loss two

another loss -ii

We stayed up all the night long tradin’ EDM cuts and smoking, and kept mostly quiet about all the damage our exes done us, knowing in our hearts the damage we done them, too. This here was as close to the street as I ever got, out of luck on the room I had paid for every week for several months, (someone had spotted my cat and complained, again, pets were not allowed) with the half-promise of a room in West Oakland, from the mouth of a corrupt attorney with one foot in the dope game and high all the time. I had no other recourse, none at all! This was twenty eleven. I had only to be willing to scrub and paint a small room full of furniture and covered in multiple cat stank, and I could stay there for the summer. This was the house of a second attorney, an alcoholic moonlighting as a cat doctor at home, who got in over her head on Magnolia by DeFremery Park. The day I met her she asked if I wanted to make a quick buck, and walked me downtown while instructing me how to serve papers. I remember hesitating as I approached the window, a government agent behind glass, and looked back to get a nudge on from under the wild gray-hair, permanent slouch, and a wandering eye. She offered me a drag off her pint of Southern Comfort on the way home. I was fifty bucks richer, cash, and desperate. My unemployment had finally run dry  in this boarding house on 28th @ Telegraph, telling time by Kojak episodes, and my friend whom I shared a room with finally got sick of me or spun out, and bailed. By that time I was already sharing a bed with a punk I met, upstairs, and not around much anymore. On my bicycle most of the days, a Motobecane i had mail-ordered online several months ago, and always brewing pots of some of the finest grounds from Indonesia I procured from Sweet Maria’s down the way, a local coffee distributor a stone’s throw from the Port of Oakland. Didn’t have a job and wasn’t really looking most of the time. PTSD was my common denominator, and divided up my senses, hanging them far and wide by the neck, until dead…
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a story so simple

Having to make meaning in life can be hard and worrisome, but if you think about it as a creative endeavor you can get excited and maybe transform the worries and pretrauma of knowin our bodies can only hold us for so long before they wear out, into higher energy feelingstates. Living itself need not be impeded by worry thoughts and despair. So scoop up that pancake and flip it over. It is bubbling and ready. I will sit here, waiting for you, and write a story so simple there are no names.

reading at home with cat

psycho

all my trauma

unresolved 

dissolved for a moment 

last night

 

i was watching a show 

 

the guy he looked

similar 

younger

he acted the same

heavyset

belligerent

 

he was a drunk

 

i had not seen this

before

i was not prepared

to see what i saw

 

see

saw

 

the guy got into an altercation

with her

verbal

 

she told him to fuck off

 

get off my property

if i see you again

i will shoot you

dead

 

he staggered off 

accurately drunk

good actor

 

that’s my grandfather’s house

bitch!

go ahead call the police

bitch!

 

he was apparently friends

with the law 

a small town

 

quite the same

 

she was strong like me

blonde like me

maybe crazy like

me

 

but i could see the fear

behind her 

eyes

 

this is my house!

and everything in it

he was fucking her 

over the kitchen table

 

breaking 

entering

 

i kept watching cause

she was strong

i knew it would not be

long

 

it was almost midnight

valentine’s day

i started to cry a little

the violence

 

twenty 

fourteen

and all alone

 

all my trauma

resolved

for a moment

 

she was sitting on his chest

he was lying on the floor

she was stabbing 

into him

 

the knife was bloody

his blood

the floorboards quiet

holding 

supporting

 

the sweet 

viscous

vengeance

 

my blood was pumping

my heart was racing

the tears fallen away

now

 

a clearing

 

i kept thinking 

yes 

yes

yes

 

she was strong

exacting

psycho

perfect

 

the wounded

healer

in

me