Category Archives: Trauma

Where Can We Go To Mend?

When the fireworks sound like bombs dropping on this land and the shouts are like the screaming of our red skinned brethren being torn away from home, when 13,000 years get swept under the red and white carpet, we are banging on drums and linking up arms to say don’t forget we were here and we still exist. You can’t bandage these ancestral wounds. What you are doing to the others that came here from afar, we still carry that scar. They all have a place to seek refuge in our home and Native land, but where can we go to mend?

Who will protect us from our government? It’s a true testament of the Aboriginal spirit that this heart knows it’s own truth no matter how deep you try to bury it.

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Canada, Canadian, Cree, First Nations, Freedom, Genocide, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Ojibwe, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Rape, Spirit, Suicide, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, writing

I am America

All the honest ones on the bottom rung,
hunger without a green clue about how to grow food.
Yet our ancestors had the heirlooms, which would later
be bought by corporate leaders to make
toxic morsels, without real sustenance.

They would see dollar signs in the leaves of the trees,
ignoring the animal need in the seed we
received when we breathed our first
naked breath here, when we were taught to
respect here, this wilderness,
and the corrupt ones with their
pockets lined with lies,
grew rich off our trustworthiness,
or took it, with force, when we
were powerless to defend against them.

We watched what was once fecund,
become what is now a wasteland.
An ashy womb of indifference,
too poisonous to bear fruit.
We said mother earth must have
closed her legs and refused,
and yet they pried and forced
a millennia of greed a thousand feet deep,
so that the scope of it,
could be seen to permeate
every sector, from produce,
to health care, to political
sway, still she lay there
unresponsive to their touch.

It’s like I am America
and you are Europe,
like you rush towards me
with bloody hands,
fresh from raping your
own land, and you come here
hungry, looking to build a
new empire, from the ruinous
resin of your burned down world.
Like I have only an arrow to defend myself
against your lead battalion.

Leave a comment

Filed under Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Broken, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, Earth, Enslaved, Environment, First Nations, Freedom, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Past, Pipe Lines, Political, Pollution, Rape, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Brave

​Brave we are:

when the father is a ghost

when the head of a beloved doll rolls 

across the wooden floor 

of a vacant house

when the mother cuts her finger 

across her swollen lip,

when teeth fall

before their time is up.

Brave are the children

of the aging woman

whose reality forehadows the

dream.

When the child, so worshipped

falls sick, 

when there is a blackness 

darker than when they

put out the forest fires

in his head.

When bringing your child to the doctor

for mental malaise is as healing

as bringing him to the undertaker

on the street corner,

of an overpopulated city,

which gets glorified by how high

its towers rise,

and how far its people fall.

When I told my hero

of her braveness

she cried

and said she was nothing.

She was nothing,

dressed in denim on a hot

summer day,

to stop the U.V rays,

from making thymine dimers 

in her RNA.

Sodium channels

flood her face, submerging 

the pain in her smile.

A fist full of forgiveness

for the man who did this,

her hero of nothing,

paternal wolf, 

whose eyes eat the children,

whose lust burns the forests

into clay, which the rain,

makes maleable again-

shaping out this brave image

where we fit into nothing.

Leave a comment

Filed under Abuse, Addiction, Death, Depression, Disenchantment, Displacement, dreams, Loss, Medical, Overdose, Pain, Poem, poetry, Sex, Silence, Sobriety, Society, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, writing

Deference

No baby, I don’t think it’s that you are incapable of being happy, I think you just have more receptor cells for sadness. The little molecules of joy float away from you. The reason it hurts is because your threshold is low, and you’ve built a tolerance for sadness.

1 Comment

Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Truth, writing

Before the Abyss

Somewhere on a mountain in India, you were learning about the particles of sand in the rocks that expanded from the boulder of your aspirations. Speak nothing of the weight of it, small unrelated sibling of brown skin. Don’t carry the weight of the world, crossing continents, shifting from what we spoke of as a caste system which broke open and slowly became something of a mineralized memory, chiseled sharp as a surgeon’s instrument.

When I was ten years old I felt God enter my bed and lift me toward the sky. I may have at one time cried over the death of birds. Never once would I imagine an unborn soul’s karma would meet with mine to rise up into the white of discarded feathers, else pull those makeshift wings over her own small body and fly.

Truth drizzles from the tongue in crowded corridors, where from behind the girl without a circle flocks towards my side in tacit approval, smiling back lost decades, where among you all I would have been unrecognizable. Her and I are the nuclei of free radicals, I laugh at the open door for rebels to pass through, gaining entrance freely. I hear your own laughter echo back to me.

We all started with a dream. Today that dream dies. Today the scope of practice is spoken of, and the post trauma of seeing small children, like smashed eggs on the sidewalk, where the yolk of what we become gets burned beneath the sun. My heart, my heart lies lateral to my body. My soul, my soul, lies proximal to the sky. Skip a beat…

listen for the atrial flutter of a butterfly, inflating beyond measure, auscultating systolic pressure.

