cycles, suns. breathing, heal.

we’ve stopped shouting, finally.

the wounds’ barely a memory of a sting, an afterimage of an amputation.

we can bear each other’s company.

and we know we’re solid enough

that we can look at each other and joke,

when people ask us,

“what broke you two up?”

and we reply, “our mental illnesses were simply not compatible …”

 

 

i’ve been thinking about cycles

a lot lately,

of loops

and rings

and circles

spheres

repetitions.

 

i’ve been thinking about this

because i look at the sun.

i’ve been looking at the sun almost every day

this summer.

i made it a point to go outside every day

because i wanted to

because it felt good

because it’s good for my depression

i went outside every day because i wanted to burn,

i wanted to smolder.

twice a day, actually.

baking, in the 3pm one hundred plus Laredo heat

after a workout.

baking, in the evening bathed in moonglow and starshine.

calmed by the swish of my Three Sisters

and the vapors of the Green Dragon

when he visits.

 

but the smoke

and the sighs

and the swish

and the sway

and the heat

beat

me

d

o

w

n

open my mind

up,

and lift me out

of this husk of a shell.

 

so open my mind sees

suns behind my closed eyes

afterimage moonglows

the curve of a fingernail moon.

 

i’m open.

and i think,

 

my father died.

heal.

 

my relationship was destroyed.

heal.

 

i damaged myself.

heal.

 

i damaged her.

heal.

 

to heal is to close something

that was once whole,

complete,

perfect,

after it’s perfection was penetrated and ripped

 

my father was ripped from my heart.

i ripped myself from my girl – well, ex-girlfriend’s heart.

and in this ripping, i was ripped – from myself.

all around the same exact time …

 

so, circles.

 

i sit under stars.

i lay under the sun.

 

and i breathe …

            (love doesn’t save all)

and i breathe …

            (my depression was me and i was my depression)

and i breathe …

            (she was ill – how can i blame her for the things she did when she was ill?)

and i breathe …

            (can i forgive her? yes)

and i breathe …

(can she forgive me? god i hope …)

and i breathe …

            (can i forgive myself? i’m trying, trying …)

 

and i breathe … and with each vapor misted thought,

clarity appears.

 

and i breathe …

            (what is my purpose here, alone?)

and i breathe …

            (is this my role?)

 

and i breathe.

and i look at the sun.

and i look at the moon.

 

do i love myself … ? … yes.

am i good man …? … i try.

do i still love her …? … yes.

does she still love me? i think so

can it work?

no, we’ve said – in tears and laughter, in smiles and hugs.

no.

 

but circles close.

 

and my ex, my little bull, has her own alphabet soup of issues.

and she has bad says.

so i help her.

why? people ask,

their faces wrinkling bitter instantly,

acid etched grimaces

– the facial expressions of hurts past,

scars forever seared into their muscle memory.

 

why?

because love,

because time,

because Alabama Shakes,

because this is who i am.

 

and cycles turn.

suns set and rise.

gravity is constant.

time is relative.

and love can be both –

exactly, unknowingly …

 

and unknowingly

i write this poem

coming around full circle

back to that day,

almost exactly to that day –

one half-year of pure hell and

two and a half broken numb separated pieces 

on the three year

 (goddamngofigurewearealwaysatthenexuswebofserendipidtycoincidencedivineconnection)

anniversary of our world ending.

so now here i stand.

and there she is.

we’ve stopped shouting, finally.

the wounds’ barely a memory of a sting, an afterimage of an amputation.

we can bear each other’s company.

and we know we’re solid enough

that we can look at each other and joke,

when people ask us,

“what broke you two up?”

and we reply, “our mental illnesses were simply not compatible …”

 

the sun sets.

the sun rises.

the wound heals.

cycles come full circle.

something else forms, molded

in the elliptical orbits of our lives.

the sun sets.

the sun rise.

 

and i know who i am now.

i know my role.

