Tag: cancer and lonliness

One Fresh Hell, Hold the Tomatoes

Last week found me a visitor to a mental health facility, leaving each evening alone and downcast. The place just a few miles from our home, in the foothills south of the city, in an unremarkable single story building where I chose to allow supposed professional responsible human beings to rescue my ailing partner from the shackles of long term anxiety and depression. Leaving without him broke my heart and provided not a whit of relief as a few close friends hoped a “break” in the action might provide. His pained eyes looking upon my sadness as yet another judgement to come down upon me. Another multi-year term added to the #lifer tag around my neck, another blow to my remnants of hope.

All the while I possess the knowledge that I likely won’t live to see our future through to a plausibly happy conclusion. Even though this love 10 years in the making, its melodramatic script changed and the film itself in the can, spliced together and the story arc mangled under the cruel editor’s blade. The final reels go to the studio with my scenes cut and lying on the editing room floor.

I hoped for relief at the end of a long week spent alone over the course of treatment, yet no sparkle reappears in his eyes yet and his life not yet resuscitated. It takes the Zoloft about four weeks to help much. But I’m mostly alone these days. Yearning for my partner’s support and the kind of tender and caring love many of which many metastatic sisters write and blog about, I now look over at him, home in bed, and find one whose dark, inky emotions remain locked away inside his heart, like the stars behind clouds in a dark night sky. He lays there disengaged, thinking to himself about things that cause long bouts of sighing, and the simmering anger of so many men who find themselves bitten by such disorders.

Sometimes, my difficulty lies in hiding my visible outrage for being his care giver for over three years, of which this past 18 months one of the most heart wrenching trials of my life. My god – this and cancer, too? Fuck. What more can one do but look up and ask the ceiling over our bed long and winding questions about the treacherous nature of spiritual meaning, self-worth, and the relative value of a life. I then break from the sum of my existential questioning of cogito ergo… to find an email in my inbox from someone who reaches out to me to thank me. Grateful for my honest approach to my blog posts they type out a note that reminds me of why it’s worth it to know that it’s my responsibility as a wife to make a decision to help alleviate my partner’s suffering and try to revive him. To ask that his soul be returned his body.

He, too, wants only the same for me and indicates we may not stay together. For fuck’s sake — why now and you have got to be joking (the only sentences I can form without punching him in the face.) These trivialities came to him exactly how? And in what universe does he believe he lives in where this would even be okay by a substandard unintelligent alien culture of unfeeling assholes? And with that he passes wind and falls asleep and I’m left to wonder alone, naturally, what fresh hell might await me tomorrow?

Hopefully a new sandwich called “fresh hell” from the deli and no more than that.

It is what it is, huh?

If “it is what it is,” why is it so the collateral damage of metastatic cancer so fucking hard?

Why is it okay to break promises to me?

Why is it so painful to look at the shattering of once solid love?

Why is it okay for me to take handfuls of pills but it’s not okay for you to take one?

Why did I think it was a good idea to give away all my strength?

Why did it fail me to believe when it came down to it?

Why is it you can’t put your paranoia away for one day and help me live?

Why is it impossible to find my fight today?

Why is it okay for my needs not to matter?

How is it possible for you to listen silently while you hear me cry?

Why was it okay for me to be a day late to get the assist I needed to save my life?

Why is it okay for a copayment for chemotherapy to be greater than an entire months disability check?

Why is it okay to see that my life is slipping away?

It isn’t what my it is.

Why isn’t loyalty, isn’t love, isn’t commitment, isn’t kindness, and isn’t believing in the human spirit – why aren’t these its the “it is what it is?” It is what “it is is always negative.” Why?

Fuck it.

Whatever it is.

Eventide

Riding passenger side snapping right,
I’m down in front stealing long exposures.
From the back seat our youth sits
Mocking us with instant polaroids.
Destroyed pictures of minutes and memory
Precious and precarious slip a stone
At once here and at once gone.
Right under the driver breaks hard and higher
Up another mile, silently stealing all we pass.
As if it meant nothing, had no value.
Yet we never stop to salute the flowers –
All wilds and yellows and purples.
The foothills’ shoulders grow peonies
Upon sunshine golden with military ranks.

