dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
What do you do when all you can see when you look at the face of your mother is death? What do you do when all you can say to yourself is:
“I have no control. I cannot save her. I can only save me.”
What do you do when you picture her lying in a coffin knowing she was never able to experience the beauty of
Real love?
What do you do when you come visit her in the night and she’s drunk out of her mind and comes in and the only dagger she can blurt out is
“Why are you still here?”
BECAUSE I LOVE YOU. BECAUSE I NEED A PLACE TO SLEEP. BECAUSE YOU’RE KILLING YOURSELF. BECAUSE I WANT TO FIGHT FOR THIS. BECAUSE YOU ARE SO SO SO SO SICK.
I don’t know. I don’t know what I would do.
perfect
Your love was a cage
Made out of bone
I stayed there, quietly
Locked in
Sometimes I would carve things into
The cage
Things like
“Help”
“I’m trapped”
“I want to die”
I was small enough to
Escape between the bars
But I was scared
Because I knew how much escaping would
Disappoint you.
You fed me flower petals and cotton candy
I fed you pretty words and kissed your cheeks
Never once did I feel
Perfect
Like I do right now
Out of the cage and into the light,
No longer homesick for the chapel
Of inconsistency
The rain falls on this roof
As he sleeps beside me
And for the first time in a long time,
I want to be loved.
Music
Is what holds
My mother and I
Together
Music is the womb in which
We both were conceived
Music is the blood
That flows within her,
The blood she gave to me
Without it we wouldn’t be
Trapped in this endless cycle of
Missing each other
Love is only a part of what
Holds my mother and I
Together
But it is sadly not
Love alone.
It can so quickly turn to pain and pain
Is like a home.
But music is what she was given, it is
Her one true golden soul
Music is life and life
Is what she gave me
Hence what keeps us,
Eternally bonded.
Love
is a curious thing. Sometimes
it barrels into you, leaves you
breathless. Other times, it comes
in-
to your life, a tentative beam
of morning sun sneaking
through the blinds, and you think
this
light isn’t possible. The shutters
are drawn. Night should linger
on. I don’t feel like waking. Yet the
room
comes slowly lit. Sleep slithers
away, and at last you can no
longer deny the dawning.
-Ellen Hopkins
My one & only true love.
Goal of life: To see her live & meet her.
Then I can die happy.
Amen.
That’s it, it’s split, it won’t recover
Just frame the halves and call them brothers
Find your fathers and your mothers
If you remember who they are
Over and over they call us their friends
Can’t we find something else to pretend?
Like nobody won and we’re safe at the end
In the darkness the film machine’s spinning
So let’s leave it on
We’ll be out in the street
Before anyone knows that we’re gone
That’s it, it’s split, it can’t recover
Just frame the halves and call them a whole
And chip at the bricks and fill up your pockets
With the pieces of the wall that you stole
The hunt is on, everyone’s chasing
Everyone’s chasing a shot
A shot rings out, nobody wants it
Nobody wants it to stop
That’s it, it’s split, it won’t recover
Just frame the halves and call them brothers
Find your fathers and your mothers
If you remember who they are
If you remember, if you remember
If you remember who they are
inrainbows
Listening to radiohead on a park bench in the Whyte Avenue sun
I stare at you and I know
Things are going to be alright
I never thought they would
I’m falling in love again
I never thought I would but, there it is
I’m falling in love
I guess the joke of being hopeless
Was on me
the trees
The earth turned to bring us closer,
it spun on itself and within us,
and finally joined us together in this dream
as written in the Symposium.
Nights passed by, snowfalls and solstices;
time passed in minutes and millennia.
An ox cart that was on its way to Nineveh
arrived in Nebraska.
A rooster was singing some distance from the world,
in one of the thousand pre-lives of our fathers.
The earth was spinning with its music carrying us on board;
it didn’t stop turning a single moment
as if so much love, so much that’s miraculous
was only an adagio written long ago
in the Symposium’s score.
-Eugenio Montejo
No distractions.
