She waits in the old field

where the sun hangs low

skirting the tall grass

her soft face aglow

Perched beneath the willow

where he'd first seen her face

she flips through the pages

of some far off place

There are bugs in the meadow

there's a tear in her eye

but she stays as the sun goes

and doesn't let herself cry

On the last day of spring

in the cool, melting breeze

there was hope in her heart

as she stared past the trees

That his face would appear

and her dreams would be real

in this field of old days

where her heart he did steal

Come the light in the morning

with its treacherous glow

her back all in knots

her eyes blinking slow

An ant on her fingers

A bend in her spine

She shook out her skirts

Told herself all was fine

There's another day coming

And a chance he's just late

Must've tripped in the woods

A slow limp in his gait

He'll emerge in the clearing

he'll run to her soon

Her bones will ache happy

heart full as the moon

She slips into sleep

as the birds chirp their song

pleading and begging

that it now won't be long

And the echoes of whispers

of old hopes dying slow

they all fail to wake her

from the thing that she knows

Her old love will not come

for his body is bone

gone to dust in the remnants

of a bloody war-zone

It's been years since his going

it's been years since her own

but she waits in the field

with a face full of stone

There's a ghost in that field

say the ones passing by

There's a lover who's waiting

for a chance at goodbye.

On the day your think you're better,

you envision a cliff and you are standing at its edge.

It is not a cliff for diving,

for it is too high up for that.

The force of impact when you hit the dark water below

would kill you instantly,

like the hard fall from a skyscraper,

only to find the remains of a desperate jumper

who met their fate against the city's sidewalk.

No, you are the focal point of this story.

And you are not the tragedy of a human you once were.

You are the hero standing at the cliff's edge

wearing some "Gone with the Wind" type dress.

You are now the person who can get through most mornings

without feeling sick to your stomach,

because you remembered all the regret you dreamed

from yet another black night of shaky sleep.

You are a new version of an old you,

you actually like,

before your fall.

Before the screaming with a closed mouth.

You are at the cliff's edge and you are not going to jump.

And your mom asks if you even need to keep seeing your therapist.

And you are actually able to answer, "Probably not?"

It is a question, because in this moment

you are checking to see if you are better,

that you are, in fact, once again "normal".

And your mom may not answer,

and your mom may just smile a genuine smile at you.

All the answers peeking through her white teeth,

reminding you of stark, white cliffs

against a dark sea.

And you may think that you are better.

Whatever that even means.

And maybe you are,

"better",

I mean.

Then you remember that sometimes

you still feel like that jumper.

The one policemen and women have nightmares about.

The one they have talked to for hours,

thinking that they are getting through to them.

Crying, "Think of all you have yet to be!"

And they mean these words.

They want the jumper to see beyond the dark water below.

Yet the jumper does the only thing they know how to in times like these.

They look into the policemen and women's eyes,

silently saying sorry

and

they

jump.

That night the policemen and women cry behind closed doors,

with naked dreams of black waters

against white cliffs too high to jump from.

And here you are,

thinking you are better,

wishing you didn't have to think of jumping in the first place.

Between the myriad of advertisements

The radio doesn't rhyme

It celebrates, laments, describes,

But not every word is

So clearly designed

To fit together perfectly;

Not every tone aligned

The road blurs

Beneath the car

Like a spinning record

Around around around

Each time a different spot pinned down

By the revolving wheels

Each time a different ground

Wander far over

Unending planes of grey

Scarred by cracks and tar

The crimson-tainted orange hues

Of the receding sun

Piercing through the horizon;

Can’t see where you are

Sickeningly sweet fumes

Drifting like fog

Along the crowded lanes

Filling your lungs

Taking your breath away

Until a rising breeze quiets the dooms

Of idling too long

As the darkness rolls out from

Beyond the distant hills

From between the solemn trees

That stand witness along the red-lit road

The soft-edged neon spots that

Speckle the way for miles blur

And from the from the woods'

Long grass resounds

Cricket trills

Gas station

After gas station

Each more vacant than the last,

Their signs a glowing hand held up

Indifferently over the blackening sky

Not in greeting, but notification

Of fuel pumps and coffee

To whoever is passing by

A meter on your dashboard blinks

You look at the time

1:02 AM

Glowing white numbers

Searing into your aching eyes

You blink

And blink again

Sometime, long ago, you thought

About stopping for the night

About taking a break

But the wheels keep rolling

And you keep going

Along the endless freeway

Into the dark

Priscilla cooks a hearty dinner...

