Sanctioning

Tears bleeding

With the sorrowful

Overflowing memories

Swelling into rivers

Of the beautiful

New countryside

Within my heart

A slow healing

a boy sits beneath moonless darkness,

perched upon the jagged stump of

fallen oak, staring at the void and

counting rows of blackened crops.

he sees himself in the stalks, standing

frail and forgotten and waiting for

decimated legs just before death and

it will match their hunger when it arrives.

he wonders if they'll pray first, before

savage teeth break to bits the only

remnants of nourishment he has to offer.

or if consumption will overtake with desecration

as all he ever was is shred in hectic frenzy while

their idle talk depicts days of abundance.

and he hopes, that within the silence between

bites one may hear him fading and for

brief moment count bleak beyond the walls

with him in the shadow-stalk sea and

only time will sever the end of his isolation.

I lie with trees

And War Gods blight my veins.

There's a tell in this

marbling;

A vein of truth.

I tried,

but there are, honestly,

no

fucks—left to give

in the darkness of days.

I lie with trees

And Morpheus persists.

Eyes bright berries, but

the woodpecker has come

for insects beneath my flesh. (He inspects.)

I tried,

but there is . . .

Only

This—

I rest upon the havoc carried

in the wake of gloom, floating

forward soft above the surface of

swaying blades and silken spider hammocks.

I struggle for root, cleaving to the luck

of windbreak crashing earth.

but fate will leave me rolling

down the glimmered trickle of flooded

need, carrying me ocean,

to join the great seedling cemetery

and when I cross the salted threshold

I'll feel the downward thrust of fortunes cleaver

sever my chances of bloom, never to be

plucked by love, never to tickle the dainty breath

of damsels adored in cluster made of petals

worthy to die and dissipate and waft for queens.

At last I am a functional mom. Having procrastinated at least 8 weeks too long, I am making the necessary trip to the hair salon for my two youngest boys' hair cuts. As I take my seat, and pull up @Prose, a well-dressed, actual grown-up man sits across from me.

His grey designer suit matches the sobering echo in his eyes. At first, I look at him with warm sympathy, Did your wife make you bring the kids here after church, so she could attend pilates? I cringe at my cynical impression, but resign to its accuracy. A typical modern-day man with puttering testosterone.

I look at him and recognize his monochrome type. His balls live hidden in his fishbowl iPhone where occasionally he takes them out to fondle them. He sneaks peeks at Internet porn, while exercising his ADHD-quality to quickly react when he erases the Search History from his "family plan," just before rubbing one out mutely (pre-) his gluten-free muffin each day.

He doesn't dare ask his wife to blow him, and he imagines fucking his (under-developed and over-sized glass wearing) 20-something hipster secretary from behind when he makes love missionary-style to his sleepy wife on every 3rd Saturday. It is not to say that he has poor character or that he doesn't love his wife, but his masculinity is suffocating.

He fantasizes about the days when he was allowed to burp and eat red meat rare. He loves to hear homemade explosions and he feels reborn through beer-infused male bonding. But now, in his proper, upper-crust, cookie cutter Victorian, all he can do is report steadfast from 8 to 5, and look forward to the once-a-year rituals that bring his type together (e.g., the Super Bowl).

And I sit here in a stained flannel with two broken buttons, my worn black boots, heavy cleavage rising and falling (thanks to extra boozing weight), and last night's mascara hanging heavy under my EMO eyes--and he stares. I am an anomaly. He ponders my age. My son sports his preppy, private school jacket, but I look like I have yet to go to bed after a rough night of whoring.

This man in the lobby is obviously now attempting to do the math, and he shifts in his seat glancing at my respective children and then back at me. I have got a couple life lines here and there, and a tramp stamp he notices when I bend over. Pop culture discloses that I am obviously between 35 and 45, and he lets out an audible perplexity in disbelief. Responsible women around here simply do not look like me.

And just as the silent interrogation gets heavier, I drop my purse and a condom falls out. Perfect. I cooly catch his eye as I pick it up. I wink, just to fuck with him. He appears to have not seen a Trojan for years, if ever, but I bet he knows all about the rhythm method. He clears his throat with palpable discomfort.

