Last Updated On July 6, 2019

 

"Life is a bastard, it wants to kill you Don't let go" -And The Kids

 

 

Transitions

I.
Anyone else in their pupal stage?
Its kind of icky in here, right?
It seems like a lot of production,
Just to shut down the means of reproduction.

It harkens back to my sweaty, toad armored adolescence.
So many braces, and sprains, and growing pains.
In the fishbowl of my own claustrophobic self-conscious existence,
Auto-narrating my every move for a sad YA novel
Starring ME.

I can relate to that messiness
As I wallow in the soup
That I first crawled out of.
But instead of growing sharp in definition
Through the power of my own focus,
My matrix has dissolved.
I’ve returned to stem cells bound
For some kind of glory.
I can’t discern an eyeball from an elbow in here.
The novel starring ME has transformed into a fuzzy vignette
Into which I make fewer and fewer appearances…

But there is a wisp of a spirit in here.
A glowing coal in the darkness of my cocoon.
I leak.
I tremble.
I’m on fire.
My humors are imbalanced.
And my brain splits in two.
Moonbeams shoot through the cracks of my chrysalis.

II.
He manages to disengage his towering frame from the backseat.
I straighten his gown in the parking lot.
His wings are limp and still flattened to his back.
I affix cap to mane
Smooth his beard.
Coo softly as I roll curls
Between oily fingers.
Slowly.
Thoughtfully.
Harnessing the beast of time.
Before my griffon takes flight.

I remember with tastiest clarity,
My fingers hooked under arm pits,
Thumbs braced against baby chest,
The milky smell of him.
The top heavy weight of him.

He says, “I don’t know if I want to drink this kool-aid.”

And I understand exactly what he means.

The pomp and circumstance of it.
The linearity of it.
The latent expectation of it.
The ending and beginning of it.
The transition of it.

This has been his forever bane.
The transition.
In the early days,
The transitions were sharp as jagged rocks.
I learned to become his cocoon.
Mindfully.
Safely.

Wrapping his wings
Crossed and locked
To prevent dislocation.
Crumpling slowly to the floor
Hoping to gain purchase against a wall.
Leaning forward
To offer soft flesh
To butting head
To save my collarbone.
Folding my legs over his
Until stillness…
This was our lotus pose.

We have learned
That sometimes,
It becomes necessary
To push back
In order to propel forward.
###

 

Last Updated On July 6, 2019

 

"Life is a bastard, it wants to kill you Don't let go" -And The Kids

 

Transitions

I.
Anyone else in their pupal stage?
Its kind of icky in here, right?
It seems like a lot of production,
Just to shut down the means of reproduction.

It harkens back to my sweaty, toad armored adolescence.
So many braces, and sprains, and growing pains.
In the fishbowl of my own claustrophobic self-conscious existence,
Auto-narrating my every move for a sad YA novel
Starring ME.

I can relate to that messiness
As I wallow in the soup
That I first crawled out of.
But instead of growing sharp in definition
Through the power of my own focus,
My matrix has dissolved.
I’ve returned to stem cells bound
For some kind of glory.
I can’t discern an eyeball from an elbow in here.
The novel starring ME has transformed into a fuzzy vignette
Into which I make fewer and fewer appearances…

But there is a wisp of a spirit in here.
A glowing coal in the darkness of my cocoon.
I leak.
I tremble.
I’m on fire.
My humors are imbalanced.
And my brain splits in two.
Moonbeams shoot through the cracks of my chrysalis.

II.
He manages to disengage his towering frame from the backseat.
I straighten his gown in the parking lot.
His wings are limp and still flattened to his back.
I affix cap to mane
Smooth his beard.
Coo softly as I roll curls
Between oily fingers.
Slowly.
Thoughtfully.
Harnessing the beast of time.
Before my griffon takes flight.

I remember with tastiest clarity,
My fingers hooked under arm pits,
Thumbs braced against baby chest,
The milky smell of him.
The top heavy weight of him.

He says, “I don’t know if I want to drink this kool-aid.”

And I understand exactly what he means.

The pomp and circumstance of it.
The linearity of it.
The latent expectation of it.
The ending and beginning of it.
The transition of it.

This has been his forever bane.
The transition.
In the early days,
The transitions were sharp as jagged rocks.
I learned to become his cocoon.
Mindfully.
Safely.

Wrapping his wings
Crossed and locked
To prevent dislocation.
Crumpling slowly to the floor
Hoping to gain purchase against a wall.
Leaning forward
To offer soft flesh
To butting head
To save my collarbone.
Folding my legs over his
Until stillness…
This was our lotus pose.

We have learned
That sometimes,
It becomes necessary
To push back
In order to propel forward.
###

Last Updated On July 6, 2019

"Life is a bastard, it wants to kill you Don't let go" -And The Kids

Transitions

I.
Anyone else in their pupal stage?
Its kind of icky in here, right?
It seems like a lot of production,
Just to shut down the means of reproduction.

It harkens back to my sweaty, toad armored adolescence.
So many braces, and sprains, and growing pains.
In the fishbowl of my own claustrophobic self-conscious existence,
Auto-narrating my every move for a sad YA novel
Starring ME.

I can relate to that messiness
As I wallow in the soup
That I first crawled out of.
But instead of growing sharp in definition
Through the power of my own focus,
My matrix has dissolved.
I’ve returned to stem cells bound
For some kind of glory.
I can’t discern an eyeball from an elbow in here.
The novel starring ME has transformed into a fuzzy vignette
Into which I make fewer and fewer appearances…

But there is a wisp of a spirit in here.
A glowing coal in the darkness of my cocoon.
I leak.
I tremble.
I’m on fire.
My humors are imbalanced.
And my brain splits in two.
Moonbeams shoot through the cracks of my chrysalis.

II.
He manages to disengage his towering frame from the backseat.
I straighten his gown in the parking lot.
His wings are limp and still flattened to his back.
I affix cap to mane
Smooth his beard.
Coo softly as I roll curls
Between oily fingers.
Slowly.
Thoughtfully.
Harnessing the beast of time.
Before my griffon takes flight.

I remember with tastiest clarity,
My fingers hooked under arm pits,
Thumbs braced against baby chest,
The milky smell of him.
The top heavy weight of him.

He says, “I don’t know if I want to drink this kool-aid.”

And I understand exactly what he means.

The pomp and circumstance of it.
The linearity of it.
The latent expectation of it.
The ending and beginning of it.
The transition of it.

This has been his forever bane.
The transition.
In the early days,
The transitions were sharp as jagged rocks.
I learned to become his cocoon.
Mindfully.
Safely.

Wrapping his wings
Crossed and locked
To prevent dislocation.
Crumpling slowly to the floor
Hoping to gain purchase against a wall.
Leaning forward
To offer soft flesh
To butting head
To save my collarbone.
Folding my legs over his
Until stillness…
This was our lotus pose.

We have learned
That sometimes,
It becomes necessary
To push back
In order to propel forward.
###