How jagged time?
We spend ours climbing again as
Eventide approaches us.
Stealing the light
Squinting and teasing Every photographer’s eye.
The lens escapes the fight as fists fly
Above us rung the first punch
Headliners: the over-real versus the unbelievable.
Then we drop down tearing around
The Summit dragging the day with us.
With us flat then right over on the side.
Buckshot sprays whitetail from
Underneath the wheels,
My skin and bones chill fast underneath
Blankets just a quarter mile thin –
Count the microclimates in a 14 mile exposure.
My imagined assignment, anyway.

Inertia now driving our ascension
Finally dousing my focus.
Yet I am pacified by
Deep coastal royal blue velvet,
And by the courtly cape
Of dense silver fog.
Trees, reach in and take my attention
Lost in the sky and yet at home.
Away with the little brick foxes
Already started by the drooling hounds,
Running in distant golden broken lines
Shrinking to a pointed index
Finger of bent redwood lumber.
Penciled between the knotted trees
Escaping our eyes
They write letters to us
To one another, to anyone.
I imagine the trees alone love themselves.
Writing in dead languages those
Modern towers of Babylon
Without oral tradition
No monks or followers to take dictation
The mighty ones tie rings around
Paper and papyrus of their own making.
They, like me, can write their own stories.

Distant deamons dance to the music of the eventide,
Whose eardrums thump and pop from slight descents.
Mercies clear the stares and the macabre glances.
And up ahead the night hides just around
The voluptuous Earth’s curves.
Yet she shakes off the road upon her hip
Langushing and lounging
Laughing at all the forsaken highways.

You snap me awake.
My hypnotic state undone
By our quick duel and I, only me –
I roll one window down
With enough sense to know
The party orange of evening presents
A moment for exposure
Showing the night undone
By the simplest flash
As we find a space and stall the motor,
King and queen of the hills
Announced by snare drums and trumpets.
Goodbye, twisted bruised skin of eventide.
Eventide, goodbye.

And now, Ms. Cancer and Mr. Depression

How does one learn to reason with depression? I’d like to share with you a story about a confused partner who, after the passing of her arbitrary three-year deadline, falls into the rabbit hole and finds herself staring at a 40-car pile up and the unenviable clean up of the bloody aftermath. She unreasonably and unfortunately becomes inconsolable with wave after wave of false accusations hurled from across a house she lives in with this depressed man who she no longer knows, or even knows what she feels for him anymore.

Don’t take the bait. Walk away. Leave. For an hour, a week, or…

If it were only that easy. You know who you are – partners of the dysfunctional. But add a little metastatic cancer to the mix…my shoulders are killing me under the weight of it all. I’m sorry if I come across as confusing, but this whole crazy dysthymic depression without an end in sight is confusing.

I’ve finally helped him to treatment. We, well more like he, vomited the angry bitter disgust of a man who simply wanted to raise his two sons across a 2.5 hour session of exhausting couples counseling with my psychologist. She, by the way had breast cancer, can provide him with a helpful view from within should he inquire. He spilled tears and guts for 95% of the session, at the end of which I said he may be better off getting a bit of help for himself or I didn’t feel we’d make the progress we’d hoped for. He immediately went on the defense and the doctor came to mine and remarked, can’t you see she’s very concerned and wants to reconvene when you’ve gotten through a bit of your own healing? He could not disagree.

I’ve read countless books on the topic. NAMI.org is a web site full of great information for you as a depressive’s care giver. All very helpful.

Here’s a few titles available on Amazon and through kindle to keep the costs down:

Talking to Depression: Simple Ways To Connect When Someone In Your Life Is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B002DYMB1M/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_OPHwAbK3Z6EC

Depression Fallout: The Impact of Depression on Couples and What You Can Do to Preserve the Bond https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0012GTZBG/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_ZQHwAbH1P5EGN

When Depression Hurts Your Relationship: How to Regain Intimacy and Reconnect with Your Partner When You’re Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HZ9SA92/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_tRHwAb7H1451X

When Someone You Love is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H0IGJIQ/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_TRHwAbDTCFKWT

I Don’t Want to Talk About It: Overcoming the Secret Legacy of Male Depression https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000FC0Q0C/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_m3HwAbA93R7H9

The confusing days in the life….

When he asked me what time it was I was holding a stack of books and I said that it’s not too late just a second to look at my watch and this was what caused tonight’s major smack down. He’s called me a bitch for two days, running tests to see how I’m going to react to his nasty new nomenclature for me, similar to a teenager cursing in front of his parents. Yet I embarrassed him.

