losing home

The son of man
Has no place to rest his head.

The Servant of man
has no home.

Do I consider myself
a servant of men?

They say I do
So much

But do I ?

I am a part of
one,
   Two,
         three,
                four
at least,
           communities.


When I left the man
I made
my Oppressor

I lost
        my roots.
I lost
       my family.

I lost a warm mother.
An informative father
a loving cat
a fun group of people
                        on holidays and birthdays
                        with online notifications & graduations.

I spent
          four years

learning names
allergies
birthdays
occupations
and relations.

I spent
          four years

guess names of states and phrases at parties
washing dishes after gatherings
preparing rooms for guests

all that work,

all that
          Love

seems lost.

                  I still Love them.
               
I still think of yarn and Cynthia.
Still think of root beer and Galen.
Still think of bunnies and Rosie.

I still think of Philly and the Brubakers.
Still think of Seattle tales and Heiki's clan.
Still think of Sarasota and Keech crew.

I still think of all of you.

I still want to say,
"Merry Christmas!"

I still want to guess which soup has bay.

I still want to strategically sit in the living room
 So I can have Galen and Rosie on my Catch Phrase team.

I want
that kind of family.

I want
a family.
            an extended family

            That understands
                                      who I am
                                      who I am becoming
                                      and where I came from

The way you did.

I don't want
 
to be with someone
who has said all the terrible things I had to endure
to be with all of you.

I don't want

to be with someone
who thinks he should be patted on the back
for sharing his day in 10 minutes

                              and calling that
                                                      a conversation.

I don't want

to be with the black sheep,

                                            But that's what it was
                                            if we are all being honest.

My access to a family I loved so much
 was through someone

                                   who refused to be part
                                   of his own family.

If I had less need
of self care
                maybe it could have worked.

But as we grew,
I knew
          I would not be coming home to all of you.

I would be coming home to him.

                                            I would need more support than that
                                            If I were to be
                                                                  a servant of men.

Even when he began to wake up
he could not provide
                                the support
                                                 I needed
                                 the connection
                                                       I craved.

And too much damage had been done
                                                           to myself esteem
                                                           to my trust
                                                           to myself

                to make any of his amends

                viable.

                                                                               the corpse was already dead.

It's sad
                       no really, it is.
                                                           It's sad,

That he didn't listen to me sooner,
That he didn't wake up
                                                     until he had killed me
                                                     until I was done.

It is sad.
                                                   because I loved him
                                                  almost as much as I loved you.

                                                  I loved you all so much.
                                                  and you reciprocated.

                                                I can never thank you enough.

If only
           he was not the black sheep
If only
          he treated me the way you did
If only
         he had the same passion for life
                                                 and justice
                                                  and wholeness
The way
             you all did.
                                             How did he live with you?
                                                      How did he grow with you?
                                         and Not
                                                      LEARN
                                and Not
                                             SEE

How to be the wonderful people
                                         who welcomed me?
                                                   
                                                                                    I may never understand.

full.

My heart is so full.
                         
                  My Heart is so               l.
                                         f           l
                                               u

My Heart is so Full                                                         t
                      There'e barely room to                    a               h
                                                              b           e                             e.
                                                                    r



My Heart is so Full
       my heart is so FULL.

My heart is so Full,
           There's barely space to
                                                        f
                                                        e
                                                        e
                                                         l
                                                         .

My mind is so blank.

My Mind is so Bl_nk.                

My Mind is SO blank

There's barely room to                                                                     

TH  NK.                                                           

      I                                                                  

My Heart is so Full                 

                       My Mind is so BlaNK

My Heart is so full.                             

                             so FULL        My Mind is so bla_k

                  SO bl_nk.
SO full.

                    there no more

                          room.

(My heart is so full)

[My Mind is so B_ank]

(My Heart is so full)

{My mind is so Bl_nk}

(My Heart is so Full)

[My mind is so Bla_k]

(So Full)

{So BLANK}

(It's too Full)

I could faint. 

