[Blog Post] Dawn, Depression, Daylight.

Working on Saturday is sort of like "working". Much less noise on the roads, far more in the buildings. I can see the cold mist of 7am, draped over the autumn infused trees, few obstacles between my eyes and the distant suburban forest.

I'm feeling better than I was. I'm not entirely sure of how much that's worth. Then again, I'm probably still emotionally reeling from recent events. Personal as well as national. What else is new?

It sucks when people close tell you they are proud of what you've done, how far you've come, and you feel anger. Does that happen to anyone else? I don't feel I've done anything worthy of praise, which is fine with me as a rule. I am an improvement on who I was. I think better thoughts. I'm much, much better at managing anger. Sadness not so much but hey I'll take what I can get. I'm more active, both physically and politically. I'm doing what I can to build a person who is helpful to those with far less privilege.

A hornet chased me away from the bench at the bus stop. "No rest," they kept saying, circling the nearby trash can. "No rest," they repeated, lost. Far from their friends. Their home.

Every moment I allow myself to relax I feel guilt. I know I should always strive to do more. I'm hoping I'm working my way up to that amount of activism, that this isn't just some blip on my journey, where I go right back to being ruled solely by my addictive personality.

Still. Good things. I'm in a better headspace than I was this time last year, the entirety of last year, the beginning of this one.

It feels sort of like a much simpler version of depression. Usually it comes in bursts, and I am incapacitated by the illness for days at a time. I'm much more functional recently, but I feel it always there. Like that mist, over the autumn trees. I see, I hear, I feel beauty all around me and around most of my actions. I feel the new vigor in the love I pour into what I do and how I interact with people. Still, the mist. Nothing is perfectly clear, still and wonderful. The mist is light, translucent.

Why do anything about it? It's nice. I get to be helpful in small ways, I use my mind to assist in the fight for equality when I am able. That's who I want to be. I just want to help. It's not a huge deal if there's a pall of sadness and lack of self worth that doesn't affect anyone else. Except in the case that it escalates–but I mean, I'm better at recognizing when I'm worse. Managing. Taking steps to deal. Working myself through it mentally.

It seems awfully tragic and overly white knight-like. "Wow what a martyr, sacrifices his happiness for the betterment of others wow so cool" like…fine. I know it sounds that way and I don't care. All that matters is I'm being even a little helpful, I have the potential to be more helpful, and all I have to do to keep it up is live with a mist.

I've always had poor vision anyway. You see a single rabbit spring into the brush, another, smaller, following. I squint, wishing I'd seen it, pretending I had, imagining how nice it was. It's almost as good.

"All in all it's been okay–I've lived well."

Jhene Aiko is pretty corny sometimes, especially in her latest album. But Eternal Sunshine keeps me going. It says, "it's okay. Everything is okay. Not perfect, maybe not great. But it's good, it's alright, I've lived well and I should never stop appreciating that."

So that's how I'm feeling these days. Fairly happy with a constant pall of depression. Maybe it comes with the territory of activism against systems you yourself are complicit in. Maybe it was bound to happen regardless. My current strength of belief in hard determinism would agree with that last.

I'll just keep rolling with it. This path presently sucks for my self worth, like a lot. I don't feel very good about myself or very important. But it's much better for the world, and a continued trajectory has the potential to result in actual…well, results.

It is my hope that this will eventually bring me out of it. When I feel as if I have brought about real change, even in a small way, I might love myself? That'd be just the best.

The mist clears as the dawn turns into day. I'm hoping my sun continues to rise as well.

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Resistant Chill

Stinking summer breeze,

Leave this realm!
I cannot abide by the casual slaughter
of friendly nasal cavities
and cozy blankets.

The fortitude of winter
is never enough.
Burning through the
blue glaze of peace
shouting at us all to
sprout anew, live again as if
light actually exists.

Damn heartthrob in the sky
pulsating your matriarchal heat
across all landscapes
allowing your sister
to watch us while you
stun the rest into painful,
aching life.

Leave us be, to our cold reverie.
Drift to a collection of sentient stardust
more deserving of your heat.

Sweet, lost mother,
your unconditional presence
your unblinking gaze of a love so pure
our eyes sour
from looking for too long.

Etched into my shoulders
are your fingerprints.
Connecting them resembles
the families of faraway stars
who laugh at your cause
who tear up
knowing your mission is never done.

Soul of summer
breaking apart the destitute ice
trailing from wrist to chest–

Fine!

The red resin of existence
will be free to roam within me.

I owe you that much.

Crush

Riddle me with your incomplete sentences.

Crease the last letter
you thought to leave beneath
the mattress
a secret admirer
only found between
changed sheets and
fingers tipped with
daydreams
afternoon interlude,
faded release.

Face me like a heart.
Open and close at the rate
of bus fare handed
to the driver who
sees you run
and stops to
tie your shoes into
a fatherly knot.

Give me the soul of your last sleepless night.
Pour it slowly into my cup
such that I can smell each yawn and
caress every droplet of the words you

only sell to yourself.

I know.
It is worrisome
to let it drum
bit by bit at the bottom of the glass
moments stretched, bare,

uncut grass.

