dear trace

…then i came home from their place, slightly blurry from a rare and decent bottle of red wine and the drive, turned on the computer and proceeded to, once again, let the words of *asshole* get to me.  i’m still pissed off, filled with this sick rage that is tearing my belly up, and still mortified and slightly embarrassed that this morning’s anger— caused by this insufferable egotist and his cruelty— was able to bring  hot, rare tears to this old woman face of mine… 
it all simply took away this rare opportunity to take in something; an odd flash of  wonder or validation that one might get out of seeing one’s name accepted into this kind of site for the first time.  it took tonite’s words away from focus and made me want to vomit this kid’s vitriolic bile all over his ever-so-trendy thrift store hi-tops.  it left me sad and unable to let anything in or out or unleashed into where i’ve been dropping my words (on his recommendation!),  since early may.
all that comes to mind is more fucking ATTACK POETRY, since i want to rip his face off for ruining a moment and for winning because i’m now doing this PTS weirdness over it–it was just a fucking moment!  it had nothing to do with him and was none of his business.  no money exchanged hands!  no one was coerced or bribed or convinced that i needed  to be there.   i submitted, they thought it worthy enough.  period.   this attack, so nasty and unprovoked, still blows my mind.  again, it was just a moment….a fucking moment that just might have convinced me, after all, that you and michael and philip have been telling me the truth about putting some of me out there in this cesspool …
 this is just what my deteriorating ego needed.  now he can rest easy as it shrivels up, hard and crusty with all moisture and light sucked out of it, dead and falling out of me, rolling across the floor like a small, pearl-sized turd. 
i’m reading some of the different bukowski titles these days, after realizing that  i’m the remaining neophyte in these worlds, where  apparently bukowski’s words are studied, with people hanging, awed, on his every word… and where he’s revered and honored like some twisted holy grail…
and, oh, how he would have hated these sorts of sychophants and this blind adoration!   but,  how appropriate that in last night’s two pages of buk’s that  i did manage to read, was found tonite’s one sentence of comfort: 
“they will attempt to destroy anything that differs from their own”.
and look, my friend!  i’m even sitting here consciously changing the herb caen, dot dot dot, small case way of sf chron journalism way that i’ve written since before this jerkoff was even sittin in his mama’s womb …simply because i’ve let even that get to me…….its all stuck in my head, just like this newly plopped out word, “murky”, which used to bring to my mind an often joyous and necessary “dark/hazy/gloomy definition, which as you know are ok places for me to “be”,  not something that i “am”…
but most of all?  i detest this weakness in me…
this is what the old poets talked about over the years, referring to these types of darlings sitting in their groups, with their readings and heroes and the you-jerk-me off, i’ll-jerk-you-off  school of poet-lemmings mentality..‘better to go it alone or put a gun to your head’–was used to describe the horror of worship, envy and inclusion…that may not be it exactly, but you can catch the drift of that kind of similar brilliance…
so  here’s another lesson:  when your guts tell you its walkin’, talkin’ and lookin’ like a fuckin scorpion, don’t let those who love you try and convince you that its a fucking soft, friendly little teddy bear…because when it stings your ass and makes you ill, the only one you have to blame is yourself…
for not paying attention. …
i love you, my friend…sleep well

About lindalou5150

as exercise or exorcism, i write...for the eyes of others, for my eyes and heart only, for the love and the rage, i release the gamut of tell the truth and say what's often thought but not written...
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2 Responses to dear trace

  1. MandT says:

    PS. wasp stings with all their animus and venom are nothing to the nectar of a butterfly…..reality is temporary and truth transcendental. There are poets who try and others like you, who can do. The former become critics and the latter artists. There is no envy worse that precocious failure.

  2. MandT says:

    One day you finally knew
    what you had to do, and began,
    though the voices around you
    kept shouting
    their bad advice–
    though the whole house
    began to tremble
    and you felt the old tug
    at your ankles.
    “Mend my life!”
    each voice cried.
    But you didn’t stop.
    You knew what you had to do,
    though the wind pried
    with its stiff fingers
    at the very foundations,
    though their melancholy
    was terrible.
    It was already late
    enough, and a wild night,
    and the road full of fallen
    branches and stones.
    But little by little,
    as you left their voices behind,
    the stars began to burn
    through the sheets of clouds,
    and there was a new voice
    which you slowly
    recognized as your own,
    that kept you company
    as you strode deeper and deeper
    into the world,
    determined to do
    the only thing you could do–
    determined to save
    the only life you could save.

    Mary Oliver

    “You knew what you had to do,” Scrape that shit off your shoe” It smells so much worse when ya track it inside! 🙂 m

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