Subtraction

Some would say I am bipolar

Others would concur I have gone off the deep end / lost my marbles / became apeshit

 Still, many say I ignore them
                                                assuming, I am no longer worth their time

Grief is a subtraction of the soul

Grief gathers the emotions to compile the missing which creates

                                                                                                      Depression

It gathers the emotions to save the missing and shows the hidden

                                                                                                       PTSD

This is where grievers fight for their life to exist as they once understood it

                                                                              As they ONCE understood

There is no logic

                           Logic is a misconception of numbers that never never never never
                           come close to equaling the chaos theory—

Grief is beyond the numbers

I am not bipolar—there are times I must switch gears quickly in the middle of something important or I will become a display case that makes everyone uncomfortable

                        Go ahead, tell me I should

                                                            We all know the consequences of this action

                                                            Subtraction equals nonreaction

When I walk away to go off the deep end, to lose my marbles, to go apeshit, don’t follow me, you won’t like me

                        This is the me that has no control

                        This is the me trying to cope and finding no answers

                        This is the me that must exist right now

                                                I have to do this to regain sanity

                                                Loosing the mind briefly adds to me, teaches me who I am—
                                                            that part of me I ignored and kept hidden

                                                            This is getting in touch

                                                            This is organized chaos crossing over
                                                            Subtracting equals a positive              just let it be

I don’t ignore people because I don’t like them . . .

            I ignore people because my emotions can’t deal with them—right now
                                                                                                                        or for a few weeks

At least I try to let these people know but often I can’t, I just can’t

because I can’t deal with any long conversations
because I can’t hear what I should do . . . all those different good meaning phrases

                                    Or, you think making me laugh will change where I am

                                                Depends on my chemistry at the time—
                                                not everything is funny or memorable or comical during my time

                                                                        Of coping

                                                                        More input isn’t always good

When happiness begins to flicker, sometimes, I need to focus

Focus on the essentials of life

                                                No, that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped laughing

                                                It means I’ve became choosier about what will make me laugh
                                                which will add positive numbers to the chaos

There is that small circle of association during this time

They know what I need

They know what to do

They know me

If my actions have offended you

By all means . . . don’t speak to me

                                                Take me off your list of friends

                                                            DON’T make me feel guilty for surviving the best I can

I know who I should be with

 and when I should be with them

 and where I should be

as I struggle and restructure me

subtraction is livelihood     subtraction is equalizing     subtraction is . . . composing

I write this because no one can walk in my shoes
                                                because too many have words of wisdom that have no clue
                                                                        because I hear “that isn’t right”
            because I hear “it’s time to move on”
                                    because people don’t see the whole scene and often don’t want to

                                                                        making the grieving person feel guilty doesn’t change the grief—it only makes it deeper because you won’t understand where the person is

                                                            Right now, Right here, This moment

                                    Guilt only makes it deeper, makes the person feel worthless, makes a person feel as if s/he is always doing wrong, makes a person feel worse than s/he already does, makes a person fall deeper into the nowhere place, the nowhere place where numbers swim inconsistently, where numbers do not mean logic, where chaos theory isn’t organize chaos, where time loops again and again, a replay of the replay with no way to get out

Please take a moment before judging the grieving soul—death of a loved one changes a person, a part of who that person is now gone, s/he must restructure, create again with subtracting numbers, learning that the hole cannot be filled and will not be filled and will never have logic in it and accepting this . . . accepting this . . . accepting this              logic is for the living side of the soul

It is easier to add than it is to subtract

Don’t place more pain unto the person who is still learning to take away     and live

New Years

Chris and I bought tickets to the New Years Eve party at the Rusty Spur. I wasn't all that sure about going that night. However, we did. Chris made sure we had a designated driver. Chris did some research on available taxi services. The cheapest service would cost us $30--over estimated to make sure we had included it into the expenses. Anyhow, it turned out, David wanted to go out but not drink. He just wanted to "hang out." David became our designated driver.

Since I wasn't driving, I decided to experiment with some drinks. I'm strictly a rum and juice drinker, half the alcohol in any drink. My usual night consist of two drinks for a five hour period, along with plenty of water and ice on the side. I had a shot of unknown and then a shot of Jack Daniels and coke. Two things I knew I wouldn't have was any type of beer and Smirnoff. There was no plans on getting drunk. I don't like drunk. I've been drunk twice, not plastered, just drunk. The feeling of being on the outside looking in, knowing part of what you are doing is what you want to do and the other part is the sneaky you saying, "Go ahead, you know you're curious, give it a try," bothers me a bit. The biggest part that bothers me is the anger I feel lurking underneath. I know I will say things that will hurt a person because it is hard for me to keep my feelings in check once I am drunk. Then, to be tired on top of the drunk makes it worse.