Apparently I’m the one who needs hospitalization and help and that he, “knows what’s going on here.” I ruin everything night after night with my “selfish shit” and do my own thing. My Etsy online shop and writing are more important to me than having a good relationship with him. Yet, it’s all I can do to keep from losing my own mind to the loneliness and isolation of cancer.

I’m somehow playing a game with him and somehow it’s my fault; apparently I’m the root cause of his problems. I tell him that nearly every night he’s laid here leaving me alone and now he’s saying that’s not true that I’m the one who has ignored him. A new critique appears in the repertoire: I’m an Intellectual bully and he does not want to be a victim anymore. Too embarrassed to even suggest anything resembling sex to him anymore, he’s barked back, “the only thing you’re even interested in is sex.”

No, I’m interested in happiness and I love him enough to stay. He also knows I’ve not the physical or financial resources to leave. There’s days when his light comes on and his blue eyes sparkle and shine like two stars in the sky. Come on you, just wake up and shine with me for a little while and let’s shut this nightmare down. It’s never very much about sex, is it. Love in all its permutations requires a cooperation of high and low and mid range notes all beating in time to the same heart. Does cancer extract my heart from my body for study by science and remain in a clear beaker on a dusty shelf behind an outdated computer book from 1999? No, not this time.

He said he wants me here and he loves me, but answers in vagaries when I ask for examples or specifics. As he retorts, more vague statements such as how I always criticize him. I never say anything positive. All he does is help me but I do not let him help me. Each and every time I ask for his help he’s got more important things to do, ignores me, or just sleeps the day away. My very favorite tactical maneuver is to keep me quiet by calling me a nag. I “nag nag nag all the time.” He said he gave himself up and he made that mistake because he thought it was the right thing to do for me. However it cannot possibly be true since I’m not worth it. At least not according to the oxymoronic verbal diarrhea spewing at me night and day.

I ask him what he means by anything he says, yet he won’t tell me. He said he misses himself more then I can ever miss him. This is a wonder because I’ve been mourning him for over three years. I am being crushed under the weight of his depression. My loneliness and frustration are at an all time high. He is starting to tell me how he can’t get anything from me, I have nothing he wants or anything that is valuable to gain from me. He gives, all he does is give and I cannot give anything worthwhile to the relationship so why don’t I just stop fucking up a good thing and just shut up?

Okay.

Friendship, Cancer, and The Jokers

“We suffer more often in imagination than in reality” – Seneca

On my 52nd birthday my husband comedically quipped, “From her on baby you’re as old as a joker.” Why? “Because your age is equivalent of the number of cards in a deck.”

If you look in a card box after retrieving the deck of 52 necessary for the game you have in mind, such as solitaire, a pair of Jokers and the deck’s informational card sit, left over. I am the leftover — and now I’m entering the stage of life, the unwanted, the leftovers. I am in at the dawning of the age of the Joker.

Have a listen to the Australian band Wolfmother’s song, “Joker and the Thief.” It’s very catchy and if you like that song and haven’t had the pleasure of listening to Wolfmother their eponymous first album is great and has another song I like quite a lot called “Woman.” A three piece band, their sound is that of a love child, borne of Spinal Tap and Jack White. Here’s a link for The Joker and the Thief on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lkPfgzR6Hw

“Can you see the joker flying over / as she’s standing in a field of clover.” Great visual for song lyrics, dreamlike and yet ominous, a girl whose innocence is her honor, and the bringer of death the Joker poised to take her away. At any rate, clover as I visualize it carpets the fields of Scotland and of Holland. Furthermore, when you find one with a fourth leaf, rather than the common 5 leaf species, it’s considered very very lucky. The green carpeted field conjures up the impression of a girl rolling in a field of money without a care in the world. The Joker takes away that innocence and invincibility – I’m no longer a girl anymore.

I’m now firmly planted on the other side of 50 years old – more than half a century on this third orbital from the dying star in our solar system. Remember when youth outweighed the cataclysmic teenage ubermensch-ism? Remember when 50 seemed extraordinarily old? 50+ years to a teenager seems so ancient. God, like, you know Stonehenge or the Pyramids at Giza. Rude punks, my other mohawk prickly friends and I would elbow one another and smirk towards those who crossed the half century line and to any person over 50: “wow that’s so old.” So, turning some kind of sharp corner, I’m now the joker in the pack with the deck of cards. The cards that don’t matter and stay in the box, and no one cares if the jokers get lost.

