.

Feeling nauseous and in a tremendous amount of pain this past week, my mood shall we say, just hasn’t been at it’s perky best. I’m becoming very wary of the situation as it stands. Oh, there are good days. Today wasn’t a good day since Canferatu decided to do horrible painful things to my left leg and I ran out of actual ability to stand up anymore. After our dinner guests left about 11:00 pm, my body was simply too exhausted to get out of bed at all. I slept until 9 last evening and will reset my circadian clock and sleep at a normal hour tonight; I’m feeling a little better and sometimes, less is more.

Hey, many thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next installment of my adventures with Canferatu.