The Teddy Bear Event

polyester fiber scented cinnamon
rich browns and subtle blacks
this bear so noble sat
upon a little wooden throne
no larger than a mason jar
i was too young to understand
that some joys must be hidden
that it is not appropriate
even when the bear smells like cinnamon
and has his very own chair
to have a favorite gift
but that christmas
i gained more
than just a simple teddy bear
i learned a lesson
about how to hide the truth
about how to bury joy
about how to make the bad things
that reappear inside your closet
disappear
about how the first time i saw it
nestled on the closet floor
i shivered just a little
like something inside me knew
and then with a child's fumbling fingers
i unfolded hell
polyester fiber scented cinnamon
hacked and mutilated
a shattered mess of broken dreams
and wood haphazardly tossed in
with all that poly-fiber-fill
my breath drew in so quickly
and all my understanding fled
it's true that for a moment
there was sorrow
and with it came confusion
and while it held my hand
while my throat grew tight
and my heart slipped from my chest
my eyes stung
from biting back the welling tears
i chewed my lip until it bleed
and then just a moment before the first tear fell
i lifted first my chin
my resolve was quick to follow
my fingers no longer fumbled
i felt less like a child
i had learned something important here
about how joy is supposed to die
about how one must not want
and how superficial i had been
to think that a stupid bear
was the bestest gift
just because it smelled of cinnamon
and had it's own little chair
my little fingers
folded up that bag
careful creases, even and straight
i walked the long walk down the hall
and out of the side door
another deep breath as innocence
slipped farther away
into the military green
plastic garbage bin outside
i placed my childhood
all cut up
all broken up
all hacked to tiny bits
in a neatly folded brown paper grocery bag
that even still smelled faintly of cinnamon
tomorrow this would be a dream
it would all be over
the punishment for my stupidity
for my joy
endured and over
but there were lessons more to learn
and how it hurt
and how i was weak
and how could i understand
this was something out of dahmer's life
how that brown paper grocery bag
just kept reappearing
every day, like a nightmare
inside my closet
and every day, the ritual
the long walk down the hall
and out the door
and into the military green
plastic garbage bin outside
i placed my childhood
day after day
and i learned something that christmas
about how joy is supposed to die
about how the bad things reappear
and you have to be clever
when you are ten
and take your childhood other places
and how military green
isn't the best place for innocence to die
the best place
in case you hadn't found it on your own
is the battered blue metal dumpster
right outside of school

I die

When I dream, mostly I die or am injured
in a thousand ways
in my injury or death the world discovers my greatness
hidden behind the curtain of monotony in daily life with a tragic, brutal unveiling.
In my reality, in my life, in my walk, on my spiritual path,
I die a zillion tiny deaths, little suicides,
infinitesimal martyrdoms of self denial, indulgence and forgetting hedgings of the truth, dismissal of emotion.
I stand quietly beside the fresh turned earth
where I buried trust with it's companion faith
I hardly move but for the wasted moments of breathing
inside my head I scream, and scream
until with all the violence of it
my heart wretches up all of my compassion and hope,
until I am on my hands and knees, ragged breathed, spine heaving, emotionless and vacant
watching the expulsion of my self loathing soak the broken ground. Knowing that without it I am at one with nothingness.
I am without it, the unused holes in a belt.
That is, I am pure potential
as our world was formed from nothing
so I seek recreation every moment of everyday.
I wake longing to be something else,
I wake being something else,
I wake to the dying of the something else I was
and to the wake itself
for something else entirely.