Coco

Two Cent Tom

-          “Ground Control to Major Tom”

                                       David Bowie

What’s Next…

As I try to deflect and resurrect

histories truths of inequality

 

“We asked for it”

“it was never ours to begin with”

“when will enough be enough”

 

You see its kinda tough

when you grow up in the hood
spent everyday knocking on wood

 

Praying on ash bent knees

underneath the trees

of the lost but not forgotten

 

Hands full of dirt

pretending that death

of a loved one doesn’t hurt

 

Who are you to cast stones

in this glass house

built out of privilege

 

While down in the village

kids trapped in cages,

parents slaughtered in racists rages

 

What’s next?

Is there a plan?

Is there anyway to repair this broken land?

 

This was never the land of the free,

nor was it the home of the brave…

our soil is the blood of the slave

 

A land of pillaged pride,

we have yet to come together

and put our differences aside.

 

When we look in the mirror who do we see?

A reflection of ignorance

or a future murder spree?

 

The LEFT is RIGHT

neither will ever give up the fight

for control over your bottom dollar

 

Slip off the noose,

remove your

shock collar

 

Remorse for humanity in the tears that I shed

There will always be more suffering,

always more dead 

 

What’s next is so very plain to see

What’s next is the end, oblivion,

eternity in the void of space

Pushing up flowers

 

Two and Two are Four

Four and Four are Eight

Eight and Eight are Sixteen

and Sixteen…

and Sixteen…are Thirty-Two

 

Hovering over a cold sterile stainless-steel table

I watched as she sang, rocking two and fro

Listening to the rhythm of her sawing dutifully to the ditty

 

Two and Two are Four

Four and Four are Eight

Eight and Eight are Sixteen

and Sixteen…

and Sixteen…are Thirty-Two

 

It was calming but altogether eerily sung in a minor tone

Back and forth went one arm as the other held steady

Such precision, a planned paradigm affinity 

 

Inch worm, Inch worm measuring

the marigold seems to me you’d stop and see

how beautiful they are…

 

Gathering her carefully dissected pieces

Plopped each piece in a biodegradable planter

Covered with fertilized earth scooping out a hole

 

Inch worm, Inch worm measuring

the marigold seems to me you’d stop and see

how beautiful they are…

 

Transferring the planters

to a push dolly nearby

Thirty-two marigold plants awaited

 

Two and Two are Four

Four and Four are Eight

Eight and Eight are Sixteen

and Sixteen…

and Sixteen…are Thirty-Two

 

I tapped her shoulder

as she spun her eyes fixated on mine

pupils so dilated and dark she kept singing

 

Two and Two are Four

Four and Four are Eight

Eight and Eight are Sixteen

and Sixteen…

and Sixteen…are Thirty-Two

 

What did you place in that planter?

“Food for the inch worms

to help the flowers grow” and then continued

 

Inch worm, Inch worm measuring

the marigold seems to me you’d stop and see

how beautiful they are…

 

What kind of food I queried wearily

“Thirty-two pieces of the man that plagues my mind

he dared ask me after violating me one last time…What’s next?” 

 

 

“You wear your trauma like a badge of honor.

You need to give that shit up.

It’s killing you.”

 

It’s amazing how observant

and how blind a person

can be all at the same time.

 

The ignorance

and blatant shameful manner

in which they befriend one another.

 

Unwilling to accept that

you don’t get

how trauma works.

 

No one posses

the Pythagorean Theorem

to write out its functions.

 

To solve

its relative

answer

 

Map out the definitive ratio

of plus and minus

efforts of justification.

 

There is no rationalizing Trauma,

no fixing,

no better way to deal with it,

no this verses that,

no tit for tat.

 

And in saying so,

the response is

“saying ‘you don’t get it’ is part of the problem.”

 

Is it now?

 

How many:

-          psychologists

-          psychoanalyst

-          neuroscientist             

-          mental health leaders

have you surpassed?

 

Do you think you’re the Flash?

 

Running faster than light,

or sound, or apparently

reason that can’t catch you?

 

I wear my trauma like a badge of honor…pssshh

 

You’re DAMN right I DO!

I’m a six-star General of Trauma

I’ve got purple hearts, crosses, congressional medals of honor too –

 

Fought more wars in my mind

than vanished souls lost

to the Roman-Persian Wars!

 

 

No straight jacket

can hold the thoughts

of my mind.

 

Steal bars could never cage

my rabid, feral, anger

once it’s been roused.

 

Dangerous I tell you!!! —

I am dangerous to myself

and others a fact I readily reveal.

 

My Father is a MARINE

as his Father before him

raised,

vetted,

trained in tactical warfare 

 

To this day the only person

my Father fears is me —

fearful of his creation

 

Tremulous how easily my switch is flipped

knowing how arduous a task

it is to get me to snap out of battle mode

 

The niece of a Martial Arts Sifu

-          Kung Fu

-          Wing Chun

-          Tai Chi

-          Five Animal Style

-          Drunken Money

 

 

Standing in horse stance,

beat with a stick to keep

my stance for hours at a time

 

This is my blood,

instinctive like breathing air

I can paint demise with the flick of a wrist

 

So I plead to others not to anger,

trigger,

or upset me.

 

Split seconds are too long,

too late,

too lavish to my skilled highly trained eye.

 

Have you any idea

the type of strength it takes

to ground myself like a deep-rooted tree?

 

These tears streaking my face

aren’t weakness you fool

they are kerosene leaking from my fueled tank!

 

Tired

Resentful

Agitated

Unstoppable

Malice

 Aggression

 

 

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

 

My trauma is elegant,

beautifully hand stitched badges of honor

that tell a story of my strength, my —

 

Truth

Resilient

Apathy

Unbridled

Magnificent

Adaptability

 

Trauma isn’t something you get over, or get through,

there is no bridge to cross,

nothing to let go.

 

When you can see that trauma

is the shadows in a painting that

give it depth, shape, and purpose.

 

See that the dark

is what brings balance

to the light.

 

Only then can you see me as:

-          whole

-          complete

-          strong

-          powerful

-          graceful

-          loving

…human

 

I am not something to:

-          fix

-          figure out

-          help heal

-          have pity on

-          try to console

-          force to be moved

My trauma doesn’t have me,

nor does it define me,

or control me.

 

I’ve been in command

of this vessel far longer

than anyone else.

 

So now that

I stand up

for myself.

 

Now that I won’t permit

others to wipe their shoes

on my face.

 

Because my fight or flight button

is permanently set to fight,

you don’t get to tell me who to be.

 

You don’t get to write my narrative

or inject your “positive thinking” ways

as the solution.

 

Inside the oubliette of my mind

is a place that only the blind can see

with admiration.

 

It gives hope to others

that someone like me,

like them,

like us all is still fighting!

 

…

 

To live through simply

this moment

…

 

Into the next, extending past

what you considering living

and we consider surviving just another day.