I suppose if given the choice to see what I’d become now at this age, I think I’d like who I am and what I accomplished. Hopefully, you can look at yourself now, and know having all of those years to look back upon and smile with happiness in the warmth of good memories, or with bad decisions and hurt and sometimes embarrassment, the chill of regret comes and goes in a fleeting moment. Sometimes, we get the chance to undo a past regret. The opportunities come along infrequently, so try to recognize one when you happen upon it. I think it’s a strange enough concept, given the premise that you make your fate and take what’s in front of you – and make yourself better, create an improvement for your future self to incorporate. Use the good in front of you to drive your decisions.

Allow me to illustrate this phenomena with a personal example. About three years ago, I felt awful. However, I’d just gotten through a bunch of personal dramas — my dad died, my cat almost died, and a person who was a “friend” did something to cause enough stress to kill a normal human being. That was also when my husband tumbled deep into the dark well of depression.

Exactly thee months into 2015 I was really feeling awful and after watching me curl up into a ball on the bed, hands reaching and crying in absolutely the worst pain I’d ever physically felt in my life, he said that’s it we’re headed to the ER. We all thought it was food poisoning. Wrong diagnosis. There were 7.5 liters of ascetic fluid that built up in my abdominal cavity. If you’re unfamiliar with how cancer travels from one place to another in the body, they can only travel via your blood stream or your lymphatic system. When cancer goes rogue through the blood stream, it goes through the liver which goes into overdrive and other extreme chemical reactions happen. I’ll skip the details, but the net effect causes a fluid to build up, and floating metastatic cancer cells coagulate without real purpose like Mercury in an old anal thermometer. The silver beads attracted to one another and make larger more expansive ones that light up on a CT scan like tiny oil slicks.

Hey, congratulations you’ve got stage IV cancer of the breast and bone lesions. Well, that explains why I wasn’t feeling so well. I recall receiving an email right before that most horrible week from a good friend and the email required my immediate attention. My attention won’t relate to anything at all back then when I had the diagnosis come down on me so hard I didn’t know when or where I was in the scheme of life. I don’t think I even opened email from back then yet. It sits, unread in my inbox – all of it.

I lost the chance then at giving my hand to hold for a moment if she chose to pick it up so she could feel even slightly better – because I know intimately now tragedy causes loneliness. Let me say though, as a Joker I feel magically imbued with some preternatural ability to move around the here and now without being seen. Everywhere I go, I am not needed especially, yet I am empowered by my invisibility and the wisdom that improves with age. My wisdom tells me to go see her – call her – send flowers. DO ANYTHING to apologize that my physical state hasn’t allowed me to give her the attention then she probably didn’t need but I should have given her.

The Joker flies over and takes innocence like gasoline and soars over more clover until I find the lucky one, the one with four leaves. I am the luckiest Joker alive. So, to my friend who sent me a birthday card, now that the fireworks of the fourth are over I want to somehow tell her I love her and I think of her very often. I do hope she’s forgiven my remiss, having found out about my situation coinciding with her life’s loss. I hope so anyway.

She’s one of the good people I’m blessed in my life to know. The four leaf clovers? I now realize they’re the people in your life who I should never let go of and never give up on – regardless of the situation. They don’t care about a miscue. They’re too deep to be so shallow. They care about me and send the most positive thoughts they can.

Thank you my dear clover in the hills, I hope to see you very soon.

My Loves Electric (Not Anymore)


Our “Friends” Electric Gary Neumann

There’s a knock on the door/ and just for a second I thought I remembered you.
So now I’m alone / and I thought I could fend for myself.
(From Our Friends Electric by Gary Neumann)

I’m in a terrible dream from which awakening may prove worse. My house in a state of disrepair, crumbling down around me. I try to run as the floorboards warp and break behind me with each step, I scream moving towards a closing door my hand grips inches from the handle as it shuts and locks me inside our home’s sweet wreckage. My good dreams of the future simply exist as memories never made. Each new day wakes me with only the potential of a kind morning. And still alone, my mind races back to that door slamming in my dream single lingering question: I face myself and ask – where do I go from here?

My partner of 10 years decided in his state of untreated general anxiety disorder and depression to quit the miraculous rTMS treatments that incrementally could save him from a life in darkness. The magnetic woodpecker that sat over his head for 40 minutes and gave me five memorably glorious and wonderful days with him. Days and nights when his eyes returned to their beautiful sparkling turquoise with flecks of gold from cold, grey, and dead.