How are you to know
I’m not just another mower
hired to snip at your growth, or
step carelessly on
your most closely held
solar?

I am the breeze.
I want to feel each feather of you
bent, perfect, blessed or pressed thin, overgrown, under rested. Tied and left in backroad gardens, exposed and erased, rewritten in jargon.

The way you fly…
I sing it.

I could write to you
every summer melody and
pardon my reality
the simple rain and drought of green
It will never render me

water,
but dive in–
dream.

Innocent Distance

Tripping over my own indecent socks
I admonish my toes in alpha numeric order
I don’t know which one I stubbed first but

it definitely did not happen

while I was reaching

for the swing set smile

in your eyes.

 
the blatant disturbance
between your shoulders
reeks of lost walk ways.
we drank Gatorade
as a method of supplying
our eyelids with brighter colors
and
being so young
who could know
electrolytes aren’t used
in defibrillators.

Bring me back
to your blue sheets.
Teach me red
and don’t starve,
blink.

My hands used to be
so content with
keyboard racing but
now I can’t seem to regret
holding you captive in my head
wrapping arms around
a frame of the mind’s design
enticing smiles and
feeling the lips turn
against my skin–
red
touched
lips.

Your collarbone is a roadmap
upon which my fingers could
scout out every landmark
sending the coordinates
to my mouth.

Create with me
a single night.
Let us both collide
maybe
the stillness of your feet
will fall away at the
whispers underneath
your neck.

I
can sing to you
with nothing but my tongue
inciting
harmony
deep within
your stomach
notes strolling casually
up through the throat
greeting your hot breath
as you decide
to allow the refrain
a taste of its own
chorus.

First of course
those legs of yours.
hiding behind nets and
cages of silk.
One hand remains free and
bought tickets
to your knee.
Those fingers have
been dying to hike
the snow covered summits
leading to the
single flower
where symphonies can be strung along
by tongue as well as tone.

The hips of you
begging to be
jailed by palms and tips as
locks and keys
suddenly there
isn’t air
it’s pressed from you
your garden blooms
filled
with a new warmth
refreshing like sunlight
rigid as river stone,

you

moan.

The Earth of you
collapses
revealing the core
[as we both rain–
but what is rain
when stripped
of atmosphere?]

Dear,

walk me to your window.
The breeze will cool
the sunset pools
lain bare
between the tresses
of your heavy lashes
and sunburst sighs.

Ember eyes,
burn me away
so I might live again
to douse you
with the songs
of “stay”.

#FlyMyLoves

Singing to a thousand faces

I toss every voice I know into

a void of endless smiles

of pains, felt along the crevices of

otherhood, womanhood, manhood.

The misplaced fist of oppression

deigning itself an authority

as if the very fact that it is a fist

gives it power.

 

I feel your lips,

opening to release any amount of faith

into this unforgiving plane of

anonymous palms,

knuckles laced with

ignorance

and iron.

 

I see you all there,

still smiling.

You’ve been hurt too many times to

release such blooms of

every single color

that ever made

a heart swell.

Yet, here you are.

Perhaps your mouths aren’t

spread, but pursed.

You can’t fool me, loved one.

You’re still smiling.

Beneath your glowing face

is an even brighter being of

calm acceptance.

 

“My time has not come.

I cannot soar as easily as those

born with the ‘correct’ structure,

the ‘optimal’ wingspan,

decided long ago by birds

too tricked by their own ‘flight’

to consider swimming

to even whisper the word, no–

they would rather the world had no water at all

than accept there are those of us

who swim.

And yet here I am.

The sky is no longer out of reach, for

our hearts have become the sky.

Together, we swim in our own

grinning, multicolored ocean.

For you see,

you silly, two-winged, single-beaked birds,

There was never flight.

There was only travel.

You put that name there

to keep us out

to make us feel as if

we could never touch the clouds.

 

I say this with love–

fuck you.

We will bring the clouds down here with us

and playfully dress them up

as your enraged fists.

Watch as they burst into nothingness

against the waves crashing

over our pool party.

Maybe once you accept Travel,

and calm down about your

traditional wingspan–

which NO ONE is attacking, by the way–

maybe then you can come to our party.

 

But you had better bring

a shit ton of floaties

and be prepared to accept

that every single one of us

was born beneath this sky

and none of us have the right

to define

‘flight’.”

 

(Pluto Poems 4) Corona

I don’t want to orbit the sun anymore.

 

Her warmth is poison to me

you see its easier to simply

float alone, frozen than

pick away at the nitrogen ice

 

in hopes that one day

you’ll find the central core of life

that hasn’t been there all along.

 

I am rigid.

Her mere closeness

breaks me.

If I were to crash land into

her Saturday and

stay a few nights with

arms to caress and

cheeks to kiss, then

perhaps learning to swim

in my own chest

wouldn’t be so maddening

 

but there is no Saturday on Pluto.

There are no ponds, no lakes.

Streams or creeks, whispering sweet

lullabies to the moons.

 

I am forged of broken, stiff

glacial indifference.

 

Please, you wretched hydrogen star…

 

My fingers are not even flowers

yet they wish to bloom

along the fields of your

corona.