120 over 80 mercury, retro to distal, the parietal of my hand reaches through the ventral of the darkness, separating the opposing sides of a funnel cloud in utero, tapping on a stethoscope.

The eyes open as light floods the pupils, dilating variance, ascertaining vision, a flash of recognition, the first stranger we meet,

our first lover, the keeper of our primary impressions. When acceptance or rejection tattoos the future on our small dangling feet.

The first spanking or christening, followed by the first kiss,

Before the abyss, and after the abyss.

3 Comments

Filed under Butterfly, Canada, Canadian, Distance, Medical, Memory, Past, Poem, poetry, Science, Time, Trauma, travel, writing

Time

Is a river that rushes onward
Is a vein that ruptures inward
Is an emotion that stagnates
on the cuff of bloodied sleeve.
Is all those who leave me
Or allow me to leave.

Leave a comment

Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Time, Trauma, travel, writing

Rupture

The day love turned abiotic is the day my corpse lay in bed and did not move for a century. In that century a sentence was written, that contained the entirety of what I felt. The simplicity of a ray of light, wherein all the sun was contained lay in the secular shadow of the curtains that hung like death waves over my window, each time the wind blew, the tide of my life pulled out, then in, then back away from me, and as some wish to recover this, I did not. I slept for a moment, one could not measure, yet in that moment, eternity, and with it all hope, all desire or need of ever waking. The velvet box in which my love lay, they shoveled upon it the earth, on the outside, metal latches and mahogany, within no scream, no dream, no vision, simply velvet mouth where words never fell, velvet tongue, where thoughts dissolved like acid, turning the light into sharp particles of memory, of a time when we walked near the ocean together, and your hand, as I reached for it, became black molecules of star dust fading. The earth, which I used to revere suddenly seemed absurd for being here all these billions of years. Why did it go on regrowing, regenerating all that dead mass of emptiness and decay, If you were only going to go away? Go away, then return again, as this blade, cutting into me, in the center where my heart once beat like the wings of a bird flying home. I’ll stay here clutching my head, my heart, my body, all these things you wouldn’t hold, these things too big for this world to contain. I’ll choke and hemmoraghe, I’ll convulse, my eyes will grow weary where they once shone. All this will take place in a moment, and in that moment each part of me will surrender and retrace each part of you back through time, until it’s as though neither of us were ever here. I’ll erase those parts you said were forever young, replace them with wrinkles and routine, the carefully constructed silence of these walls, this depth from oceanic to a measured distance of six feet, of a life compacted into fragments and unwanted bones. I’ll do all this alone as I walk and breathe, smile and attentively seem to be here, the world won’t know otherwise. It will be my secret. One day a patient will say, those nurses are all so jaded, it’s as if they’ve seen life, watched it fade away day by day, but never cared to make it stay, and I’ll say nothing, I’ll smile and donate my blood as if I always loved and never knew the feeling of a heart break.

Leave a comment

Filed under Freedom, Hypocrisy, Loss, Love, Pain, Poem, Repressed, Sorrow, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Alive (an interior dialogue)

Stranger: I think you feel things.

Self: you think wrong.

Stranger: you have a sensitivity.

Self: like having a burn.

Stranger: but it’s beautiful, it makes you real.

Self: it makes me nothing.

Self:  *stares at arm, winces at transparent  scars*

Stranger: you love with courage.

Self: what is love?

Stranger: what you feel.

Self: I feel nothing.

Stranger: you lie.

Self: always.

Stranger: why?

Self: it’s easier.

Stranger: easier than what?

Self: easier than burning.

Stranger: but the sun is beautiful.

Self: I prefer the moon.

Self: *stares out the window at the dark sky*

Stranger: why?

Self: it doesn’t hurt us.

Stranger: but what about the floods?

Self: it’s better to drown.

Stranger: * takes a sip of wine, pours more.*

Stranger: what about your father?

Self: he’s dead, suicide.

Stranger: liar.

Self: self-destruction.

Stranger: lies, don’t glorify it.

Self: father is sun, mother is earth.

Stranger: and the moon?

Self: my mistress.

Stranger: bullshit.  He was a junkie, she was a lost cause. He’s not a God just because he’s dead.

Self: we’re all dead, existentially.

Stranger: and what about what he did to the others?

Self: spiritual dissociation, sick, dark sick, dissociation.

Stranger: and the heroin?

Self: his salvation.

Stranger: love?

Self: a broken arm, a syringe stuck in, the sun, the moon, the earth, all of it.

Stranger: and then what?

Self: we bleed.
         we’re human.

Stranger: but of course what else could we be?

Self: animals.

Stranger: animals are more gentle.

Self: only because you think you can tame them. You can’t.  We’re all wild inside.
Power is illusion.

Stranger: and hope is futile they say; life and death choose us equally whether wanted or not, choice is also illusion.

Self: it’s both ugly & beautiful. “We can make a hell out of heaven or a heaven out of hell.”

Self: *leaves*

Stranger: where are you going?

