For the narcissist enraged at rejection, this is for you.

“Love is not ownership or possession. It is not vampiric or obsessive, either. Learn to let go.”

I wrote this in 2013.

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Fall thoughts for poetry —random language

as I turn 52 this month I’ve been thinking about menopause a bit….I skipped this month….my eggs are no longer plentiful…..yet my desire to couple does not cease….Sex really is far beyond procreative meaning…..I will miss the power of blood when I reach the point of becoming Crone…..but this understanding of being a woman who is magical surpasses the womb…..a poem is coming to the surface……

Letting Go (Part 2)

letting go
of hurt
of people who hold you back
of people who hurt you
of people who abandoned you
of a painful past haunting you
of a betrayal of trust
of a lie told to destroy you
of a fear of utter destruction
seems daunting or impossible
outside the normalcy
of daily reminders
of human treachery
nevertheless we must let go
lest we drown
in sorrow and regret.

Letting Go

took me seven years
letting go of three I loved
another three years healing
my forties were fortunate
many moments of sorrow and silence
many nights drowned in fado
fado the river of music from tears
grief and wails pushing my raft downstream
without numbing myself or hiding
and by hiding i mean the usual suspects
we are told are helpful
but not even close
go find some fuckables to dick and dump
go find a husband or wife and breed
i chose to marry my very toxic love
my work
silent third suspect it is
until i finally learned
work is not warm enough to love you back
work is work
work is not love
work is what you do for others
but not your lover or spouse
and so i am free and unbonded
gave myself time to grow
seeking and finding meaning in me
letting go let me listen and wait
for the right one to share fate.

Poems are like a box of clothes never worn from your brain

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I think my brain treats my poetry writing sessions as an exercise in unpacking boxes from the attic and every once in a while finding a good classic cookbook, or a lovely set of dishes never used. Or a dress worn just once and it still fits. Or even an old, raunchy paperback novel, like The Story of O.

I think I had once of these month long sessions of unpacking some really raunchy novels, and given what I just dreamed last night, I think that analogy fits like a ball gag. Someone asked me about teaching The Story of O by Pauline Reage, a work that should not be taught without matching it with the French Feminisms anthology that tears it to pieces. I pretty much view Reage, du Sade, and other erotic writers of the 18th through the latter 20th century attempting to expel the Church’s repression of sexuality—but not the misogyny that came along with the repression. How is it in the 21st century we are still dealing with repression, misogyny, and fear of female desire?

I did not dream of finding wedding dresses in my closet. I have many more stories and poems to unpack and put on a table to shine or toss. Some of them sound like fragments from a raunchy novel. It’s my way of getting my brain out of writers block as I finish my other writing gig for a deadline later this month. I wouldn’t say it’s better than sex, but given the level of frustration that summer brings me (it’s warm, so I exercise and that definitely gets me aroused), writing about these things helps chase away writers block and depression over my summer blues over my lack of companionship. Love and lust really do matter for us writers—at least for me it does. And vibrators don’t inspire 5000 word chapters. Or epic poems.

Enjoy your morning commute.

trust

my father once told me
not to trust you
i trusted you enough
to tell you what he said
and your face changed
as if an arrow pierced you
i trust you enough to realize
i needed time to understand
why it hurt you
how it hurt you
when you believed
i did not trust you
when you thought
how i thought
you could not be trusted
but i do trust you
just as the empath in me
trusted the truth
of the unintended wound
of my words on your spirit
just as the karmic pull
of Saturn Retrograde demands
that i make amends
and apologise
for hurting you
just as the way i
now feel
impels me to say
trust me.

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time for a new bed

haunted space
empty
this is a bed
that needed to go
ten years ago
beds keep memories
beds soak up sorrow
bad breakups
every single fight
every drop of semen
every drop of blood
every drop of urine
every tear
not wiped away or scrubbed
every dream
every nightmare
every moment of
anger
joy
horror
fear
depression
you thought lost
or forgotten
echoes of orgasms
you thought
best not spoken of
every lover
every spouse
real or imagined
soaked in fabric
you did not realize
consumed your
parts of beingness
left in the ether
of the past
and like shoes
over worn and torn
it must be replaced.