Kaepernick is not playing around

He is kneeling. He is using peaceful protest. He is making the $$$$ of those leagues feel a little discomfort; discomfort which may inspire positive change. He isn’t sitting. He isn’t raising a fist or a baton. He is taking a knee, like we do when an injury has occurred, to respectfully acknowledge pain. Think bigger people, apply this off the field, across a nation, beyond the comfort of your television entertainment. His action is precisely why this flag flies. His not playing is apparently a price he is willing to pay.

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Stand on Principle, or Kneel.

#for Reticent Mental Property. August 16, 2017

 

 

In those dreams

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I soothe a crying woman. She is dark haired, with deep brown eyes and a smile that is presently twisted in heartache. She is now a cutter, maybe she is popping more pills, snorting something,  maybe refilling the flask more than once before noon, maybe sipping a hundred sips between dawn and dusk.

She is fragile in her focus, her tears blur her common sense. Her parents have come for her, to scoop her up, to hold her close and stitch her frazzled mind into common sense, if they can.

I feel connected with her distress. I know this not by verbal accusation, but because the sound of her cries, turn my own heart inside out in time to jagged breaths, gulped between sobs.

I am not running from her.

I am stroking her hair.

It doesn’t end just rolls her over, enveloping her in what will become a coverlet cocoon,  spinning her face into a mirror of nightmares, spun from deep wells of witness to her own games, those spineless charades of adventure.

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The father, then the mother, stare into me and then through me and grieve over their loss of not one, but both of us.

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.#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. August 14, 2017.

Oh, did I say that out loud?

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Just say it.

Spit it out.

Look me in the eye and tell me the truth. Don’t shut down. Don’t shy away. Don’t sugar coat it with a soft goodbye.

I’ve been around. I’ve been around the block. I’ve learned a little here. And there. I don’t know it all. But I can smell the scent of regret. It permeates your thrusts, overpowers your  being.

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Oh. Sorry. That was me, just talking to myself. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. August 11, 2017

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He moves forward,

frayed, weathered, wronged.

The distance is unmeasured by vows.

She looks back,

having unburdened her lack

on unsuspecting blame takers.

She’s not grown alone, she’s pulled someone along,

more than one someone, more than one time.

Perhaps she has climbed on their strong spines

when hers was doubled over, in blindness.

 

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He’s not hers, she lays no claim, she hasn’t let go of her yesterdays. Yet. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Original post, Sept 26, 2016. Revisited and revised August 10, 2017.

 

 

 

 

Fall in

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Throw yourself in. My God. Don’t feel badly for the ones who are free from you.

They need to have more in their life than you. You are not the end all be all. You are not their savior. You are not their grace.

You’re not doing them any favors by hanging there where you do not belong, faking it, like some cubic zirconium doubling as a classic.

Get your head out from under the soles of your shoes and stop walking in, interrupting this life you are not living and start running, sharing all the sweet gives you want to be giving.

There’s no reason to prolong the ache. Have mercy on your partner and stop waffling. Know what you want and move toward it. Please give your shoulder to the weary and your smile to the mirror. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. August 8, 2017. Images courtesy of the web.

Rock Me Mama

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Out late in the night she sees only neon, the ice in the tumbler, the glisten of olive in gin.

Discussions around her cover all of the flavors of the human condition.

The man in the wife-beater tee salivates at young flesh on the dance floor.

Mundane observations from the bartender about Kapernaek, the weather, the price of milk in July, keeps heads nodding for another, agreement never required,  equal whining for all, defenses fall down to the bottom of the glass.

To the left sits the troupe of bachelorettes, too much skin, too much makeup, sloppy grins. Yet exhuberant dancing,  mischievous antics, ribald jokes about cucumbers and pickles and wood keep all entertained.

Across the room sits the young man with his date. They are new to the night, to each other, small sips from tumblers of sugar-ice liqueurs flit between witty comments, innuendo and the audacity to look into each other’s eyes, deeply, with blatant longing. Someone buys them a shot. Then to cope, a double for himself.

She pulls her focus to the table before her. Across the high top are women from her coming of age. Small town women yes, but the ones who had her back when she didn’t know she needed that. These women kept the best of the rules and made new ones to get them through career launches, predicted setbacks, the raising children on farms or in cities, fun times when some were without any partner at all.  Yesterday’s road parties rise up to the meet them, memories burning, tinged with regret, but burning wild in the part of the head that stores the most bravado of whatever has passed. Bonfires, beer and big hair. Poison, Bon Jovi and REO. The rhythms and beliefs and the words of the past, slip them into easy conversation, women dabbling in tales, forgotten stories, old town lore.

Who’s sleeping with whom? Who left his wife? When did Charlie start drinking at Double D’s? Get the dirt out of the way and get down to the grit. It isn’t about the consumption of fire, it’s all about the slow death of ignorance, innocence, and what we thought we could be.

How’s Macy with chemo? How’s your husband’s farm? Are you still working at Mulligan’s to keep the coverage you need? There are few answers, a hundred simple confessions, the sips in between the happy white lies. Another beer for the rest, a dirty gin gimlet for one, laughter and photos and hugs. Married happily, not married, never marry warnings, too long married; why is the length of time the gold band covers the naked left finger still the equalizer in 2017?

Shots of Fireball make their way from the men sitting at the rail in the front. Damn bartender makes great tips because he knows all the gal’s names and will share. In a circle they loft the amber liquid, stare into each other’s eyes for few, then raise them up with a clink – not even a nod of thanks to the gentlemen – then a tap on the table top for the ones who aren’t there.  The throwback, the set down, the exhale of the heat of the burn and they settle in for another hour of whatever comes out of the mouth. No need for poker faces or tears. The honesty sets in to balance the fears.

She’s the baby in the rock of the cradle, they are the sisters she let set the pace. The steady has fallen this time-  it’s her turn, only fair.

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

There’s no time for wasting

 

Lie back, settle in the pillows, covered in the sheet, the sweat from lovemaking, the sheen of desire.

Feel your clock ticking, deny it exists, renew the fervor for conquering fears. Look into your lover’s eyes and know that today, this moment, the present is all there is. Let go of the past, the future. Be in the the now.

Know yourself, if you are able. Seek your centered core, the purpose of your existence, the heart of your heart. Is it not here? Do you not feel it beating inside your chest? Perhaps you are not yet awakened to its sound. This will come, in time, if you are willing.

You have followed the proscribed path. You have handled the constant distractions. You have believed in tradition, perseverance and goodness. Yet you feel lost. You are loved but only when you follow expectations. Indeed, you leave and you are walled off. Proof you never really belonged at all. How did you not see this?

Feel your way through the darkness. You have the light of your mind to guide you. You have the staff of truth to thrust into the ground as you seek the path of content. You do not trust your own steps on the rocky path, the soles of your shoes they are slick, they are worn. You carry on, forward, marching toward your heart’s spoken ease. There is only rest and love-making to embrace your limbs. Yet you are hesitant, resistant, conformed.

Free yourself from your mind. Be open to your loins. Be unencumbered by the restrictions of form.

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Go. Do. BE. Embrace your honest, most authentic self. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.