The rain washes the windowpanes...

Now Mr. Jack eats like a winner...

Propped on an elbow, Priscilla feigns...

Behind a coffee cup she snickers...

What pretty dimples will never show...

A shroud of shade hangs in the kitchen...

Her doting husband snags his coat...

Ambitious landowner now calling...

His slaves are ousted from his fields...

Where did Mr. Jack's pretty new wife go?...

His prickly callous heart now reels...

Lo, a lamp hung in the distance!...

Where Jim, the Farmer's favorite stud,

Resides inside with his prized banjo...

Wood shack is slathered; ensconced with mud...

Jack marches out there on a hunch...

Inhaling every danger sign...

The matching set of fresh footprints...

His wife and Jim's make a bee-line...

He sneaks around this hut, and that...

Rotting relics stand for his neglect

For human nature and compassion...

At last arriving at his suspect...

Red fabric blocking out all windows;

The Boss can hear her moan and gasp...

The ugly music of bad bedsprings...

Have Jack embedded in his tracks...

Mr. Jack peers through a slither...

The door is propped an eighth an inch...

Jim Bo has both her legs spread high...

He's driving home his fever pitch!...

Jim's making his long point well known...

Flushed Priscilla has veiled both eyes...

There's cards spread out upon a table...

She's wincing as Jim slaps her thigh...

Jack stumbles back out the door backwards!...

He can't unsee Jim's every thrust...

He's off upon a ticked mad dash....

It's murder or he'll have to bust!...

At home in his messed room of horrors

Each time he blinks he's seeing red

Mr. Jack's gun's up and gone missing...

Gloms can of gas out from his shed...

Spilling some gas upon his boards,

Now Mr. Jack pops off a cork...

He guzzles down some Moonshine quick...

The twilight leaking in with force...

Though filthy with his shame and rancor,

Jack sets at counter for a spell,

And contemplates his roaring anger...

He's without compass drowned in his well...

He stares at pans that hang above him...

He looks down at his quaking hands...

Mr. Jack's whip's hung up in the corner...

For many years blacks drove his land...

He wonders if they all despise him...

These slaves that Mr. Jack assumed

Were dumb as rocks, and made for labor...

Inside his skull they shared no room...

...No, not until this ruined moment...

Mr. Jack lingers, deep in thought...

He feels a bulge inside his jacket...

A half smoked stogie long forgot...

He lights it's tip; discards the match

With little caution on the floor...

His ornate house erupts in a wall of flames!...

In vain Jack searches for an unblocked door...

Back at Jim's shack, the lover's pause

Their limbs entwined give off a playful scent...

A look of concern creases Jim's brow...

A gruesome scream slipped through his vent...

Priscilla and Jim stand out upon the porch

Watching the white hot flames erupt

Where once the Bossman's house had stood...

Mr. Jack's storybook's now shut...

Jim drags a hand down 'cross his face,

And stumbles in to get his hootch...

Thinks now the farmland goes to the slaves,

Least until a new Boss comes home to roost...

4/2/24

Bunny Villaire

In A Hospital

In a hospital

Not much left to talk

Silence plots your king

Your queen takes everything

Or the other way around

The way it is set up

In a hospital

Not much left to talk

War deems everything

The way it is set up

As unnecessary beings

In a hospital

Not much left to talk

Silence plots your queen

The way that she’s being

Makes war seem unnecessary

Not much left to talk

In a hospital

Upon the fridge was pinned a note

In hurried hand it had been wrote

It said exactly this, I quote

'I'm joining Johnny on his boat'