We want to sell our townhome. Simon our cat and me probably, for my longer term mortality, must move away from him should he remain embodied in anxiety’s bouts of rage and pain. Because metastatic breast cancer should take poll position over his anxiety, my life simply cannot continue in the same manner. The last hellish three years of watching the love of my life deteriorate from the vibrant and wonderful man into a nasty and cold asshole. My own coming months and years cannot be spent writing behind bars of someone else’s prison, a prison I handed him the keys to but he refuses to leave.

The keys to my prison do not exist, there’s no cure, and there’s no future with happiness together as a team, the team I really counted on – but Einstein said not all things that can get counted, should be counted.

Many women must experience similarly traumatic stress events with cancer ravaging their bodies. My life’s spirits’ exhaustion shows. I burn hot on fuel called cortisol down unpaved roads, climbing hills to where I believe waits my husband only to drop 10,000 feet until I can stop myself from falling. In the uglier more humiliating moments, I feel useless and unrepentantly inferior to able bodied non-disabled women. People say, “just move out!”

If it were only so easy.

The energy, money, and help (none of which I have by the way) moving takes and the emotional toll of the move itself and consider just the breakup – could shave years from my already shortened life. Yes, I do need to reconsider my options. Unfortunately, I’m unable to work much ouutside of my home and if I have any of my own money I don’t qualify for Medicare. In our great country, one must live far below the poverty line to become eligible to receive medical insurance to cover the incredibly high costs of living in a body full of metastatic breast cancer.

I’m watching my life expire, while my love lives imprisoned by something preventable and completely unwarranted since the keys lay in his reach. I imagine what the feelings of excitement of embarking on a new future, unladened by the heaviness of a partner with depression would feel like. However, given the genuine sadness, memories of pain and ugliness and tears combined with my MBC, and my heart and soul feel nothing even close to free. It’s so unfortunate my new direction will bring only lonely, empty, impoverished days and sleepless nights.

It’s as though his depression, rather then a hug and an apology, will be my runner up prize when it comes time to hit the road. I don’t want this new life, but I cannot stay in this one either. For three years I fought to try to help him. And now I cannot help him any longer. If you’d known us before you’d know why I struggled for so long to try and take care of him at the risk and loss in years of my own health.

What the fuck is life without love? What is life without purpose? What does it feel like to truly live alone with pain? How do I go forth into a life without anyone’s name to put on my advance directive? There’s no one left I can trust to see out my end wishes. No one who I can trust to speak for me when I cannot. Everyone’s gone – dead or left when cancer entered my bloodstream. Never did it occur to me that I’d become this lost so late in the game, but My Love is gone. He is not going to come back to me. I mourne him as he was and don’t know this person who says ugly horrible things and teases me with hope of his wellness and then maligns his state of mental health like a monster from an old movie in front of me.

It’s torture. He believes I am having him go to these treatments to have his brain scrambled like eggs. Yet rTMS was incrementally helping him. Now in his refusal to continue he’s just cruel and it makes me wonder what I did to deserve this horrible life. You’d think – why would anyone do this and choose to hurt someone and himself? How egotistical can one be?

You’ll have to ask him. He may indeed become my last love and now my lost life. Indeed, the friend was electric, but he chose to leave its tapping on his door unanswered and thus, unbeneficial. If life as I hoped truly is over, where to from here?

Plan 9 From Inner Space or The Week from the Black Lagoon

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
The Tempest by W. Shakespeare

Some weeks just suck out loud. Seven days when you swerve from lane to lane avoiding wrecks. Alone in your car, you sing along to a song you love, of your own aural detriment and the unlucky winner who pulled up next to you at the long light lottery. This week’s highlights, with a stressed set of vocal cords, included both Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel and Somebody to Love by Queen. Tonight brought on an earthworm of West End Girls by the Pet Shop Boys. Perhaps once I return to the century we find ourselves led through by accidentally drawing a trump card, I may find music worth my ears and my brain time.

Yeah, the kind of week when you wish for humanity to take a piss up a rope. Then magically, someone comes along and makes your heart warmly humble. Gives you a case of the humilities. A roaring, hair blowing, house flooding giant tsunami of love in your heart. For anyone who wants some. And some folks, too, who don’t seem to want any of your kind of love at all. Screw them, not literally of course unless you really want to, they’re getting loved by you irrespective of attitudinal tapeworms.

There’s people in our midst who quietly and with a dignified grace sweep beautifully and lovingly for no apparent reason into your world. They may stay for a week, a month or maybe a few months or a year. They cannot remain a permanent fixture physically in your life, but change you spiritually and create space for you to accept ideas and postulations that contemplation in the past would bring up your lunch.