I recall our trip down to Anderson for a weekend of "get away" at a friends. This was the second time I had become drunk. I had decided I wanted to be drunk that night to test two theories: will I become a mean drunk and does the alcohol allow me to relax, allow me to run away for a short time. To answer the latter: NO. I was still tense about the grieving factor that had gripped me for those few months, a grieving factor that messed with my work. (I did work my way out of it with some help from a colleague.) The only thing the alcohol did was have me stand on the outside of me, having me look in, and still giving me no control to change anything. As for the anger, I kept it in check by not saying anything, by not responding to anyone, and focusing on silly things (the best I could). The one thing I do recall very clearly is being angry because I would have to be the responsible person, again. A drunk can't take care of a plaster, and that is where Chris was heading. This is when I realized my anger deals with "care giving."

Even at the New Years Eve party, I couldn't relax enough to enjoy the full moment of everything. Although, the best part of all was my youngest daughter's presence. A friend picked her up and they both came to the Rusty Spur. David had invited Ginny but I didn't think she would come, knowing that I would be there. She did come.

The alcohol reached into me, bringing out the thoughts of missing Vincent. Vincent loved New Years. It was a night to party with friends and to be wild. I've watched him do it. His joking would become wild.  Thinking about Vincent--even if there hadn't been alcohol in me--made me cry. In the middle of Rusty Spur I was in full blown tears. Chris hugged me tightly. David hugged me tightly. Both said "I love you." The surprising part of the night was Ginny coming over to me, hugging me, cradling me in her arms, and saying, "I love you, Mom." I cried harder. Ginny hadn't said that to me since Garry and I separated. She was holding me, she was telling me all would be okay.

Us in 2010 just months before Vincent's cancer was discovered.

That night, as I watched Ginet, my mind kept telling me she was faking it, just being pleasant in front of Logan. Still, there was a difference about her. I was seeing the old her. Chris said he noticed the difference, and David commented on it. Something had changed in her position about me. I kept my distance and (even with the alcohol in me) was careful with my words. I couldn't take any pain through rejection. My daughters had given plenty of pain in rejecting me (because I couldn't live a lie any longer, because I had to find me, because I had to discover that part of me I never knew, because doing all of this meant ditching the baggage that kept me tied up, because I couldn't care for a dying son and care for a husband who decided his pain must consume all). When she hugged me, when she said "I love you, Mom," the anger I felt building up with the small buzz dissipated. Yes, I was angry with my daughter for thinking I had "abandoned" her--she was an adult when all went down. How could she think this? Plus, I heard Pete's words echoing in the background while Ginny hugged me, "She will return to you." All the anger didn't leave, however. I was still fighting that responsible part of me, the part who takes responsibility of tending to others when that said person needs to tend to him- / herself. (Where does my responsibility end in the village?) It's hard to learn how to be "self" when you are a people pleaser--which I am. Does pleasing people make me happy: yes and no. It makes me happy when it isn't a person forcing me or manipulating me into making a person happy. I AM NOT OTHERS HAPPINESS.

The time I had a discussion with Chris about the possibility of me becoming an alcoholic is constantly in the back of my head. There are times I want to have some alcohol--I like my strawberry daiquiris, my rum and pineapple (or rum and cranberry and grapefruit). Just that initial feeling that I get with one shot or less to relax my muscles is plenty. I don't need a buzz. If anything, I fear alcohol. I know how it can destroy lives. My carving for my favorite drink is like the craving I get for chocolate. I have some and it's gone. Yes, you'll tell me this craving is being an alcoholic. I don't reason away the craving, though. When I have the craving, I don't run out to the local bar or liquor store. This craving is like the want for my favorite meal, a meal I know my stomach can't handle because of the sauce. I will have that meal on occasion, though. It's the taste, the flavor. I have found that there are certain ways to make my favorite meal that disgust me. I won't go to those places to eat it. Alcohol is like that. Captain Morgan and Malibu, so far, are the rum of choice. The most recent fum I have bought . . . just doesn't cut it. No amount of juice makes this rum good. Even the smell of this rum keeps me from drinking it. It's Calico Jack. With chocolate, I will run out to the closest place to get it! However, there are chocolates I won't touch. I must be very desperate to have any milk chocolate. Dark chocolate or nothing, and even then I must have a certain brand. Even so, that craving has been curved with the onset of an allergy to peanuts. I can't buy my favorite candy bar anymore because of the possibility of it being processed on a machine that had peanuts processed on it. I miss you MOUNDS.

