Somewhere Between Nowhere and Home

4 Nov

clar road

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.– Louise Erdrich

Seven weeks blurred.

Thirty-five sunrises to realize,

in this field will be the final fight.

Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.

After eight weeks walking,

the road of familiar markers

extends its tail for the bitter tasting

from a thick mist-blanket.

I am coming home.

It is not pleasant.

It is not fun.

It is.

In ten weeks, the alchemy of soul

burnt dry in the sweat

of my night sleeping hair.

This is not poetry.

This doesn’t vaguely resemble art.

All of self, now channeled into

children,

their greedy pickpocket psyches

desperate for a heart

bereft of bleeding.

Morning, I wake.

Some kind of blessing,

cause six weeks ago,

I cursed it with wide eyed

cortisol laced racing

thoughts like

It’s going to be like this forever.

Hail Mary, full of grace. . .

I will sleep . . .tonight. . .

I want to go

 Home . . .  

I go to school.

I teach in the body of someone who is not me.

I workout.

We begin with pranayama breathing. ..

Survival is simplicity without pleasure.

It is.

Inspiration blooms

in unpainted plein air landscapes.

I’ve tried Faux-ism four times.

But, this is no trompe le’oil.

This is not poetry.

That ended on a September afternoon

in front of a desolate AC Moore

in a parking space I care not to remember

but I must.

Somewhere,

my friends have disappeared

between then and here.

But I come home. I eat popcorn.

I drink herbal tea. Take melatonin.

Go to bed.

I do not dream.

Morning, I wake.

I am somewhere between nowhere

and here.

Here is not home.

Written October 28, 2014

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