Trust

A MASTER OF FATE . . . CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL

By D-Davis

i. (a mirror cracks)
their brilliance too loud—
my beauty dressed in soft
shapeless, round, thin skin
with too many thoughts.
a house of money language
silencing my second tongue
mistaking quiet for ignorance
weight for waste
mind for nothing worth mining.
tried to be a daughter
a little girl in pastel
but always a thunderstorm in lavender—
half-boy, half-dream
named 'two spirit' girl.

ii. (unseen echoes of the family table)
raised glasses to promotions
to “success” 
to what neighbors thought
but no one toasted the mind;
ideas—uninvited guests—drowned 
in gravy and selfish gossip.
retorts dismissed as overthinking
silence mistaken for sulking
writing called nothing.
the art of being invisible
the science of shrinking—
swallows insults whole
as the throat forgets to sing.

iii. (a single heartbeat of body and illness)
as cells staged their own rebellion
pain moved like a permanent tenant—
rent-free, loud, merciless
body—a house I never chose—
leaking its secrets through the skin
while doctors stared through me 
like I was smoke or a prop.
onstage girls pointed tongues
friends faded into pixels
reflection became a rumor
too painful to chase.

iv. (leaving to a drumbeat)
riding the rails at fifteen—
no note 
no apology
journals in a backpack
hungering, grieving
outgrown pain 
what could have been life.
in the back rows of buses,
cold stages of half-lit theaters
trembling hands of people—
like-minded 
too much and not enough.
We live in the spirit 
of unmistaken light—
not as mess
not lost
but flying—
above the sky.
 
v. (becoming a breath)
I am not a product of pity.
I am the architect of becoming.
my body breaks
the voice—endures
call me what you will:
girl, ghost, heretic—inured
I am all of them 
and none of them
to master fate
and captain my soul.

Blotting a Blank White Page 

Dawn stirs a waking body, without REM, 
frustrated tossing, back and forth, 
in nascent reckoning, as light breaks preoccupation.

Animals move in sounds, made in branches and woods,
not far from the window, where ears lean in,
awakening beating and stirring vibrations, connecting heart.

Hands shield, then rub away shuttered thoughts.

Slippered morning feet shuffle forward,
creating carpet lines, as memory of a journey,
to kitchen where hands ignore foisen, fumbling a brew.

Hidden under dark cabinets, with shaded crevasses,
next to a windowed sink, diminishing sun-rays
form silhouettes of the countertop infusion.

Dripping waters smell of nutty grinds,
as brewing takes time, and hands wait
with a “hurry up” never "fast enough" waiting.

A warning signals the move to the next station.

Pouring. Seasoning. Drinking, while
the blue room screams for attention, begging
hands to the mahogany desk to companion obsessions.

Feigning to start something, hands on the leather blotter freeze 
against a frenetic mood, but pushes forward, against trust,
clicking inanimate plastic ideas, or dodging turbulence, forward.

With blind expression, angst spills on white page, 
letter after letter, a deep blue ink, absorbing, 
creating blue walls, a sealant closing an inner room.

A bird hits the window, hands stop,
a momentary solace, a recognition of conflict,
animate and inanimate clash.

The clicking resumes, and blotting continues.

Reflection on Downtime

Photo on 7-20-14 at 1.09 PMNot sure how the times pan out as we roll along this republican joy ride; however I am sure of my feelings of depression, which sit in the very back row of my room, veiling forward over each conscious notion of hope.

To get thru the bleak flash that sneaks in during the day, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and not worrying in that very moment what is beyond where my feet stand.

The pall that hovers affects the way I interpret my life’s daily reflection. Today, questioning writing dirty tricks. Wondering why I ended up standing in this limbo spot; contemplating whether there is another spot I should be in: or should the conversation be something else which I cannot see or have been excluded from.

Am I a casualty of clearing the swamp of UN-notables? Should I be content with my mediocrity, and see my creative as just another self-indulgent grandiose hobby? The fear of fear plays tenacious tricks that never seem to let the thinking remain in any place of contentment. Stay on the move, traveling forward  thru the delusion to safe ground, is consciously to conscious.

I have to re-affirm that the next mountain is right around the corner, bordered by the sea of opportunity. I enjoyed sailing on the masthead with my spade flag, and want to continue the ride across unexplored oceans and byways.

Upon giving name to this angst, I realize my guttural voice – that which the stars aligned from inception – always there – was preserved by my years of neglect and brewing, and re-imagined and re-born by recovery from the debauchery. I try not to be afraid of myself, or worry about acceptance. But I worry anyway. In the end, my intellectualism understands that me is me; you are you; and they are the others. Yet only one sits in the chair and types.