Self: to the forest, the mountains, the sea.

Stranger: nature.

Self: solitude.

Stranger: animals.

Self: spirit.

Stranger: freedom.

Self: salvation.

Stranger: but why?

Self: I am in it, it is in me.

Stranger: you are real.

Self: cancer is real.

Stranger: you are nothing.
                 I want to be nothing too.

Self: you are.

Stranger: I feel it.

Self: feel what?

Stranger: alive.

Leave a comment

Filed under Conversation, creative, Emotions, Heroin, introspective, Memory, Poem, Suicide, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Miasma

Black treacle swan. White albino swan. Watching them from the edge of the pond, how they enter eachother like shadows. Watching them swim graceful at first and then the eventual bloody aftermath and after death, the afterbirth of their mating. Their courting is a prelude to homicide. Enter me, perpetual gaping wound that never heals, with your sword of forceful pokes and prods into my interior. It’s a wonder something uglier does not arise from the tide of her open thighs at labor station 23 on a red gurney. Patient x has given birth to the newest antichrist. It cries for more white fluid. I see the pond as ice and the birds as a nightfall of snow and the aftermath of nuclear bombing. His penis is akin to Chernobyl, all cut up and radioactive. She has ovaries like missiles where future bombs await. Shrapnel of climax that’s all we are, anticlimactic and nuclear active space travelers. Cut, snip, tie off the umbilical noose from which we are all hung, twist it hard and breech me as a newborn suicide. Legs out first, cord wrapped around my neck like a final testament. Beautiful in the winter when the northern lights play music in colour, better than a world of endless gray. This is how I’ll stay, gracefully gliding along a crystal surface of glass, where the ghosts tap tap tap to be opened like a cracked womb of gushing river blood. I whistle your purple brilliance and green resplendence into a frenzy of sky spirits that dance out from the melting miasma, the plasma in a tube mixed with opioid brilliance that filters out the white noise. Kiss me nebulous. Inject me with your love, receptors, receptors, respond. We have a code 798, clear, singe, spiral, smoke, inhale, choke, listen to that silence! It’s coated by softly falling snow and the careful circles the ice dancer makes upon our grave in figure 8s, infinity signs, lines that stretch on forever from continent to continent of loneliness.

image

1 Comment

Filed under Malady, poetry, Sex, Shadow, Snow, Soul, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Uncertainty

Not even the birds fly graceful,
a small jay darts by,
clipping his wing on a branch,
he lets out a cry, not like a song,
more like a siren.
The squirrel in his attempt
to scale the tree
has fallen twenty feet onto the street,
his body carries one last jolt of adrenaline to hurry him out of the way of traffic, but his eye hangs like a marble on a string,
without the nerve to face the world.
The house across the way is slanted,
ready to fall at any time.
The sun has forgotten to shine.
The clock won’t keep time,
the hands have stopped at an hour unknown to me,
unknown to anyone,
least of all my blood in a vial,
in an icebox of uncertainty.

Leave a comment

Filed under Broken, Chaos, Poem, Trauma, Upheaval

To live

When I was a baby a window fell on my head,  it gashed open an artery. My aunt rushed me to the hospital. She held me in the car, wrapped in blood soaked towels,  gushing crimson. Her husband laughed  as she wept, ” she’s going  to live. ”

When my baby brother jumped on the bed,  he gashed his head open on the dresser and I screamed and cried in horror.  My parents laughed at me. ”he’s going to live.”

Then a van ran over his head and they blamed me for not watching  him.  I watched as the wheels slowly crushed his skull. I heard the crunch of rubber and bone.

Now he drinks his insides open.

He’s  going to live.

Isn’t it funny?

When does the living stop?

At seventeen  I jumped twenty feet off the bleachers.  My leg hit a metal beam and gashed open.  I took one stitch for every foot I fell. My partner was not as fortunate.  She jumped down to save me.  She shattered her spine. My mother came to see me in the hospital. Flesh, bone and blood. ‘You destroyed  your leg  my girl.’  That’s all she could say.  Congratulations

‘You are going to live. ‘

But I wanted to die.

I wanted to die.

1 Comment

Filed under Alcoholism, Broken, Death, Desire, Memory, Mortality, Narrative, Suicide, Trauma

Burial

What becomes of a warrior’s heart after burial,  if it lies there dying on an old battlefield, can the sad murmur of  ancient love still be heard….?

Or is it dried to the point of cracking like the way we are fracking this land?

Our future  is a naked dry earth with no heart. No one dies for the truth anymore.

The battlefield has given way to the oil field and oil spills, slick birds with flightless wings.

Listen to the warrior song in the places you go to seek a way forward,  it is calling you back to what you are.

I burn up the fuel of my body…
progress
is inside of me.

2 Comments

Filed under Bird, Earth, Environment, First Nations, Forest, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, introspective, Pipe Lines, Poem, Political, Pollution, Purity, Trauma

Kintsukuroi

I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

Leave a comment

Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing