All posts tagged fear


Published December 10, 2012 by April Fox

face pressed against the breast of your
blind eyes rotting out
melt beneath your lids, the muscles
atrophied from lack of use your
voice gone hoarse from screaming
-draw your strength from narcissistic weakness
you are
mental patients
not parishioners.

drink from the cup of the pure
blood dripping, chin wet
and white
feeding life into the floor
beneath your feet

you can’t even breathe
to save your life.


Published September 13, 2012 by April Fox

what if one day
our hands didn’t match
if, while walking
they didn’t draw together
what if your fingers
didn’t recognize

what if one day
we shared a seat
without resting our feet
on each other
or my head finding that place
just to the left of your shoulder
that seems to remember
the shape of my skull

what if
i tried
to place it there
and the force of not belonging
made it shatter
and the sticky tar inside
came pouring out
stench of remembering
thick in the air
binding our limbs

what if i rotted there
next to you

would you die too?

more meandering; 81912

Published August 19, 2012 by April Fox

russian spiced
with a splash of
milk and too much
rickie lee is tinny through the
speakers here, but i am
too lazy to move
six inches
and put a record on.

i wish it was raining
(it just started raining as i typed that-
oddly enough)
babes tucked into cozy beds and i in mine
wrapped tight in the presence
of everything safe

i tell him, when he’s gone-
i miss your fuzzy body-
the house is too quiet now, the hush is negative
if i move too quickly
i might be
sucked in
and die.

there is only my breathing here
and that’s unreliable
at best.

fall is creeping in, painting the edges of summer
with cool mornings and nights that feel like
pulling blankets up
and slamming windows closed-
but not just yet.

the trees put up a valiant fight but they are losing
ground, collapsing
one by one
leaves give up and fade
and it’s like seeing them
through glasses smudged
with dirt and tears

i need a time machine
a rewind button
back to sun, to long lazy days
lying in the grass with one arm
thrown over my eyes
keeping watch over the children
by the sounds of their laughter
passing by

when i am scared, he holds my head
cradled in his lap
and brushes my hair back
with his fingers
till i sleep.

not quite optimism: 4-21-12

Published April 21, 2012 by April Fox

and the day needs to rest
bright sun and clouds crept low against my skin
made it breathe in life and joy and
that i kept down
and pushed away
change is the centrifuge keeping me from
breaking into particles that
are unbearable
and small.

i can trust this
i think.

no edict, no scribbled vows or
poetic-written promises
spoken for a judge or holy
shaman-man could make this any more
than what it is:
the promise, implied
and whispered to the darkness
this is where we are
and this is where we’ll stay.

I’d Depend on the Universe if I Was a Planet-Maybe

Published February 19, 2012 by April Fox

This is one of those nights when I think, I don’t deserve this.

The kids were on their best behavior all week, not that we usually have any major problems out of them. Work is coming in, not enough, not yet, but it’s finding its way from unexpected places. I survived my first reading, made the audience cry-and not because I sucked, and outsold every other author in the store that day. Beloved and his band got the green light to go forward with their new album, and it should be out in a couple of months. The dog hasn’t eaten anyone’s face, poisoned itself with garbage or exploded all over the kitchen, and the cat hasn’t killed him yet. The house is clean, laundry is almost caught up, the kitchen is stocked with good food and nobody’s sick.  The bank account is in the black and none of the bills are in the red.

If you drive a BMW and just tested the pH in your hot tub, some of those probably seem like very minor things. If you high-five your spouse when the check engine light goes off in your Kia minivan and wish the hot water in the shower lasted long enough for you to shave your legs and wash your hair in the same trip, you get it.

Things are good. And that scares the hell out of me. I’m afraid to get used to it, afraid to depend on it. Afraid to buy the good toilet paper this week because the next, we may not be able to afford the sandpaper kind. Afraid to waste gas on going to the park because I may not have enough to get the baby to dance later on. Afraid to breathe, because the next breath may be toxic.

I know those people who say “Let god handle it.”

1. I’m an atheist.

2. Even if I wasn’t, I tried that “Let someone else handle it” shit once. There’s always a handling fee, and fuck that.

I know those people who say “The universe will provide.”

1. The universe is gas and matter and anti-matter.

2. All it’s going to provide is meteorites and stuff like that.

I live in Asheville, center of the laid-back, let-it-be, Everything Zen universe. I should be steeped in the ways of “It will be OK,” but I missed that class or something. I can fill parking meters, chat up homeless guys, share my drinks with buskers I’ve never seen before; my ten-year-old reminded me the other day that we need hemp oil, I’ve seen Artimus at the brewery, and I wear skirts over my pants. I’ve been to hoop jams and drum circles, volunteered at festivals, camped in the van by some river whose name I can’t remember. I’ve got the culture down, except for the theory that things will all work out.

The fact is life is scary, especially at 3:30 in the morning when I’m tipsy and the kids aren’t home and a snowstorm’s moving in.

And tonight, when things are good, all I can think is how do I deserve this?

And then I remember that I didn’t deserve all the shit I got before either, and that karma is a laugh and god is a joke and we are where we are because of the steps that we’ve taken and the things that we’ve tripped over, and then I can finally breathe and say that things will be ok.

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