Sweet Bitterness
This poem was the product of a twelve minute writing session with the Stratford Arts Alliance Writers Group that meets every second Saturday. The writing prompt was “making the bitter sweeter.” Things that are bitter are better when sweet But just adding sugar is a bit of a cheat The question I ponder is how to sweeten the deal Without sprinkling toxic dust on every goddamn meal Is there a sweetness in life that we can no longer feel Because we’ve sugar-coated it all, like a milkshake made of veal Because I don’t know about you but that sounds disgusting And I’d rather not eat it, I’d rather drive in my mustang Does a nicer car add sweetness to a bitter man’s life Or is stuff a distraction that amplifies strife I dream of the house, and the 2.5 kids and the dog and the fences But that dream’s hit the skids. Mainly because I’m a homo so kids aren’t too likely Unless they belong to someone else, and are imported like Nike’s And I don’t have a dog or any white fences And I’ve dealt with my share of confused sideways glances Being myself is the sweetest thing I can do It’s hard, and it’s easy and it’s an ongoing thing But I’m marrying myself, and keeping the ring. Being wholly myself seems to make others bitter. But fuck that, I don’t care, I’ll just roast them on twitter.
Passing Understanding, Finding Peace
When asked to contemplate my special place My first reaction is to go external To pick my hammock or my reading corner Where I curl up with my leather bound journal But that first reaction is not my true instinct For that instinct has been covered by culture Re-programmed and repeated to, A media messaging kind of water torture My special place is some place internal A well-spring in my stormy center I can’t pick the spot where it lives in my body But I don’t care where it is, as long as I can re-enter This special spot feels peaceful, but mischievous, like an elf during an apocalypse because all he knows how to see are blessings Even in the murderous nuclear fireworks It is like a guarded secret you want everyone to know But it doesn’t matter who you tell or who you show Because it can’t be related through words and ideas It must be experienced like a burn on the hand The blister that forms is the roadmap back to my special place The throbbing, a reminder of my sobbing As I lay down in that energetic meadow and breathe in the grace And forgo the chase and slow my pace and learn how to taste The subtlety of inner peace having nothing to do with outer experience, but being a visceral experience all its own, And tasting like freedom, like magic and like flying If flying tasted like mozzarella frying I may lose track here as I try to tie this up with words To bind the experience of my inner place with rope sentences and glue, But a boundless place won’t be bound Won’t be captured Won’t be explained or mansplained So my metaphors have kind of hydroplaned Because trying to describe the indescribable is getting in the car knowing you’re headed for a crash. But you get in and go along for the ride because you know now of surrender And that a fender bender is not some ender because life is much more tender than I normally care to remember.
There Is Just No Comparison (A New Way Of Using the Power of Metaphor)
In my coaching practice I use the power of metaphor with my clients to help them unlock creativity by bringing together unusal ideas in unexpected ways. As taught in her coach training program by my mentor and sociologist Martha Beck, you can compare a pain point, or area of suffering in your life to anything that’s near you or dear to you. Don’t over think it. Just pick a sore spot and a random object and let your synapses fire and your brain re-wire. For an example of this check out my recent post My Lack of Faith In Myself is Like Superhero Movies. Below is a poem inspired by the idea of comparison and extended metaphor as a way to explore our interior worlds. There Is Just No Comparison My relationship to myself is like a metaphor Nothing has any meaning by itself Only one aspect in relationship to another A constant internal comparison My childhood weighed against the now moment Or against your childhood Or against a childhood from the TV My choices weighed against my innocent dreams Or against your choices Or against the choices they make on the TV My identity weighed against my actual impact My ego, slams like a meteor into my intentions and the resulting cataclysm is the end of all life on this planet. The planet is not earth but my old belief structures, as the impact causes ruptures Blinded by my possible futures, I end up needing sutures Distracted by all the features, forgetting we are natural creatures When I look in the mirror of reality is it like I’m staring back at myself, or am I there, staring back at myself? I extend this metaphor, like a thief extends his fortunes at a jewelry store, Stealing images to compare and contrast, like a meaning blast So that maybe you’ll ignore, if it turns out my life is a mixed metaphor? And not as glamorous as I what I thought before When I drop all metaphors And the making of meaning softens into the bliss of experiencing And life starts living me, dispelling my notions that I am ever living it And all becomes one There is suddenly nothing to compare anything to I am everything This resurgence of emergence with no urgency inside of me And the metaphor becomes, well, it’s like, it’s like, it is so, well…it is just…
WRITING PROMPT: “The Least Favorite Part of My Living Space”