[I can't wait]  

Sometimes.

Sometimes it's hard to stand up.
Sometimes it's hard to breathe.

Sometimes it's hard to sit down.
Sometimes it's hard to leave.

Best of {Me} Mates

to be what one is

without
                            Apology

is a beautiful thing.


to be what one is

to be
         with    Another

and not
           without     Self

is lovely.


Oh, to have learned
and understood this
long ago


But some things can only be learned

                                              and not
                                                            Taught.


When you find someone who understand this

who understands
                             You

Hold on to them.
Do not allow yourself to let them slip from your heart
                                                                                  or mind.

for when someone is as much their pure self
                                                        around you
                                                        as you are
                                                       around them

you may, my dear
        you just may
                              have found

                              what some call
 
                                                          Soul Mate.


{and these are the best of mates}

S L I P

I am afraid

of myself.

As egalitarian as
                          we are

I fear
        that you are saving me.


I dreamed a different universe
                                   in which
                                   you did not
                                      exist

but all my turmoil
                             did.

                                    a universe where
                                    he stayed in close quarters
                                    once rejected
                                    (like before)


I don't care what he thinks--
It was hard for me to reject him

It took    s t r e n g t h
                                    and  s e l f  c a r e

(and I am not always good at that).

I fear that the person I am

is the person who would

S L I P

so easily into his possession again

if you were not here (in heart).


                                        There was some peace there
                                         in his embrace.

                                         I am not such a masochist
                                         that I would have stayed otherwise.


but possibly because his presence was so physical
his absence purely in his mental and positive emotional

and you

s e e m             s o              f a r                              away

that the universe my dreams create
is one where self doubt reins.

                                                              if it was't for you,
                                                              would i S L I P ?

It's Okay

I hope that I am not my father
that I do not

destroy

what is good.

He saw it in me,
the same thing,

the same fate

                      he had fallen to

time and time again.


"You don't have to make yourself lose,"
he says.

"I don't know what you are talking about,"
I say.

He gestures to the colored board that a related child had abandoned me at.
"You make sure that you don't win."

"She's five."
I shrugged.

"I do it too,"
He says, heavy.
"I don't think I am allowed to win."

I am trying to block him out.

"But we are, Tasha.

It's okay.

We are allowed to win sometimes."


Maybe I am afraid of winning.
Maybe I am afraid to get what I want.
Maybe I am afraid to be happy.

Does he think of that?

Maybe
like him,

I will self-destruct if things are too good,
because if I make myself loose,
I do not have to deal with

the pain

of having something taken away.


"I don't know what you're talking about Dad."
I pretend not to cry.

name

The trees whisper your name

not the letters or the syllables
but the way in which I know you
                                                   
    The way in which my mind recalls you.



The crickets give their piece too
a ever murmuring
                            the heart beat
                            of the woods.



The trees whisper your name


and I listen
                  with joy.

Palms

I guess I'm out of practice.
The toughening of skin.

I had done it so much for so long
emotionally
bottling up my thoughts
that would be deemed
stupid
                                     And just letting my body be comfort.

with you
it is the exact

Opposite.

I let my mind flow
one idea, observation, joke to the next
the innards of my mind become as intertwined with yours
as light through a fiber optic.

and I must harden the skin
of my palm.

the itch I feel
to reach out and grasp yours
I forget
is to be subdued.

I was so good before-- before The Gap.
I saw you so often, was so near to you
that I had trained the tingle in my hand to ebb away
the warmth in my thighs to subside
the flush of my face to calm.

the exact
opposite

of how I taught myself to be with him
is how I must relearn

to be with you.

                                     Unless,
                                                 Of course
                                      I learn that is what you have wanted too.

Transitions

Transitions
are hard.

Transitions
are needed.

Sometimes
  Transitions
             are wanted--
Sometimes
              they are not.


When someone is made to feel special,
 How does one cope?

when message after message is sent
           when hour after hour is spent

reconvening
relearning
               one another
how can I not feel special?
how can I not feel loved?
how can I keep
                       my unrequited love at bay?
                             as we each talk of our own perpetual loneliness.

