the habit of a human

a ghost saw me on my moon walk

my walks have become a habit

like that of a nun

all black and robed

only my scrubbed raw skin in view

the ghost glided up the hill

and looked back over a shimmery shoulder

and I knew

my habit was transparent

my limbs and beating secret exposed

naked

vulnerable

the ghost made a decision

in the flash of an earthly moment

to see my bare hairless flesh as human

Human

Human

what human could resist walking

what human could resist the moon

what human could turn away from caring about a drowning in the sea

about the life one cannot cease to see

in the solitary moments

of a million moon walks

of a million words

of a million

poems

that

rip off the skin

I had a dysfunctional relationship with Lord (The gospel according to nic st. james)

The universe asked me to stop calling it Lord today

It keeps slipping out during our conversations, the Lord thing

I read a book as a tween, most women my age will know, called, Are You There God, Its Me Margaret, by Judy Bloom. That book changed my life. Soon after I began writing in a journal. I started each entry with Dear God. The paper became my savior. As I matured into anti -everything, I stopped with the Dear God part, but late at night I would still lie in bed and say, “Lord…., “ and talk to him in my mind until I drifted to sleep.

One day it dawned on me that “Lord” was letting little children starve to death, so I stopped speaking to him. I gave him the cold shoulder. Another day, I realized that young boys died in vicious wars in the most gruesome ways and I renewed my rage and continued the silence for years longer.

I did forgive Lord eventually, but mostly out of desperation. I made a decision that I would believe once again and that life here on earth was a mystery and that there must be some logical reason that Lord let children starve and get kidnapped and tortured by evil men. Mostly, I put it out of mind, kind of the same way I blocked out the thought that I was actually chewing on flesh when I bit into a steak or pork chop. But again, soon after, I began reading historical fiction and it dawned on me that Lord had been a cruel bastard for a long time and that he was either not real or hideously ugly and demented on the inside. I started to wonder if he took perverse pleasure in torture and torment.

Then my first born began to fall. Fall to drugs and the streets. And when I say the streets, I mean the dark, seedy streets of serious drug addiction. She turned against everything I had taught her. In my hopelessness, I again thought that maybe I could forgive Lord and show him that I thought he was everything he was cracked up to be and that in return he might pull my daughter out of the depths of the hell she was living in. That if I looked the part he might keep her alive from drug overdose, murder and torture. I did what I was supposed to do and attended a church. I even worked there. I played the part pretty well for a little while. When I bowed my head, I really tried, I promise I did. I listened intently and I heard hypocrisy and I heard that everything I believed in my core was wrong, evil even. Once again, Lord betrayed me, he wasn’t at all the Lord I spoke to late at night from my pillow and as my as my daughter fell deeper and deeper into darkness I figured that it was probably my fault because I just couldn’t quite swing it with Lord.

Damn him, betrayer, I decided now that I actually hated Lord.

Lately though,

And on and off spotted throughout my dysfunctional relationship with Lord,

The universe has been listening to me. I have found the energy and vitality ready to serve me,

Willingly

I read late at night about science and connectivity and strings of reality.

I breathe on a pillow in a small room and feel the glow of it

I chew the flesh of nothing.

And the universe and I .....we talk a lot these days and that brings me back to where we started.

I called the universe Lord again, I slipped.

And this time the universe answered back, “thank you for placing your order.”

The voice was not male or female. It was an acknowledgement of my cells that he/she had spoken in a way they felt.

A vibration of knowledge.

“You did it again, you called me Lord.

I am not Lord.

Please do not call me power

I am everything

But I am nothing

I am all you cannot perceive

And only what you can.

I am exactly what you imagine

Even though what you imagine is LIMITED

To that case that encloses your energy

I am what you have created me to be.

And I create you in turn.

It is our relationship.

I am the universal energy.

The everything that you see.

This is just what you created for me.

I am what you made me to be.

I am the direct result of what you perceive you see.

I fit everywhere.

I am what you want me to be.

Except….

I am not Lord

You are

We are

They are too

Even them, yes them

Uh huh, even him

No, I don’t care!.... EVEN HIM!

So......

You created him, we all did.

I am not Lord….

rest your vision

Close your boxes

I am not Lord

You are"

memoirs of an abnormal personality

I.

He was girlish and flashy, downright impish and I knew that when he shoved his arms together to make little fleshy titties that it didn’t matter that he had a penis. He loved that boy on the playground as much as I loved mine and we were going to play Hawaiian pig. Hawaiian pig was a name of our chase the boys game. He made the name up and as I sat in the principal’s office trying to explain why I had chased the blue eyed boy, grabbed his arm, and somehow completely ripped the sleeve off his flannel shirt, the wall between adult and child understanding seemed insurmountable. Embarrassing didn’t describe the emotion. Embarrassing was forgetting how to say the pledge of allegiance when it was your turn to say it over the intercom to the entire school. Embarrassing was being the only kid in third grade with one sticker on your spelling star and knowing you got it only because your favorite teacher felt sorry for you. (He was an artist)

As I sat, looking at the stern man behind the desk, I contemplated just walking out of the school. I lived across the street. Home was a universe away and a sanctuary in its lack of bridge to this world. I would escape into make believe like I always did. In third grade, I may not have had the words fuck this shit formed in my mind, but fuck this shit was conceived there, in that chair, waiting. I don’t remember what he said. I don’t remember if he was even mad. I don’t remember if he had talked to my mom. I don’t remember any of it.

But, I do recall the flush of rage, being sent back to class and the embryo of fuck this shit kicking in my skull and pushing the right side of the school front door wide open.

Whoooooooooooooosh.

The bright sun, the churning of my stomach and the quick steps of my feet moved me strait to my front door. Fuck this shit I was home.

II.

A brown pinstriped short sleeve shirt tucked into polyester slacks is not enough to be repulsed by a man. Nor is greasy hair, thick glasses and bad breath. But repulsed I was. What was it? It wasn’t his muggy sweat circles in his armpits that streamed wide and deep until they met and seeped where his belly tucked into his belt. It was more than the fact that he waddled when he walked and dragged his feet along in lazy scratches. More than the shiny greasy sheen his skin took on after an hour of conducting middle school concert band. None of these surface observations repulsed me. What did, was the fact, that he thought he could reach me.

That day was like any other until my head exploded within one of his lecture rants directed at the clarinets. His greasy lips shot spit as he taunted that I might lose my first chair position when I was playing third chair quality. I felt the snap. The internal bang.

Ta-ta-ta.

Ta-ta-ta

Ta-ta-ta

Hours of ta-ta-ta

And I loved it sitting in my room alone with my music

Ta-ta-ta

Ta-ta-ta

A fuck this shit cloud is what I remember as the slide of fuck you asshole from my lips surrounded thirty eighth graders in a combination of joy, shock and hell yeah. Yeah, fuck you asshole. I am sick of your ranting bullshit. We are doing the best we fucking can here. Fuck. This. shit.

And tears…

Then the door, the shove, the light, the walk home

The next day, he pulled me aside. I hate(d) that pathetic concerned look people place over their own manipulative intentions and fears

hey, I didn’t report you to the principal. (Supposed to be grateful) Is everything O.k. at home? Do you need to talk about anything? (Come sit in my office little girl) This was out of character for you.

I don’t remember what I said, but I am sure it was an apology of sorts and a no, everything is just great spiel. I knew I was supposed to think he was a great guy now that he had compassion for his students, compassion for me, but all I could manage to think the rest of that year was fuck this shit.