On the tomb of Hermes reads the inscription “As above so below, as within so without.” The esoteric meaning behind this is that our outer worlds and experiences are a direct reflection of our inner worlds and experiences. So one tool we use in life coaching is called “The Living Space Tool” where I will guide clients to identify either their most or least favorite part of their living space and write a description. When we begin to explore these exercises it is almost magical, and always mind boggling, just how much these descriptions of the outer environment do reflect the interior world of the client. This reflective nature of our reality, when channeled in coaching or writing like this, can yield major insights and revelations in our lives. In my coach-infested writer group we often do prompts that ignite self exploration because we all happen to be addicted to that. This poem came as a result of a prompt inspired by the Living Space Tool that one of the coaches suggested in our group. Enjoy! My Living Space: My least favorite aspect of my living space is the darkness. My basement cave is windowless And so my soul sometimes penniless I need the light to be more than slight I get just a little bit through a tiny slit My skin craves vitamin D and my eyes want more to see Sometimes it’s cozy with a thriller at night But the shadows can be crushing, a relentless might I don’t mind the darkness I just want options Like opening the drapes to find a golden ray But the cinderblock dungeon never softens So I live in the twilight, just barely lit, and thoroughly grey
Embodying My Dream Self (The Dream Analysis Coaching Tool In Action)
In my coaching practice I have sometimes used the Dream Analysis Tool taught by Martha Beck in her Wayfinder Coach Training program and as outlined in her book Finding Your Own North Star. The way it works is you write down your dream. Then you write down the dream and either on your own or with a coach you make a list of the most potent symbols you can remember. Anything that appears in your dream is a symbol. From the color red, to the feeling of cold, to the spider on the Taj Mahal. It all counts. Your intuition is key here. Once you have your list of symbols you either do this next bit in writing or with a coach. You embody the symbol by repeating a phrase and then describe “yourself” using three adjectives and then ask the symbol a few questions. Let’s say in this case the symbol is a golden retriever. You start with “I am the golden retriever and I am…” and then you list or say the first three adjectives that come to your mind. Then you ask the symbol “What is you purpose?”, “Do you have a message for ‘Client’s Name?” and any other questions that naturally come up for you. Do these one at a time, and feel deep inside you for the answers. Don’t think about them, and don’t take too long, feel for them, and then move on. On the other side of this exercise clients tend to have massive revelations about things currently pressing down on their lives. Try it and tell me what happens for you. Below is a poem inspired by the Dream Analysis Coaching Tool. HOW DO YOU EMBODY A DREAM? How do you embody an object from a dream you can’t remember? Do you call to the wind? Twist on the vine? Take a warm bath and drink too much wine? I want to embody these rapidly fading parts of myself To learn deeper meanings To shine a light on my leanings But I sit up and they take off Like a get away car, so quickly so far So I embrace the symbols that go up in whisps as my symbol I embody “forget” And let’s see what we get I am Brian’s forgetfulness and I am… Protective Misunderstood There was a third one, but I forget. What is my purpose? I am here to give Brian room to breathe Where he might normally seethe I hold the front line, keep open some space So all the old trauma ain’t so “in your face” I’ve served my purpose, but I’m about all used up So prepare to remember, and reopen the case What is my message? You have only so much bandwidth to concentrate So don’t over saturate Or your fears will exaggerate and exasorbate Savor each moment, its the only thing real By forgetting the rest, your path will reveal Where you are headed, through you needn’t know The mystery supports you, so now, off you go.
Winter Mood
Snow covered potential Like drenched frozen meadows thaws slowly, if at all Potential is essential but frozen it becomes tangential A side kick in the comic instead of the dashing lead The power is atomic but encased in ice it starts to bead Water droplets douse my soul As the frost around my hot dreams begins to melt So I keep that icy water in a bowl And hope the frost bite won’t leave a welt A winter mood’s been brewing Rumbling and bubbling inside my gut And I can sense this cold snap coming To put my inner artist in a rut So I’ve decided that it will be summer Starting now and whenever I please If you think warm weather is a bummer Then I hope you get stung by bees The welt from a bumble’s stinger Let’s me know that I’m alive And if I can carry summer in my heart My inner artist will survive, or thrive, or take a nose dive. But hey, I’ll be warm. And that puts me in a very good mood.
Who Chooses My Choices
“Self Improvement” Culture poses a question: How would I like my personality and behavior to change? Well, skating past the implied insult about my inadequacy as I am I will attempt to answer This question that feels like cancer. This is a topic I normally would avoid altogether You see, I like to think I’m flawless, changeless, and unaccountable I want to go slower. I want it to be easier. More fun. Like summer as a kid. Or vacation. Or passion. Losing track of time, forgetting to keep score, and remembering who I really am. I want to run less from my own shadow that I blame on the swaying innocent tree. Those are leaves, not blemishes, and they’re not even mine, they belong to the red maple that’s been on this planet longer than me And has more right to be here. Does that answer your question? I suppose it doesn’t. Well, I want to make healthier choices. I want to control my habits, but like rabbits They pop up out of magic hats and crowd me like rats I suppose I don’t like your question. It threatens me. Because. Because what if I don’t know how to make my behavior change? What then? Perhaps a better question is how can I do this? How can I choose my choices, and quiet all the voices? As I ponder this I think there is no “how”, there’s just relaxing your struggle, giving your fear a tight snuggle and coming back yet again to the right here, right now.
