A new day with each breath
Now every footstep
Child in my head trying to get out of this
My co-pilot an angry-sad goddess
Still, trying my best
Rolling the stone
Still need lots of rest
Back up the Hill
Alone my thoughts trend toward the self-obsessed
Again and again
My mood lists toward the depressed
It rolls back down
I take a step
See, hear, smell, taste, feel
The weight of everything
That might have been
Sitting on my neck
Shallowing my breath
New day
Practice

To My Dear Wounded Child,

In the past I have doubted you, and allowed you to feel untrue. I am sorry. In the past I have judged you, and allowed you to feel inadequate and ashamed. I am sorry. In the past I have ignored you, and allowed you to feel powerless, I am sorry.    My fear, doubt and inaction have led to much suffering. For that I am sorry.

You have a right to exist. Your feelings are valid. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You do not need to be other than you are.

I promise to listen to you with love and understanding. I ask you to be kind and allow yourself to forgive me. I ask you to be brave and allow yourself to trust me. I ask you to be strong and allow us to heal.

I love you,
Jessica

Poem for George
It was a joy to stumble upon
The place where dusk meets night and night meets dawn
Among the dunes phragmites stand
Thickets of rose hips
Even in the saline dryness of sand
And you were there too
With someone else who wore my shoes
Bittersweet
But then we drank the juice run off the peach

The Patients Handbook: Chemical Assisted Organic Brain Damage

Things disappear
into strange cracks in the firmament
no need to struggle and search
or get upset
just wait
Until you stumble upon an accidental ritual
and the angels bring it back again

Sometimes I think I’m crazy
Like this one time…
at Trader Joe’s
I saw a grown woman’s hands
transform into a pair of wings
and fly
but of course there they were
pedestrian hands again

I’m buffeted by the weather out some strangers head
Crowds form a storm front
Impeding my progress
The skinless steer
Lol
Hope at least I sold that coat
and bought myself
the kindest dope

Sometimes I think I’m crazy
Must’ve gotten burned on some bad chemicals
I forgot the trick
was to always quit just short of bliss
I forgot the trick
was to merely hold a rubber knife to your wrist

Bags turn into cats
and cats back into bags again
The corner of my eye is a war zone

Your Name

I’m sorry
by the time you said your name
I was miles away
We were eating breakfast
the sunlight playing along your right
golden, warm and calm
You looked up and remembered I was there
and smiled
toast in your hand
I’m sorry, what was your name again?

Get on the Bus

Get on the bus
Grab a seatmate
Rest your weary legs
And ride with us
Wrinkle nosed eye rolls for a spilled cruel word
So dated
So limiting
So imitative
You know what?
Call it supercalifragilistic if you want
It’s still a saved seat in front of us
And while you watch the road
And note our progress
All we see is the blind back of your head
facing bravely forward
Catching their evil eyes in my cruddy compact mirror
I get distracted by my face
That’s what it’s made for
Warning:
Objects in mirror are farther than they appear

[This one goes out to all the big boys on Reddit]

To All My Little Devils

I see the flick of fear upon your face
but once you’re safely on your back
I hear you enjoy the change of pace

And you’re right to be scared
Because, you know, if you fuck me
I’ll descend to hell with my girlfriend’s phone
and go for coffee with your family

You’ll do what I please
I’ll do what I wish
Perform the seven stations
then leave you tied up naked
complaining to a slip-knot handkerchief
Go through your bags and take your best shit, yeah
So long
and thanks for all the fish

On Scooby Doo
When I was a small child, my very favorite thing to do in the whole world was to watch television; and , if I had my choice cartoons; and, if it was on–and it always was–Scooby Doo. The show actually scared me right outta my footie pajamas. I often watched the bulk of the show through slits in my fingers. The fact that the monsters always turned out to be mundane humans never provided the comfort I think it was supposed to.

It still doesn’t.

When I got a little older and more world weary I realized that Scooby Doo, like most things I used to (and secretly still did) love, was ‘lame.’ I mean seriously, how could any group of non-institutionalized people remain so undauntingly credulous? You’d think by the later episodes they would be approaching these mysteries a little differently:
“Ok gang, before we split up and search this abandoned amusement park/mine/vacation village, let’s do a little research, see if there’s any land claims or business deals gone bad, maybe something involving a guy who goes by the moniker Old Man ___________?”

Then I discovered marijuana and sex; and all of the sudden Scooby Doo was brilliant again. They weren’t there to solve any mysteries – well, maybe Velma was, or that’s what she told herself anyway, but I never bought her Nancy Drew meets Cousin Oliver act. Fred and Daphne were looking to add a little spice to their rather vanilla sex life. Why do you think they always dragged poor Velma along with them when splitting up from Shaggy and Scooby only to ditch her moments later? She probably would have been happier hot-boxing the Mystery Machine with Shaggy and Scooby then freaking out on the adrenalin of fear. Teenagers can be so cruel in their narcissism.

So, you see, Scooby Doo wasn’t about solving mysteries, or getting pot references past the censors, or even a big inside joke for alumns of the Five Collages; Scooby Doo was about looking for genuine experience in the late 20th century polyurethaned prison state. Scooby Doo was about flowers blooming through cracks in the asphalt. Scooby Doo was about freedom.