 

i am the one that pushes.

the helper,

the one offering suggestions,

the hand on the shoulder,

the encourager,

the nurturer.

i am all-encompassing.

i am love.

 

the sun sets.

the sun rises.

 

and

ouroboros,

eats his tail,

over and over.

again …

reading cycles suns breathing heal
The original version of this poem I read at the Laredo BorderSlam Spoken Word Slam Poetry night, July 27, 2017. I wrote that version in 35-45 minutes while my ex-girlfriend, Lindsey was present – talk about pressure! This was the hardest poem I ever read on that stage -for so many reasons. Once I stepped off the stage, I had the shakes for 30 minutes.

Dispatches from the World of ADHD.

I’m feeling very much in the grip of my ADHD right now, despite taking my medication already two hrs ago. There are six different tasks that I want to do and I’m feeling the pull, or the impulse, to do all of them at once – or at least simultaneously. Which means that they’ll all get done half-assed, or they won’t get done at all.

The root cause of this, I believe, was going to bed late most of the week.

I can’t do that anymore. 

That really bothers me, I do miss staying up late nights, reading, watching movies, writing, but then I’d wake anytime between 12:00 – 3:00pm, and I’d feel horrible: head all fuzzy and out of sorts, suffering a horrible headache, and feeling very cranky.

This was before I started taking my ADHD medication.

So the consequences, for me, completely affected my quality of life. It made my ADHD worse, as well as my Major Depression. This was how I spent the majority of the first forty years of my life. 

So even though I’m medicated, I’m still a bit out of sorts. This is due to the fact that I indulged in two fun – but late nights: Thursday night during the Poetry Slam, then after at On the Rocks Tavern, then Saturday night for my best friend’s birthday party. Both nights I fell asleep between 4:00am – 6:00am. 

I realize now that sleep is truly a precious commodity for me and my brain, especially if I want to make the most of my day creatively. Some of that I attribute to age, some of it to the ADHD and Depression medication I’ve been taking.

There’s so much I want to do. Various passion projects in various stages of completion. I also have work activities to complete. 

As it is, right now, all I feel is a deep and drowsy syrupy pull to nap. I’ve caught my eyes closing on their own accord a couple of times.

But then again, it is summer.

Soon my life will be going through another long myopic tunnel of Have-Tos and Can’t-Waits, Due Dates and paperwork. 

What the hell, thirty minutes won’t kill me.

It is summer after all.

a prayer.

“and this is how i’m thankful.

 

For music – oh god! – for music, the heartbeat of my life.

For writers and poets and dreamers and musicians – for all those who sail the Cosmic Seas.”

 

 

and this is how i heal.

 

body rubbery sprung coiled loose

from jogging from kettlebells from thrusters

from moving every part of this body lent to me temporarily, pushing, pumping, exerting,

… this body that one day will no longer be mine …

until exhaustion.

body sweating from one hundred degrees of Mother Sol’s

insistent reminder that her heat

is love.

that i still live.

and i stop, drained,

sweat pouring out every pore,

pouring out of my body like the(neverendingendlessforeverandeveramen)thoughts my head pores over.

… all fading away …

toxins, please leave.

please leave my body and my brain,

please.

and i’m done so i strip off my shirt

(idontcareanymoreaboutthisbodyofminebecauseivehadthisoldmanbodyofminesinceiwastenbecauseiwasfatbutyouyoudidntcareyoulovedityoulovedmybodyandyoumademecomfortableinmyownskinyoumademeyourmanandifyoulovedmybodymybodythaniamnolongerashamedbecauseyoulovedmybody)

and i lay back,

eyes closed,

offering up my body to her, to Sol in her sky,

my body, in all its perfect imperfection, in sacrifice, in adoration,

surrendering,

earbuds in,

music playing,

breathing in the air,

breathing in the misted smoke

of the Dragon of the Green – when he comes to visit,

under the tender hushing swish

of the leaves of The Three Sisters,

surrounded by their soft calming sighs,

a cold one or two to quench this godawful thirst such heat.

and the sweat and the sun and sighs and the smoke and the songs,

clear everything away,

push everything out,

blessedly blanks my mind,

my eyes closed, my mind open,

slowly, ever so slowly, the openwoundache of loss

of my father, of the life with the woman and the family i thought i was going to have

– the life and the loves that were ripped out of me –

has been filled,

with peace,

with clarity,

with enlightenment,

with understanding,

with hope,

with forgiveness …

 

and this is how i’m blessed.

