twelve weeks

sehnen posted on May 27, 2008 | views: 111 | Tags: brainsex, sisterx

Page Thirty-two                         (copy)

still tuesday 27 may 2008   greenfield

First, a few words to moonriver, since I don’t understand any of the other ways to do messages:

If you have something you’d like to mention to me, you could email me at ———-, or you could leave me more comments. The poem you sent is direct and sincere, a nice poem, and I hope the special friend you wrote it for appreciates it.

Twelve weeks today since the sheriff came for us. Every time I think on it, my whole body reacts, along with my soul. I have a new day to add to the list of the most horrible days of my life: the day my father died, the day my alpha dog died, and the day the sheriff came.

Here’s an old poem from 2001.

What Was Solid Once

Snow rots,
and with it,
more slowly,
the ice.
And with them,
drop by drop,

And the next one I wrote for my female dog, who is now probably the dog of the landlady who threw us out, thanks to the tender ministrations of case manager Shirley Temple, may she drop dead where she stands. But that’s a chapter in the destruction story that I haven’t told yet. Anyway, I don’t like this poem much, but then again, no poem would say what I want to say about her, for her. I’d need a book.

Number 29                                                                                                                             

This kidnapped soul:
I’ve put it off
a hundred times,
this tellling a little of you and me.
I want to now, again;
to close the book,
to put aside the pen.
I veer away,
and feel disloyal.
What are the words
for the sister of my heart?                               her brown eyes are lost here
What are the words
to tell you my remorse?
They are as undiscoverable
as you are.
You were so anxious,
anxious for weeks,
watching me pack,
telling me in all your
no uncertain terms:
No. I don’t want this.
What are the words
for the mother
who wants with a fierce hot wanting
to calm her child’s fears,
to hold her sister’s hand
and make all the darkness
ennervate with light?
What are the words for the shame
when you cannot?
There are no words, my sister;
nothing I can find, my big girl,
to tell you how I shame inside,
and hurt inside,
and want you, want you
want you,
want you  back.            (Brainse’s poem)



Update 9 June 2009: I like this poem better now than I did when I first wrote it, but it’s still true that I would need a small book to say everything I have to say for and about Brainse (pronounced bransha). I still believe that the landlady who threw us out and destroyed us as a family, destroyed my life, took my two dogs, fairly quickly euthanised my epileptic dog (Mishi), and kept Brainse for herself. I believe these things because of certain behaviors I saw from her near the end of my life, and from certain oblique remarks made by Shirley Temple in those days. But I have been told nothing, and I have a great need to know what happened to each member of my family.

May she drop dead where she stands. These words came from my anger and my pain, knowing full well she wasn’t going to do it. Words don’t have that kind of power. No, she is fine, Shirley Temple, as I knew she would be. So are the vicious landlady and the mafia-chick. Nothing has been taken from them, their lives have not been destroyed by any cataclysmic events or cruelty from other people. What goes around does not come around. Not in most cases, anyway.

It was done by a landlady, and a tenant, and a lawyer, and by the unceasingly dense bureaucrats at the DMH and CSS. And as I’ve said, most of these creatures were women, my sisters.

I cringe at everything that appears that was something I shared with animals my entire life, and particularly these 14 animals that were stolen from me. Morning and evening I shared with them, and rain and snow, and my favorite music, and illnesses (theirs and mine), and our radio shows. I cringe at the sight of animals now, and turn my face away from any animals that are not mine. I’ve loved and helped and stuck up for animals all my life, but that’s over now.

It’s morning, it’s another day without them, and I don’t want it

29 January 2009, Northampton  —- I still cringe, 9 months later. The thieves of the mornings, the thieves of my animals and my life, the bringers of rainpain and snowpain were, in the end, the DMH, the helping agency that didn’t help. It’s still nothing but painnothing but murdering away one minute after another in a way of life that is not my own.

Update 16 May 2009: Regarding the protection stuff:  if matthew is not an agent, but a liar; and if the other people who gave me little crumbs of information were not his colleagues, but more liars, then I remain guilty of nothing more insane than gullibility. But if it’s true that they’re matthew’s bunch and these bizarre things have happened to my life, then I am a victim of horrendous government abuse. Please keep your minds open to both possibilities.

Matthew, by the way, seems, after 14 months on thSoulcast.ese sidewalks and living down the road in a stinky undercover hovel, to have gone. Seems to have gone.


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