I look back to what I held onto;
what gave me strength in my role of "just friends"
Never to be a glove upon that hand,
                                                        I glance at the words,
                                                       "I never really see myself dating you"

ok. Good. We're clear.

"So, what's up with you and Corey?"

Who? Oh. Name Slip. Aaron.

Later:
         "Corey would always ask out the girls I liked...
           When I asked them why, they said, 'Because he asked."

Hmm.


Long walks, as we used to
 In the trees, as we used to:
                                            "The person I am now
                                              Would have dated you in High School."

Shield is shattered.
                Would have? What of now.

                                       "It's like I'm a piece of yourself you got back."

Yes, yes you are.
             You have always been.

                     "She is lucky to have found a good high school sweet heart"
                              "Haha, well I wish we could all have that kind of luck."

Maybe, we do.
            Maybe, me & you are 
                         that lucky.


                              I just don't know
             How to ask you.



                                                    I hate transitions.

Sequeal

A Beginning
and An Ending

The prologue to our story
caught between
                         with Acknowledgements.

Reunions are sweet.
Departures, heavy.
                              I wish an Authors Note
                              to tell
                              where the story is coming from
                              to remove
                                              speculation.

Like any sequel,
time has passed between the covers.
                                              There were passages left blank,
                                               timelines, only partially filled.

The same characters,
                                 another tale.

What does our sequel hold?
The part two to our adventures?
The continuing of our thought?

How strange that the setting would be framed between engagement--

A Beginning
and An Ending.

How strange
that we have both concluded
freedom as best;

Both concluded
help with growth the best.

I do no regret the path I took to get here;

I do not regret
the pain
it took together.

I do not regret my wantonness of you
I do not regret
the unrequited  response to my desire at a young age.

( I was not ready).

I do not regret
the love shared in between stories
                                 before stories.
                                                        they make us who we are.

Do not regret
the lessons learned.

What I do regret
is the lack of self respect
for myself-- for yourself.

                                                  You are beautiful.
                                                  You are desirable.

And yet,
All you see,
All I saw,
                  was how ourselves were not enough-- were too much
                                                                                were judged or put aside.

But when I found your side again,
     when I was by your side again,
                 I found the warmth I missed.

                                                 I found my friend.

And though I may wander in my wantonness
I care less about the journey's end

and I find I care more about
how each day

                       Begins.


                             

Plateau

So vibrant it is here-- another world than what I have lived.

Red rock and sage brush,
turquoise,
and a dusty sky.

The perspective
is clearer up here
on the plateau.

It is a sturdy place to build a home,
The Hopi told me so.

It is safe here, on the plateau.
A rising up,
A leveling out.

I level out
with you
              stopping
before I reach the pinnacle
                              of my point.

The San Francisco Peaks
seem so far away.

Deities live there,
that is what the Hopi say.

And so with you,
so far away,
a place I've always dreamed
but never reached.

Like climbing up Fish Point
with medicine men;

He does not know or understand his gift
but he accepts.

As you guide,
You accept.

Looking for someone like you, but not you.
(I thought I was too),
But aye! Not I.

(I'll accept.)


But as Eric Blue Bird sought his kokopelli
down to the deepest regions of Yucatan,
So I search for any sign
of where you're coming from.

Like Alice Blue Bird,
I gather up the salt;

We gather up succulent salt plant in grocer bags,
finding moisture in the dessert;
finding growth between the rocks.

I look beyond my dusted toes
red covered sandals
seeking nourishment in the desolate,
an old woman my guide.

Like drunken reservation youth,
reclaiming their own name, their own path,
I scrawl my own symbol with the ancients;
I try to carve out my own path.

I claw at the rock wall;
I climb and scrape my knee
but when I reach what seems the top,

I've only reached the plateau
not San Francisco Peaks.

The plateau is a good place to build a home,
the Hopi told me so.

