Memorial Day

May 27

MEMORIAL DAY

Veteran of the addiction wars, I have scars but few medals.  I don’t need a purple heart, mine is black and blue.  I don’t keep trophies either, no empty bottles or old syringes.  Hostages, I have released them, too.  I found often they held me from what my life could be.  I wear my defects and wave my flag.  I am slowly learning to live in peacetime.  The big battles have been won; it is up to me to stop replaying the scenes of engagement.  Armistice is a beautiful thing; too bad there is no better way to get to it.

Write the dedication page for your life.

*

Queens: More than a Borough

My drama is bigger than yours.

My drama can kick your drama’s ass.

Well maybe not, but it sure is kicking mine.

Like a rain soaked grave, I stand in this muddy hole,

sides slick, unassailable and count the piles of tragedy ,

all the while knowing it will bury me

not facilitate a climb out.

I attempt to display the face of comedy

and yet the mask can not fool me, my true audience.

I think if I can keep it all up on stage I will be alright,

But then the point of theater is

that everything is carried away

in the minds of all who come and watch.

Silence doesn’t help either

for there is little worse than a bad mime

and doing it well just makes me Lillian Gish.

So, back to Bohemia for isn’t it all a rhapsody,

though it would all be so much better

if Freddy Mercury weren’t dead.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Queens

May 29

Queens: More than a Borough

My drama is bigger than yours.  My drama can kick your drama’s ass.  Well maybe not, but it sure is kicking mine.  Like a rain soaked grave, I stand in this muddy hole, sides slick, unassailable and count the piles of tragedy, all the while knowing it will bury me not facilitate a climb out.  I attempt to display the face of comedy and yet the mask can not fool me, my true audience.  I think if I can keep it all up on stage I will be alright, but then the point of theater is that everything is carried away in the minds of all who come and watch.  Silence doesn’t help either for there is little worse than a bad mime and doing it well just makes me Lillian Gish.  So, back to Bohemia for isn’t it all a rhapsody, though it would all be so much better if Freddy Mercury weren’t dead.

String your dreams together and let them fly

*

HOSTAGE DOLL

A doll stands wedged between two mailboxes

Naked and exposed,

The edge of the road passing her by.

She is there to pay for my self-loathing

I throw my treasures in the air

As skeet to be shot and shattered.

Hate is the obnoxious microbe

Which sours my digestion

And rids me of nutrition and affection.

I purge love and tenderness

I rip the covers from my playthings

And leave them to bleed.

I hide in my self-destruction

I put garish displays streetside

And cry my tears alone.

I cannot ransom to pay the price of fear

I must bring in the broken babies

And put hate out on the curb.