And at the end of the day, the ironic part is that I too veil my inner self. It is debatable whether the resulting effects in this man were borne like mine. Are they self-infused or forced, and does it matter? Unoriginally, I am but the most mundane analogy: a hardened, distasteful clam shell that holds the possibility of a pearl--should someone present with an ability and interest to handle me in the necessary ways, while affording me the patience it would take for me to eventually shine for them. Tough odds considering the outward book cover I use to advertise, complicating things further.

This poor bastard isn't doing anything wrong. In fact, he is doing exactly what he is supposed to be doing. Then why, and it happens often, do I feel enormous empathy for his existence?

Comically, the man and I get up to pay at the same time. Shy with a fear that he has heard my judgmental thoughts, I avoid his eye contact. And as I turn to leave and return to my comfortable sanctity of darkness, he touches my shoulder and speaks to me inches from my face. By the way, nice tattoo: my wife has the same exact one.

-Rei

Every second of every minute I think of your name, your smile, and your beauty; and how it would always consume me.

To know that you were there as a friend.

An ally, through thick and thin, to the end.

But when love struck my great tower,

You were the sun, hidden from me by that darkened, cloudy sky.

So why has life forsaken me to never be ever with thee in happiness or matrimony.

I write this with tears in my eyes counting all the whys and what if's that surround my longing for you but by the blasted bastard so many call God, I will never be happy with you. All because your beautiful emerald eyes face another and I am simply but a brother that will never know what it's like to hold you in his arms.

I'm sorry for being the freak that you don't seek. You know where to find me if it is at all necessary.

Sincerely,

Rei, the lonely lover boy.

Lay her down to rest

In the stars

Falling

Into eternity’s fitful sleep

Eyes a flicker

In the light of time

Her skin chalky

With the stars

The dust

The bits and pieces that have

Fallen

Into place

He watched with half-lidded eyes

as she tied his ankles to the bedposts

with his silk ties knotted tightly.

She handcuffed his hands

above his head – no escape

and tossed the key aside

feather was her tool to tickle

and tantalize his eager body

To the breaking point of lust

Never reaching peak of passion

although he begged again and again

mouth trying without success

to reach her tantalizing promises

pleading with her, he closed his eyes

awaiting culmination of nirvana

overtaking body in spasms of desire

endured for what seemed like hours

before opening eyes to take a glimpse

why she had withdrawn her teasing

he called her name but she had vanished

the phone rang all day summoning him

but he never showed up for work

he racked his brain before remembering

why she had left him tied, naked and alone

he recalled in dismay what he had done to her

he cried out in desperation as he saw his life ebb

while she sat in the park waiting for his end

smiling knowingly as she achieved retribution.

I'm sure I made a most comical sight

As I ran from the office into the hall,

Ripping my dress off before I'd even

Reached privacy in the bathroom stall.

I hate bugs so much, it's not my fault.

Little bastards that drop from the ceiling.

Hitchhiking rides on the hem of my dress,

Dive bombing until I'm squealing.

Another day, I've got the toaster out,

Frozen waffles for my hungry stomach.

Then BANG! With a gunshot, waffles eject.

Startled, I run, but I fall on my buttock!

I'm in the shower, steam fills the room

Warm water's nice, calms & soothes

Then a knock on the door, I scream, then slip

I greet the floor of the tub with my tooth.

Parking lot at Walmart, I'm out & about.

Ready to go do my shopping.

I'm texting again, eyes down on my phone.

Then what a shock, my hearts dropping!

At the rumbling roar of a mean engine

Belonging to a big old mean truck.

Sure enough one has pulled in behind me.

I whisper to myself "What the fuck?!"

Because the truck behind me is unknown.

Why does my brain get so tangled?

The ordinary sound of a truck should not

Remind me of how I got strangled.

See, years of abuse and control didn't stop

When I left, but do they ever?

Two months gone, then the surprise attack

From the husband who promised forever.

It's been over a year but I'm still not divorced

He fights me in every way possible

Punishing me for the end of our marriage

In my way, he throws every obstacle.

Post traumatic stress disorder. PTSD.

In a constant state of fight or flight.

I jump out of my skin, easily startled

When things go bump in the night.

I look like a psycho, I can't speak without shaking

To those who knew me "before".

Rumors he spread make sense to them now.

I must be a crazy, drunken whore.

If I was abused, where is the record?

For help, I should've called cops.

They just don't get the level of control

Or an abusive man who won't stop.

So next time you see a girl jump out of her chair,

At a normal, everyday sound

Keep in mind she might have PTSD.

And her unseen issues are profound.