As for chocolate, I'm addicted. As for alcohol, no. I don't look for the next buzz. Do I have an anger issue. I would say yes. I keep it well in check and in disguised. The anger comes from me allowing people to "make me" and allowing people to manipulate me. I'm facing it. I can still be a people pleaser but on my own terms. Every year is a New Year in becoming. Without these experiences, I wouldn't be discovering who I am. The roughest years of my life began in the beginning of 2010 (before Vincent was found with cancer in 2010) to the end of 2014. While life is still throwing me curve balls--especially in employment, I see 2015 as a new beginning.

Molding

Molding

(after Broken Wing by Martina McBride)

His happiness is built on her tears

and silence. she is made to build Him

up, leaving her dream buried in the ground.

when His dream fades, she is expected to fade

                                                                              as well.

her happiness has to be built on His

dream. His dream is her happiness . . .

                                                               according to the teachings.

her dream is only her dream,

and it has to be kept silent, done

with leftover time, if it comes . . .

                                                        but there is never her time.

she cannot blame it all on him.

a girl’s dream is taught to serve a man.

a girl’s happiness is taught to be his happiness.

the teachings still go on.

rarely is the molding broken . . .

                                                    and when it is, it is often too late:

damaged goods.

I Am Now Dead

I Am Now Dead
to my child, Jessica

                                                                 

All the words I wanted to say

I could not speak

Through your shouts,

Through the bitterness

Your tongue announced,

Condemning me like the Pharisees—me silent as Jesus.

I do not say I am Jesus.

I do say that my words could not be heard

Over the cinder blocks,

Over the unforgiving,

I      not knowing      what it was      I had done

So many years ago in your childhood.            I thought I was there,

I thought I gave my best.

Your grievance I cannot answer

Without the knowledge of the transgression

I am supposed to drown in.

It does not matter, now.                     I am dead.

I am dead,

Standing in the shallows

Of your baptism

Watching you,

Seeing your life crumble,

Wondering how it is my sin

That you are not happy.

I cannot give you happiness.

I cannot give you peace.

My responsibility ended when you became your own.

My time came back

Into existence upon the birth

Of an adult child.

However, none of this matters.

I am dead to you.

Since I am dead,

These words do not exist.

Forget what you read.

Forget me,

But know I will not forget you,

Know I will love you,

Know I will take the pain

In my death

Because you will always be

My child.

naked

naked

I dance for me

naked
in our living room
in the living room
I so long waited for
a freedom I hadn’t known
not until that moment
I realized
this is my space
and I can dance

naked
for me
for me
and you                       if I wish
and I wish

These are poems written about 2004/5 by my son. My son is a cancer / stroke patient in his last days. I gladly share a part of my son that many people did not know existed.

Crying Dreams
by Vincent Luebke

Bleeding out your name under my unbeloved pain.

Missing every breath I take.

Skipping pictures through my brain.

Crying from every missed thing.

Painting your soul on my fading screams.

Praying for it not to float away.

Standing on the devil’s wing as I’m trying to dream of the unforgotten days.

Can’t sleep with out seeing your sympathetic graces.

I’m tired of not seeing your pretty faces.

Must be Me
by Vincent Luebke

He’s clawing at the door as he’s lying in his masculine grave.

            Fallen away from the forgotten places.

                        Dropping tears as everyone fades away.

Watching as his ashes are scattered to this day.

            Seeing every dead men’s dreams.

                        Wait one second I see me.

                                    I see my body in the eight-foot grave.

                        Everything I saw must have been my dying soul.

Pinch The Pain As You Fall
by Vincent Luebke

Try to pinch the pain
looking for it to come again
so use to the apathy
beneath the fallen sins

We all know the Devil’s coming again so pinch
the pain and watch your very breath
                  be taken in

Cold air broken threw my skin, death is following

My whiten faces

I stumble into the Devil’s furnaces

The unforgivable sins are inhaled threw
            my lungs everywhere                   I run                       Death
comes, I guess my death will never end

(Note: “threw” is not an error.)

Running Down our Cheek
by Vincent Luebke

Running down our cheek.

Sadness is like Jesus’ cry to God
            and we say Why!             Why     why   me . . .

            Why do we have sadness in our lives
                        it just makes us want to die.

                                    Sadness tastes
                                    like the tears
                                    running down our cheek.

Before Me

My heart keys "help"
Wanting You right there
Closer than You are to me now

You are too far from me
My shell wanting to be wrapped

By Your physical presence

Your Spirit comforts
But imagining arms reaching
Is failure . . . I need You before me

I pray, "Give me arms to fall into"
I pray, "Give me ears that have lips"
I pray, "Give me a man with God's heart"

Here I stand in a field of searching hearts
Where only one exists for me
Who carries tears like mine

And before me, through all my denial
You place him, in all his difficulties
Crying out to You, as well, with the same prayer

Cancer

Indy, 2012

after Lucille Clifton
Issue 1

What If Conspiracy Created Sin

What if Lucifer approached Adam   first


and first man’s yellow backbone   connived


with the fallen morning star

to create the ultimate   scapegoat


where sin was blamed between   the legs

scabs scabs, this is all i have left

“Oh, God—did I just say that? It must be the scar speaking of me, through me,
with or without the permission of my long-hurt heart.” —George Kalamaras

Yes, God, I hear you.

