Some Understanding

November 17, 2012 § 4 Comments

Why didn’t I trust her more? That’s what my mom asked me today. Shocked when I reveal I have PTSD. Angry that I won’t look at her, you can’t be perfect! Have I ever expressed any disappointment in you?

Even then I was tap dancing, doesn’t she get that? I so wanted to be the wonderful thing in her life. I wanted to make up for my dad and all his faults and abuses. I would be great. not only great, I’d be the best and it wouldn’t be for nothing. Do you understand that? It wouldn’t be for nothing if I was something.

Perfect people don’t get raped. Once raped, forever ruined, broken, busted, disgusting, damaged, broken, violated, pussy pussy pussy, did I mention broken? Why didn’t he insist I tell him? Why didn’t my dad DEMAND I tell him? Why didn’t he go out and defend me like he did my brother? Why didn’t he fucking realize my need? How that left me all alone?

Fuck you. I didn’t tell you fucking people because you’d never understand. No one can, so whats the point in talkin’…

Because Someone Else Believed In God

November 5, 2012 § 1 Comment

The man who saved me died of a blood clot in his brain when he was 20 years old. He died while I was in college and living in Lynn. It was shocking, as these young deaths are. I had been alternatingly kind and cruel to this boy, as teenage girls are. His confidence was intoxicating but… he wasnt much to look at.

To go to the service, I just had to get off the bus. But I didn’t. And when I didn’t, I laid my head against the glass and asked for forgiveness. I asked him to forgive me for still not being better. Not better enough to go to his funeral and say good-bye. Not better enough to be facing up to a lot of the bad things in my life.

The man who saved my life broke my biggest promise.

Please, please, please don’t tell anyone he follows me. Dont tell anyone he has hit me. Yes, he does put his hands on me but don’t tell, please please, don’t tell, keep my secret, keep my shame, keep it quiet, like all pain maybe it will go away, no, I don’t fear my life, no he never follows me, no it’s not that bad I shouldnt have said anything, please don’t tell anyone…

He told Father Doolan, a weak prissy man whom I had seen nod off in assembly, who showed me a roll of communion like crackers in a Ritz box. Weak, spineless, disgusting, why would I ever think someone like him…

No one could save me from my torture, certainly not some pudgy sinner a pompous promise away from diddling boys…

But this man, this boy whom I made promise, he believed. He has been raised to believe the church helped so maybe that’s why, I think that’s why. I don’t know. I never asked him. Then, the time to ask was gone and time was gone and he was gone. He who saved me, he who hurt me and the man of God.

Impenetrable Lessons

October 24, 2012 § 1 Comment

face honey slut

Ghetto Girl

October 24, 2012 § 1 Comment

ghetto girl
ready to stay

Piss Alley Ode

August 16, 2012 § 19 Comments

Full on run to alley, with love,

Wine. With patchwork lit neon sign

beer stink night gone to the weak rub

quarter click mix up pocket fine,

still no holes. Park with lost kind,

stops shapes corner kiss remiss by

mornings smell of piss in lot lines.

Brick beyond lottery egg fry.


For dVerse FormForAll…Love community. Love poets.

Sore Places

July 13, 2012 § 3 Comments

riding past Ramsdell Rd.
the post office parking lot
with rows of white beetle trucks
idle wait to trundle their bundles.
missed my usual whisking chariot
too bruised by the night thus
over-snoozed the button
the builder has me up late
stacking ohs and ahs
over my sore places

City of Sin

July 3, 2012 § 19 Comments

Fish fry afternoon
45 minute walk on inferno cement
to polluted ocean
on flush town border

remember when it was just me and you
tripping on Jules coffee
in our ghetto love nest
with our oven-ette
and three cats?
Diamond district house paint fume war
Feet slap uneven sidewalk
Storefront ghosts,
like old tyme moth ball ladies
holding bedraggled
parasols against the aging sun

save 3 dollars for ice cream sandwiches
and debate the bus ride back to
the center of the lost land
minorities and poverties
in walmart flip-flops and expensive
cars parked in front of
matchbox apartments
carved from mansions of founding sea fathers
when the ocean was king
not the city
the ocean was king
fishing was king of money
and diamonds were bought with the blood of boats
sweat is also salty
leaving the cast offs now to reclaim
the elemental home as their own
we smelled the ocean every single day,
then the garbage, then the cooking oil
and back in out bed/couch with our bowl/solace
I’d make you dinner and
we’d swear there was nothing
better than two rooms of
our own and freedom
near the ocean.

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