The Do No Harm Alarm
I wish an alarm would notify me whenever someone tried to manipulate me Whenever they lied, whenever they used my guilt or shame to leverage my compliance. Whenever they gaslit or throat slit or in my face spit. But a silent alarm of course, because you don’t warn a narssicist I wish an alarm would notify me whenever I tried to manipulate myself Whenever I told myself temporary pleasure was better than sustained joy Whenever I pretended sugar was a good substitute for sweetness Whenever I paid the price more than once for any mistake Whenever I doubted my perfection, allowing mental insurrection A louder alarm this time, not some amber alert, but a big red squirt all over my shirt So it gets my attention and not to mention it diffuses the tension I wish an alarm would notify me whenever I tried to manipulate life Instead of finding my alignment I treat being alive like an assignment But there is no task to complete, nobody to beat, no keeping the receipt There is only ever now, this ever-evaporating moment, that is savored then instantly re-flavored. This constant need for adjustment is the way life tells us we are alive. My attention is the edge of my presence. My focus is nothing without my awareness there to support it. In every new now I drop all my plans, and all mental scans and just open my eyes, wherever the hell I stand. And be here. Now.
A Truth About Me Not Very Many People Know…
A truth about me that not very many people know is how many carbs I eat v. how many I post up on social media. Not many people know how hateful I can be, but a few do, and fuck ‘em. Not many people know I’m addicted to approval, and self-loathing and porno. Not many people know I’m a tea drinker, and that that also happens to be an addiction to sugar disguised as a mature morning beverage. Not many people know how fragile I am. Or at least I think they don’t know. Oh my God I hope they don’t know. Shit now I’m wondering if everybody knows have fragile I am and they always have, and does the whole world walk one eggshells around me to keep me from falling totally apart? Surely not, surely nobody knows a thing about any of that. Not very many people know how good of a bowler I am, because I don’t take time out enough for the fun stuff. You’d think I’d be able to carve out a bit more time for a sport I love that also happens to includes cheese fries but alas, I haven’t thrown a ball at pins since—well gosh, I don’t know how long it’s been. Not many people know I’m a vegan and a meat eater. Not many people even know you can be both of those things at the same time, but I assure you, despite popular, or rational, or boring old possible opinion, you can. You can indeed and I am. I am a vegan but sometimes I like bacon and I absolutely love cheese. Stretch your minds or mind your business. No body knows the deepest complexity of my soul. The part that wishes ill on people as a knee jerk reaction or paints them with an unflattering brush in the company of others. Or the part that longs for everyone to be whole, including my enemies, the worlds rapists and biggots and war-mongers. Nobody knows just how a heart can be so big and act so small, like reverse magic under it’s own damn spell. But it can. Even more mysterious is how this small heart can have such a large capacity. A capacity to forgive, to restrain, to refrain and to acknowledge. To drop the need to defend and make all conflicts into a friend. Nobody knows I can do all that, because they don’t know themselves either. We have forgotten that are hearts are desperately wicked and deceitfully sick, but that they can help to heal the entire goddamn world just as mother-fucking quick. If anybody knew how to operate this thing. How do I shift my heart into fourth gear and really cruz down this highway? Our thoughts and deeds are the jangling keys, we take ‘em, and we shake ‘em and we are born into one hell of a wild ride of a lifetime. Flattening the hills, embracing the thrills and Despite all the parts that are totally unknowable, having what amounts to be simply, a really nice time.
Hallmarks of Worthiness
Writing Prompt: Write about something presently in your life that is worth it. Hallmarks of Worthiness I’m told to write about something worth it. “Like gold?” I think to myself. “No no, something presently in my life”, I’m told. “Oh,” I laugh, because I certainly don’t have any gold. What do I have that’s worth it? My fingers are possessed as they try to force me to type out the following sunshine: I am worth it. Family is worth it. Life is worth it. But the sunshine fades quickly. Because are those statements truth, or Hallmark Sauce. I never did like the taste of Hallmark. Every phrase so perfectly formed and meaningless So carefully crafted yet utterly useless. Get well soon. Um yeah, I’m trying. It’s a girl.Yeah, I told you that. I’m sorry. Well, so am I, fucker. Happy Birthday. Actually both me and my mother were screaming bloody murder that day. It didn’t feel happy to me. And I was covered in blood and helpless. Happy Anniversary. I’m fucking single. Oh then there are the perfectly crafted but politely tardy phrases. Happy Belated Anything really just means “I feel obligated but resisted that obligation for too long.” But that doesn’t all fit nicely on a card, so we get “belated” But I digress. What is presently in my life that’s worth it. Well, I am. And that’s why I hate Hallmark. They disguise the truth under utter cliches until the truth itself seems meaningless. I love you. Yeah, heard that before. Follow Your Heart. Well, it’s broken. Trust Your Instincts. I don’t. But the truth is not meaningless, despite how often we utter it meaninglessly. The truth is always true, and then, thanks to Hallmark we throw it away And call it cliche But the plain and simple and couldn’t be truer facts are these: I am worth it And that means a lot And it just so happens to be worth celebrating. So I can’t believe I’m going to say this, But somebody get me a fucking card!