No further message there was penned

My poor heart, oh it did rend

That man was far more foe than friend

I fretted how it all might end

My girl was hardly more than lass

Although she could be bold as brass

And on occasion rather crass

She had no business with that ass

I'd heard stories 'bout that man

About his off-white panel van

My face went pale, I turned and ran

Mind scrambling to make a plan

My feet flew down towards the dock

As chimes emitted from the clock

Those schemes of his, I planned to block

That boat of his would surely rock

When I arrived, the dock was bare

Neither he nor she were there

I almost wilted with despair

He'd lured her right into their lair

See Johnny was a simple fool

Passing handsome, never cruel

He often hung around the pool

Making the young women drool

But I knew where he'd take his date

A place where bad men lay in wait

Their stone-cold eyes filled up with hate

I hoped I wouldn't be too late

There was at river's mouth a place

Perched atop the high rock face

These cloaked men had made their base

That was where my feet did race

I donned a cloak and grabbed a gun

I planned to kill them one by one

Oh they'd regret what they had done

They'd not live to see the sun

The trip took longer than I'd like

The cult's lair was quite a hike

I hid in bushes, poised, catlike

Waiting for the time to strike

What I witnessed shocked me raw

Rocked my foundations to the core

My girl was there, feet on the floor

I'd never seen her look so sure

A knife in hand, she faced the men

She sliced and then she sliced again

Til blood was thick in that bullpen

She slaughtered them from one to ten

I'd never seen her move so quick

Their bodies did she nick and prick

The scarlet ground became quite slick

The last man gave a death throe kick

She turned to where I hid close-by

As if she knew my eyes did spy

'You read the note?' her voice was shy

'T'was time for these bad men to die'

I stood up and smiled at her

'My girl, of course I do concur,

I wanted these deaths to occur

I wished we'd had time to confer'

'I tried to tell you once or twice

But what's done, it should suffice'

Her eyes were hard as winter ice

'I've ended virgin sacrifice'

she had red hair

red as the face

of fire, knife, glinting

in the dancing flames

my hood pulled down

tight so they couldn’t see

the terror reflected in my eyes

but I held up my hand

questions poised in my lips

her milky skin danced against

flames as high as the sun

as I bought time like lottery

tickets, sacrificing my own

sex rendered body

for that of the untouched

until there was no more time

for sale weeping as both

our bodies triumphed in

the patiently waiting flames

our throats smiling

from ear to ear

Looking in the mirror always centers me.

It brings me right back to the present moments as if it somehow knows that I've been everywhere but right here.

I'm usually caught up in a past thought, obsessing over something meaningless or trying to take control of something that can't be controlled.

I'm a terrible daydreamer. I'm constantly romanticizing or catastrophizing my thoughts.

But the moment I look in a mirror, it grabs all my thoughts and holds them for a moment so that I can look at myself in the present.

I may have spent the entire day criticizing my past self or trying to imagine what my future self will be, but a mirror always reminds me to focus on what I am right now. Because that's the only person, I need to be.

"Today, when I looked in the mirror, I saw someone that's trying to figure themselves out, figure life out, and learn to live with themselves even when the guy looking back in the mirror isn't who they want to see." -IND

Do I see the same Me, that you see when you see me? I see me, the version I see, is but a pretty woman, not beautiful or gorgeous, just pretty. A woman that's a little plump but not so much that it's displeasing to the eye. A woman with a spark and shine in her eye as if she knows what she knows and she's sure to show you. A spark and a smile, a shine that is bright and will always be seen. That is what I see when I see me. This is what I glimpse when I catch just a bit of my reflection in my peripheral vision. I also see a pretty but plain woman. A basic person that probably needs to loose weight. Nothing more, Nothing special. For which do others see I think soley remains in the manner I protray myself. At times I'm loud and boisterous, opinionated and well you'll never forget me and others I'm quiet and stay hidden from site. This isn't a manipulation on my part it's just a matter of how confident or safe I feel in my environment. And that's who I see in the mirror. As complex as that may be, I can't be just one.