 

by the radioactive heat of Mother Sol,

burning my burden of bad thoughts away,

of memories i don’t want to remember.

her love, so hard, so forceful, so demanding, i can think of nothing else

(excepthersometimesexceptthelittlebullandcherubimhummingbirdwings).

of the sigh and swish like hurried aunts’ aprons against skirts in a kitchen like memory,

like the soft sweet singing of a mother to her frightened child suffering a fever dream,

shushing me, calming me,

sighing songs,

ancient songs telling of the doomed love of Wind and Leaf

as they forever flirt and swirl and spiral against each other,

but never conjoining,

no blessed consummation of such movements and motions, no,

just the making of musics that have been sung

lifetimes before me, that will be sung lifetimes after i’m

(dust) …

 

and this is how i’m thankful.

 

For music – oh god! – for music, the heartbeat of my life.

For writers and poets and dreamers and musicians – for all those who sail the Cosmic Seas.

For the life and the breath in my body.

For the heart that still pumps fiercely.

For the strength and the power of my muscles.

For my brain and for the love of Word and Rhyme in Time and Story.

For my mother who is fragile but capable of flights of fancy

of mind and music, and her fidgets and her sweet forgetfulness,

the true source of my ADHD, my love of the road,

and with her coloring books – my art.

For my brothers, Tom and Mario,

who gave up their lives for me

and came back to The Last Homely House,

and with their quiet calm, gentle magics, weaved a net of safety and sage

with spells and incantations and appeals for blessings from the Good and the Just,

protecting this old home from evil and the acid decay of negativity.

For young poets, old friends, and the young children i teach,

who fill my days with the silly joys of youth,

and the worries of growing up to soon in a place where one choice can mark them forever.

For my true friends who have stood by my side,

making music, making jokes,

for my fragile Guardian Angel, who’s resilient and harder than granite, but slight like bamboo.

For these angels who check up on me,

who keep me going,

who keep me writing,

who keep me writing,

who keep me writing,

and worried,

and happy …

and, happy.

 

and this is how i live

 

day by day, asking for nothing,

looking for everything,

going into doors that open,

saying yes to everyone who asks,

by giving of myself what i can, what i have left,

one eye peeled for silver lunch trucks and porcupine neckties,

while the other tries to keep myself in check,

while my angels try and keep me in check.

for friends I love who truly love me for me.

such good people, such sweet people …

… how can one broken mad old fool be so blessed …?

 

and this is my prayer,

 

that i reflect upon every night.

this is my sword and my shield.

this is my mantra,

my talisman against the Dark.

 

and this is how i go on …

sun worship

if you can see the light through the window …

“i hope you find this.

i hope you read this.

because i’m writing this for you.

because i’ve been there.

because i know

what it feels like

to lay broken in porcelain pieces at 4 am on the bathroom floor.”

are you up?

are you on your

phone?

you can’t sleep?

are you

okay?

have the thoughts stopped?

are you rubbing lotion lovingly on your precious skin?

not cutting

not scratching

it.

is it there right now – the emptiness?

i know it.

it’s vast and deep and cold and endless, yet it seems to fit inside your body,

that dark vacuum.

the only sensation you feel

the anesthetic numbing tingle,

the

event

horizon

of your

emptiness.

sometimes it is the only way to check if you’re still

alive.

if you are up,

and you don’t know what to do,

i hope you find this.

i hope you read this.

because i’m writing this for you.

because i’ve been there.

because i know

what it feels like

to lay broken in porcelain pieces at 4 am on the bathroom floor.