But just as Skinny the Navajo
I wish to know
what lies beyond the peaks.

emmenit (death)

We can only do
so
    much.

To the touch,
           you were warm.
To the touch,
           you were known.

I knew your shape.

your day
your preferences
your triggers
your games.

I did not know,
               I never Knew,

The true state
                                    of your heart.

(I am sorry you were sick for so long)
( I am sorry I didn't know)
                                                               Didn't know
                                                                          of your cancer of the soul.

I am sorry

That I am not a doctor.
That I was just a nurse
who tried to help you,
to make you comfortable,
to get you back on track;
but in your pain,
                         you claimed I made it worse.


It was too much for me.
And when you pushed the buzzer,
demanding my return
to turn over your bed pan
and I did not,
you withered
                      in pain        (alone).

But I could not help you
could not force you to under go treatment of the soul
                                                                   of facing self.

I cannot help you
even though you demand that  I do so.

You claim that I am your only
                                                 life
                                 your only
                                                hope.
you don't want to see
the doctor.

you claim you just now have seen
                                                 the truth.

like you couldn't tell;
like I could ever feel safe
while helping a stubborn, angry man throw bed pans of inner hate my way
plates of piss and blame
and blame me
for all his pain.

I am sorry friend.
I am sorry one I love.

I cannot help you
with your cancer.

I cannot help you
I concur.

And now you threaten,
to pull the plug.

A threat to cause
all nurses
to come and run.

But you say,
I am the only one.

I look around the ward and see
all those who find your life worth fighting for.

You look around and see
all those who could care less of thee.

I am sorry friend
I am sorry one I love.

You are to heavy for me to turn.
Your pain is too great for me to coax.

I cannot be your doctor; I can no longer be your nurse.

My shift is up,
my break is now.

I must rest
and find myself.


I pray for you
when I am not there
I pray that you
might find yourself
                                                 too.





                                                                                                                    good bye (my friend).

Knowing (and not)

How can you know,

that I connected your bated breaths on the phone line
with all the kind words you said?
all your silly jokes.

How could you?
How could you know,

that I didn't need that key or extra copy
just a chance to see you--
to maybe talk.

How could you know,

that the deep compassion, deep feeling, in your brow
for those you hardly knew
was so different.

How could you know

that through these minute interaction,
you gave me strength;
an invalid sipping broth.


How could you know

that while you were silently seeking yourself,
I was bound to one who devoid himself,
stoic.

That as you provided nourishing broth,
he provide gut-wrenching poison.

That while you praised my gifts and took interest,
he mocked and belittled them.

How could you know

that I would fall for you?

but that i would keep my hands out
to catch myself,
to protect myself,
to deny myself.

Others see it-- the wandering prophets told me so.

"we weren't sure if you were together," said the youngest.
"What made you think that?" I asked.
"It's the way you two communicate."

my heart froze in that second.
that moment refused me the safty off writing of my connection with you
as just another person to whom you shared compassion.

if this stranger saw what I told myself couldn't be true,
maybe there would the slightest chance,
just the tiniest fragment of possibility
that what I thought of you
was what you thought
of me.

tough.

Done.

Well done.

Over done.

like meat.

a long time sizzling

till you become tough.

the rawness of rare 

was a long time ago.

you know you have been forgotten here

on the coals

and you know someone will comment,

when you are presented,

on how you are not as you should be.

you can feel it already:

the judgment plate.

you will be sauntered out with poor wine and a spring of parsly

to try to cover up how 

done

you are.

I'm done.

muscles stiff, color, lacking, smell, stale.

my mind sits in a taught nagging-- a numbing.

no thoughts please, no more thoughts.

we are done, please;

let us just be done.

what ever juicy pink was once inside has been dried up.

If seasoned better, I might consider myself more like jerky.

but that is what I am afraid of, right?

being jerked around; being carelessly torn at by teeth after pulling me from a rations bag.

I'm afraid of drying up-- of being wrinkly because you are so vain- it is not becoming of you.

Afraid of become nothing

but a piece of meat

that is overdone.