Being a father sometimes makes you a superhero. I've seen it myself. I've DONE it myself. I recently watched a video of a father, a rather portly individual, perform a swift and precise physical maneuver that a practiced ballerina or figure skater might have problems pulling off. The burly individual was carrying his very young baby in his arms as he walked up what turned out to be a rather slippery-wet concrete driveway. Somebody had left the hose running. The father's feet slipped out from under him and he fell forward. It was obvious in that instant that he was going to do a full-on faceplant on the concrete and the baby, his baby, would be crushed between the concrete and his barrel-chested bulk. But the father's superhero powers kicked in just in the nick of time, and in less than one second, as he was perpendicular to the ground and about twelve or fifteen inches away from SPLAT, he performed this lightning-fast, horizontal, half-pirouette, his back smacking hard against the pavement, his baby sheltered safely in his arms.

Now, as for me, I had about the most underheroic father a guy could ever have. My father was, in a sufficient number of ways to frustrate the crap out of me for life, an imbecile. And yet, I am told that my father once fell off a tall ladder while holding me, and that he somehow hit the ground entirely upon his own flank with infant me held safely aloft in one of his arms. So my father clearly had the fatherly superpowers, too. But of course, being my father, there is still the issue of Why the hell were you up on a ladder with a baby in your arms in the first place??

My own exploit of fatherly superheroism is a bit more humble than those examples of flying fathers. I didn't fall from anything. And yet I still don't know how I did it, how I pulled it off that fast. It was a thing that just came over me. Whoosh. I did it. I defied the normal speed and reaction of things, I vibrated my molecular structure like The Flash or whatever, and--

ZIP!--Did I just do that?

My wife at the time, the narcissist that I didn't yet know was a narcissist, she had just given birth to our first child. She had undergone a caesarian section. There were a couple complications with the narcissist that caused us to have to stay at the hospital for a few days, but finally, I had just brought them both home.

There is something about pregnancy, the hormones it causes to happen in the female body, that temporarily makes even a female narcissist behave more femininely. Her hair grew longer and thicker. She wasn't as ruthlessly controlling. There was actually a slight softening in her demeanor toward me; there was actually a smidgen of a window of a tiny glance at an actual woman in there. And even this tiny smidgen of a window tapped into my natural protective instinct as a father and husband. It was rare that I ever got to feel that around her.

But here we had just arrived back into the bedroom, and my narcissist-wife, holding our baby girl, walked over toward the bed, and I followed closely behind, not wanting to be at all distant from this little miracle we'd created. I wanted to be as close as possible to both of them, and it was a good thing, too.

My wife, unbeknownst to me, was still suffering from the complications of the c-section-gone-somewhat-wrong. My child's mother, my narcissist-wife, showed me the only shred of vulnerability that she would ever show to me in 13 evil years of marriage to her. She emitted this sudden sigh of distress and immediately lost consciousness in front of me. Like, IMMEDIATELY.

I had one literal second to act. One. Somehow, in that one second, my left arm darted through under her left armpit, my right arm somehow darted around her, sliding between her right forearm and our baby, cradling our daughter for a nanosecond in one arm, then I half-slung, half-slid our baby girl safely onto the bed, then my right arm darted back again and quickly through and under my wife's right armpit, and WHOOSH, all her weight collapsed into my arms--and let me tell you, she is not a small woman by any means of evaluating the sizes of women. I carefully, dexterously slid my limp wife onto the floor, and that took another second or two. I stood there in that bedroom, my baby in a bundle on the bed, my wife out cold on the floor, and I could feel the adrenaline superpowers of The Flash coarsing through my entire body. It was good.

The ambulance was called. The narc would have smacked her head badly against whatever was behind her, had I not been there to catch her. Someone flipped a switch on her body and brain and she had been still standing, but CLICK and she was OUT. Our newborn baby daughter would have been dropped on the floor.

I never did get a "thanks" from the narc for that one, nor for any other one, in all those 13 evil years. That's the thing about narcissists: They're quite consistent and quite predictable, once you figure them out.

But yeah, fathers. You rock. That means me, too.—Despite whatever slanders you've heard about me from the narc (and don't pretend you haven't; she's visited just about everybody by now; they always do).