i want you to read this.

i want you to know i’m serious.

i am here for you.

for as fast as i can write and talk and text to cause you anxiety

i can be funny.

i can make you laugh.

or if the burden in the center of you is stone,

in your heart,

in your mind,

in your soul,

is so heavy

you can barely breathe,

then we don’t have to talk,

we can just sit.

we can just be.

if you can get up,

if you can get out of bed,

if you can drive,

come over.

there are pillows here,

blankets,

plenty of movies to watch.

plenty of books to read.

plenty of music to listen to.

you will be safe here.

you will be safe with me.

i know,

it’s not a cure.

it’s a respite.

it’s a Healing Home,

The Last Homely House,

it’s a small break, a waystation on your journey, that ends in you getting better.

i know it.

and i know the thoughts, too,

i know the sucking pull of gravity,

the cruelty of inertia,

the ache of death,

the emptiness of loss,

the ache of mental illness.

the thoughts,

the thoughts,

those fucking thoughts.

just don’t be afraid.

i know.

i understand.

just talk.

just be quiet.

just be.

be.

just be.

breathe.

do not fall.

do not fade.

just be.

it can get better.

it will get better.

just be here with me if you need strength.

i’ll gladly give you mine,

or I’ll be with you – just call, text, message.

just please,

do this:

breathe.

just please,

understand this:

it will get better.

just please,

know this:

you

are

not

alone.

Window Light

driskill.

“i’d take whatever you gave me,

laying my bare skin

against your bare skin,

whatever was exposed.

made me feel safe,

calm.”

we were younger

once,

and so much

in love,

our bodies

intertwined,

fitting perfectly skin to skin

cheek to cheek,

forearms,

thighs

i’d take it.

i’d take whatever you gave me,

laying my bare skin

against your bare skin,

whatever was exposed.

made me feel safe,

calm.

i’d never known such …

peace.

my naked flesh – leaves, solar panels,

absorbing all your solarskinsoul had to give .

we fit so perfectly,

remember?

we’d say that,

“how funny that we fit so perfectly!”

our bodies fit so perfectly.

our bodies fit so perfectly.

our bodies fit so perfectly.
why didn’t our minds?
why didn’t our mental illnesses?
it was the mess our minds made

made us shudder,

made us shake,

made us rift.

ADHD, PTSD, MDD, OCD, anxiety,

the shreds

the shards

ragged

puzzlepiercing

p ie c e     s

p u s  h    i     n      g

away      .

now you’re over there, baby,

and i’m over here.

coming up on years, now

happy anniversary, baby.

three years and

now you’re over there, baby,

and i’m over here,

and the pull won’t go away.

“maybe one day, you say,”

smiling.

maybe one day,

i

think.

smiling

as

i

w a l k

a w  a         y .

The Music House.

After a very long day yesterday of packing way too many things into way too many cases just for the chance to jam with two gentlemen with whom I’ve had not had the pleasure of jamming with, I wake up 5 hours too early, but right on time to this image. I’m looking forward to today. One whole day of making music. One whole day of spending time with old friends.                               One whole day of wrapping backwards in time to move towards into future.

To make music.

To reconnect.

To heal old wounds.

To rock and roll. 

marcwritesmoorewords. Education. Mental Illness. Family. Friends. Life. Love. Music. Movies – and Jokes!

This is the post excerpt.

shot_1493788619512Hello! I’m marc moore.

Mental illness destroyed the first half of my life.

Three years later, I’m trying to pick up the pieces and become someone I’ve never been – myself.

And I get a little closer each day.

My blogs are my musings on the meaning of life, relationships, family, education, and mental illness; snapshots in real time of a forty-three year old Mexican American who’s always been an outsider with a keen eye, an abnormally large vocabulary, and a sarcastic sense of humor – but always with a sense of appreciation and joy for life.

Raw, raunchy, beautiful, thoughtful, and poetic – I’m sure my blogs will have something you can relate to.