Imagine with me of a time when cancer finds you and you find it eventually at any stage – doesn’t really matter. Just as the people who come in and out of your life during your cancer journey: they find you and you find them. Two specific people came into my life recently, each of them so different yet perhaps not so different if you didn’t know what they looked like or what either of them do or did for a living. We measure people by what they do in our culture, rather than the quality of the spirit they bring to our physical world – with a voice that roars quietly in your ears, almost miraculously, when they’re not in your presence. No discussions about why it’s so fucking miraculous that we’re even reading and writing to one another or having heated or gentle discussions together and how unbelievably unlikely it is that we’re here at all…they embody why it’s just so cool to be human.

The first person to find me lost on my own verbose path and take my and pull me gently in a healthier direction, began as a business relationship and grew into a friendship. I am 52 she is a damned fine looking woman in her early 70s with the most piercing green apple eyes I’ve ever seen. I love her as a friend can love a friend when you know how unlikely the friendship but how likely once you dig a layer under the other persons skin and vice versa. She’s gotten me to my current psychologist. My psychologist has had breast cancer, and I’ve met with her twice in seven days and again Monday next week. She along with my green apple wise woman gave me a gift of female co-thinkers to help me through the tunnel I am currently in and not letting me drift into the walls of the tunnel as I find the other side with my speedometer going just a tad slower. No wrecks.

The other signs his email this way:
Peace in peculiar times.
And with this quote:
“While waiting for the other shoe to drop, hop around on the one you’re wearing.”

I find along side the road I’m currently on in my life with cancer, not waste and detritus, but people. Not hitchhikers, but people waving to me and telling me to keep going and not to stop since its rather unnecessary.

The second person has a plan in this life of mine but more on him later. Just know that he’s a cat of many lives and doesn’t stop to lick any wounds. He simply stretches and stretches on with life leaving behind the ugly, the illness, the angry, the negative, and the weight of the past. He’s lighter than air. I hope when I meet him in person I can breath a bit easier knowing that we are not in this journey of ours alone and that other humans in this consciousness came before us to allow free passage of our own loves and lives from one to another and that’s what it’s all about.

Peace out.
Next week should provide for better spiritual happiness and music to tap my foot to the beat of in order to move ahead one more space on the board.

I hear Closer to the Heart by Rush and leave you with this song for by which you may contemplate your navel lint.

Closer to the Heart

Maps and Legends

My epic signed by blue,
Pencils edited, erased.
Pages loosened and flew,
White winged birds sung,
Tightened claws bound to lines,
Snap and fly to inner space.

Shortened pagination,
Politely taken wayward
A palace ‘tross seaward.
My imagination skips,
Hissing gently, a light kiss,
Skip the lights aquatic,
Swan dive into the record.
Hole round against,
Metal and rusted center,
End over a feather,
A light in a jet stream.

Dripping ink and rain,
The last page set,
Down in a spring,
Slowly changing everything.
My books marked still,
On page one. Your laughter,
Soaked and heavy with disaster,
Sitting in the oak’s shade,
You kiss my nose and mark,
With cooled breasts. Wonderful
Of you. A park and your hand,
Reaches to shade your face,
As we read from the book
Of the dead and avoided,
The looks of their eyes,
Ashsmed and exploited.
Slaves and a haurcut.

You forgot.
Cash piles stashes,
Ashtrays and snug graves.
We all fall down.
The ground grows smaller,
As I pass the tree line,
Bangs on the Earth,
Becoming her daughter.
Funny to stand today,
Eclipsing the sun,
Looking down?
Avoiding blind faith,
Pin hole in a box,
Gentle and round.
Protect the last epoch,
Hidden in a rainstorm.
Injustice of ghost town.
What substance, space
She left us, just as wraith.

Why I Love Vintage

https://www.etsy.com/listing/500887842/vintage-rhinestone-encrusted-button-with

Buttons – it started with buttons. Vintage and old buttons to be precise. Hundreds became thousands. My theory: button mitosis. The rhinestone 1950s button you see above, one of the latest acquisitions, stands alone as a thought prototype come true by a nameless, faceless designer. I look at them as though I can save enough to button up my life. Like Eliot used coffee spoons, I measure my time in buttons.

Eclipse

Birth so luminous!
Each soul’s page,
Covers the last.
Closed together,

Bound by death.