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.