Back in the Deep-Fryer

Family, Internal Poetry, Problems, Prose, Stuff to do

“So whaddaya think of the new head cover?”

He was a sweet man.

Said,

“Right?”

often.

Always called you by the name.

A bright smile across his face with the slight corny nature of an aging man.

 

TRUMP GOLF” was embroidered, smack dab on the cover.

 

I worked for a Trump supporter today, and he took care of me.

I don’t know how to feel about it.

Reassuring words of “professionalism” ring in response,

But isn’t that an enemy in the first place?

 

After 10 years of North Brookfield tugging on my mother,

She finally succumbed towards the middle.

The TV is the lexicon, creation exists in her deft, colorful baskets

But the previous compassion has been weathered away by a decade of mistreatment.

There are good people in my life,

Blessings in human form,

Full of toxins that have deep-fried the azures and scarlets and oranges

From their souls.

I can feel my skin bubbling, and I’m submerged. Back in the first parts of home.

I fear how strong my self-interest is becoming, how it dominates conversations.

Partly because I’m afraid to ask how you’re doing.

I know you’re good. I don’t want to contribute to that rinse/repeat small talk.

But how do I engage outside of that?

I need to kick back. Open the sacrum, see through my real eyes.

Keep reading that Post-Colonialist literature.

Keep writing with the focus of empathy.

Never let the generation of entropy get you down, or be forgotten about.

That’s my code.

It Doesn’t Have To Be Like This.

Family, Fear, Internal Poetry, Poetry, Questions, Societal Poetry

It doesn’t have to be like this.

Unpacking the car, this is one of the first things I say to myself.

My mind is too wrapped up to sort out the layers of how different the connection between here and there is.

I love my mother. I love my family. I love the life I’ve lived and the places I’ve been to.

I see my mother. I see my family. I fear to see the life I’ve lived.

My eyes strain themselves from looking through their eyes.

I wish for the peace of a home by the forest, connecting and creating ad infinitum.

The conifers to draw and the bird songs to learn.

A little bit of space to sink into, learn, and fall in love with.

I’ve been growing like a sapling in compost towards the sun I feel gracing my pores,

Constructing my layers and growing my frequency to achieve something beyond human.

The life of now isn’t anything the me of sixteen could have dreamed of.

But I’m back again, in the bedroom of the person I tried so hard to escape.

I’m sleeping with the shadows and memories of myself.

I’m falling into the same frustrating cycles with my loved ones,

Knee-jerk reactions of “fine, I know, and okay” come flooding back to my thoughtful head like accidental expletives. There is no accidental expletive, as with any normalized curse.

I can feel my form shrinking, I long for open fields and skies to meditate in an under.

I long to be away from fresh-reintroduced trauma of a past I never lived to know.

But in a matter of time, I’ll be back to forgetting.

More than Welcome

"Man, I'm Pissed Off", Dingus, Family, Internal Poetry, Poetry, Problems

I hear the words stumble off your lips

And cringe-smile somewhere in between

At the ridiculousness of it. Six whole days?

Passing up the space to be loved and flourish in

For a house to myself and nobody to go to.

Feel more than welcome to forsake your other life.

Again.

Yet here I am, it’s Thursday, and I’m a damn damsel in distress.

The plans I’ve weathered this loneliness for are, of course,

Matters you’d be more than happy to take care of.

I feel like I’m being tricked whenever I hear you get sweet.

I feel like I’m being trapped when I’m here for so damn long.

It’s just a week, but you occupy far more than I’m comfortable with.

I’m marooned on an island I bought a one-way ticket to.

No growth is potent enough. No high is high enough.

There’s no “enough” of anything I can do to be satisfied with this.

I won’t mess around and it’s frigid-ass cold out,

My friends are towns away and I’ve got nothing but my feet to make do till Sunday.

 

You’re more than welcome to fail again to live up to your promises.

You’re more than welcome to leave your friends wondering where you are again.

You’re more than welcome to keep your cousins missing you without reason.

You’re more than welcome to let her drink her “together” booze alone.

You’re more than welcome to turn away from the love Western Mass has to give.

But she’s going to drive you back, right?

 

I’m livid. Enough to mindfully consider breaking my Lent promises.

And what in the hell do I get from this place?

A couple handshakes and a fancy suit don’t justify this.

This clogs my pores and frays my nerves.

I hate missing the bus. I hate missing my family.

It feels like cars and friends have been reduced to strategic isolation

Masked up with duct-tape comfort and half-assed words

That don’t need to be meaningful because I’m STUCK.

It’s the same sugar I see the dogs walking behind their barrier for.

And now I’m trying to do that same thing to someone else to get some meaning from all of this.

I’ve got two and a half hours left to defy this restriction.

But any effort I make will prove unsatisfactory.

I’m livid.

I want my own home again,

Because every time I become a son

I start feeling y’all pulling at me again.

Dad

Empowerment, Family, Internal Poetry, love, Poetry

When I look in the crystalline shards of a morning’s reflection,

I’m seeing more and more of the reflection you’ve given me.

Coming to peace with the split in my personality,

I notice and love more and more of the gifts you’ve sent to me,

Through nature and nurture.

The frustration from failure and dropped expectations

Have paved the way over the years to peace in my routine.

Where the red side of my birthrites languished in love threatening stagnancy,

The corners of blue in my pockets and corneas drove me like a motor onwards.

I’m sure you know the anatomy of a cornea far better than I (eye) at this point,

But I’m sure somewhere between our methods of extracting,

We can both find happiness underneath the layers of somebody’s gaze.

Our sights are singular,

Purpose intermingling with dogma,

How else could you graduate top of your class, millimeters from catastrophe?

It’s a dogged determination I’ve learned from you,

That’s fed the hues of my leftmost blue

That spells a story birthday candles can’t do justice.

Often, I wonder what you felt like at the age I’m coming across now.

I wonder if the hope you had for next generation’s creation

Has brought pride to the meticulous upbringing of a future come true.

I wonder, at 20, if we struggle with similar strides,

Was it as hard to keep composure and poise?

You’ve paved the way for my success in ways only a wish for a better life can.

Some day, in a coming February 25th,

We’ll celebrate your life and your birth and your legacy of memories

With new aspirations manifested into your extended family.

There were times I feared we wouldn’t have those moments.

Roadside malice closed the doors for a moment,

I couldn’t form the feelings to put shape to that fear,

And I still don’t know how to now.

But that hurdle has miraculously passed.

You remain with us.

So here’s to another February 25th.

I know you’ve never been a man of gifts,

But I can’t help but glow at this fateful gift and sigil.

To many, many more Februaries

Where the second power of five adds another tick

To the celebrations given to Michael Pucci.

It was the first exponent I ever learned when my age was the first power,

When you opened the doors and made me believe in myself.

I love you.