Daughter, I know you hear me, but are you listening?

The tsunami is coming daughter. The waters have receded and you are standing on muddy ground. Your scarred feet are not healing in the gooey reservoir your feet are now glued in. Do you not notice the mud turning to dry ground around your ankles after all your fallen tears. You cannot run anymore. Even your tears leave your feet. They cannot stay to soothe the scabs because you do not listen to their drops, to their lingering upon your cheek, to their taste upon your tongue. You have given them no choice but to escape the scabs you attach to scabs. Your tears have become silent to you. You need not stand in dry ground to drown in the rush, if you would only listen.

Daughter, listen closely. The tsunami is coming. Your tears knew when they would return. You will die only for a short time. I am here to lift you out. Just reach up. I have heard your crying, but you have not listened to me. The scabs are deep and you have attached hope in the wrong place. The walls of tears are coming back to drown you, for a bit, but stroke up, stroke hard, do not sob anymore, break the surface, my daughter, I am here waiting to grab your hand so you will not be washed out with the scabs.

Sorrow for Wisdom

    I came upon this woman in the hospital sanctuary.  I almost missed her as I began to pass the open door.  The voice I heard escaping the room just caught me.  The chapel in all its decorative wood and lilies placed lavishly across the mantel hid the light skinned woman in her two-toned earth brown top and skirt.  She was singing—no, not actually singing, more like a talk-sing, a mantra, a lovely blend of sound.  I would have never noticed the accent, except when she sobbed a prayer, and that speech brought me to her eyes; I had to see those eyes, the doorway into the soul—blue; no, green; no, gold; changing with each lament she made, with each sound, each pattern of tone.  It’s hard to describe the musical quality flowing from her lips in a musical way, in any way.  And the sound, the sound cascading over the lilies, the wood, flooding the room like a giggling brook; but I knew, even with the beautiful sound there was sorrow, deep sorrow.  It didn’t matter I couldn’t understand, she brought light into a hopeless heart, and oddly the light identified with the sorrow, called the sorrow, asked the sorrow for wisdom, spoke to the pain.

Chickenfucker

Chicken poop
            Concealer
            Corn meal on beef
            Traveling salesman
                                              Lay on the grass
                                              rubbermaid
                                              tupperware
                                              No protection in the pocket
     Cock                      Cock                          Cock
                              a doodle
                        everywhere find

Chicken poop
            Spread eagle                          too many
                                                          times                            forms
                      promise                       bells                             jewels
                                                          security                                    seafood alfredo
                     Brownie points in bonfire
                                melt the chocolate                                 let it run
                                fill in the body              hiding
           with a broken shell of volunteer fireman
                                                                      army

                     Don't hate me
                     I don't                           Love me
                     I do, I will

Chicken poop
            in fear to be
            in anger . . . runs
           from self from family from self from girl from self

                                                          Eye socket left rips
                                                                      rips lungs
                                                                      rips gut
                                                                      rips loins
                                                                     promises rip left                              behind for
                                 Jolie ole sole at the heel of me
Chicken poop
           Daddy wants to kill
           Brother wants to kill
                                                                         the boy in the shell of a man: Chickenfucker
           Mom . . . crying, dying with me
                                                                         i'm the chick in fuck her

at me

It is hard for me
            to concentrate
on the work     I must
            do;     you
                      are always on my     mind.
I argue
    with myself,     “concentrate,     focus”
but my mind skips
               words,     seeing
                    you
                          staring
                              at me.

daughters' message to fathers

(after Lucille Clifton)

fathers,
this small girl
knows not her beauty
buried deep in the pit of her heart.
her hair

is the crown men will want.
she is

the absence of man’s beauty
and far more sensitive to words.

fathers,

if you do not tell her,
if you do not hold her,

how will she find her beauty,

how will she know when a man steals her happiness,
if you do not show her the way?

Dragonsilver

i’ve forgotten the fire
that breathes forth deep from the throat
i’ve forgotten the fire
that roars from between the teeth

i lost the meaning of those words somewhere between
your wall and my door
and you did as well

the smoke lingers like the silver tail
awaiting to spike the heart once more
all the while
tongues lick wounds deep under the scales
remembering
remembering
that the wings folded to let us fall