Showing posts with label moniker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label moniker. Show all posts

Monday, September 29, 2014

Death Practice

September 29

DEATH PRACTICE


“Why do you practice death like it were a skill?  Do you fear you lack ability?  Or, because it’s your goal, have you made it your hobby?”
Beleaguered by the questions of my sponsor I search quickly for some believable response.  “I confused calm with death and thought I was practicing the former…..Death came for a holiday, how could I refuse it?…..It’s a test drive, if I like it I can keep it.”  My sponsor doesn’t think I’m funny.
“Check your motives, wants and desires.  Make sure death is what you really want, that it’s not just your fallback position because you fear life.  Don’t get me wrong, I hope death is a good thing, but why try to chew tomorrow’s food when your plate is full of today?


Ride change.
*

Moniker


The Hurt carry on the tradition,
would never think to give it up,
don’t even know there is that option,
strap on their weapons without a second thought.

How can there be a second thought
when there never was a first.
Hurt is a reflex
and it moves its way through the world
like dominoes tumbling;

Everything’s knocked down
before you ever saw it standing.
So, what’s the use anyway?
So, I fall down and in that action push you forward
and we are all together in the mud.

But it is so hard to recognize anyone in the mud,
including myself and especially you.
If I hurt you that makes it hard for me to see
anything about you except my wish for your departure,

Which I subconsciously hope will take away the guilt
I can’t afford to feel.
If I make it out of the mud I can’t afford anything,
but if I don’t pay up I’ll be in new mud soon,

So I must break tradition
and the first step toward that is seeing it
and the second is calling it by its name.



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

Monday, September 30, 2013

Moniker

September 30


Moniker

The Hurt carry on the tradition, would never think to give it up, don’t even know there is that option, strap on their weapons without a second thought.  How can there be a second thought when there never was a first.  Hurt is a reflex and it moves its way through the world like dominoes tumbling; everything’s knocked down before you ever saw it standing. So, what’s the use anyway? So, I fall down and in that action push you forward and we are all together in the mud, but it is so hard to recognize anyone in the mud, including myself and especially you.  If I hurt you that makes it hard for me to see anything about you except my wish for your departure, which I subconsciously hope will take away the guilt I can’t afford to feel.  If I make it out of the mud I can’t afford anything, but if I don’t pay up I’ll be in new mud soon, so I must break tradition and the first step toward that is seeing it and the second is calling it by its name.       


Open up your secret vault and unload

*

BATTLESHIP

If the first is a guess, what is the second?
Paranoia or worse.?
Action is a blessing, reaction a debilitation
And to twist from reaction to self-doubt
Sinks the battle and the battleship.

When I can’t make sense, the gift is stepping back,
Better to put my hand down than to lose the farm.
When I find myself in a minefield I can walk gingerly
Or wait for aid to come from above, air rescue or other.

The option of rethinking every step sets me dancing
The tune which begins this hurky jerky polka of death which
Stems from the metronome of criticism playing in my ear.

When I am overwhelmed with critique
I give up acceptance of chance or joy of spontaneity
Throwing myself into a pit of apprehension.
I am safer being wrong occasionally
Then unsure forever


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

Friday, September 30, 2011

Moniker

September 30

Moniker

The Hurt carry on the tradition, would never think to give it up, don’t even know there is that option, strap on their weapons without a second thought. How can there be a second thought when there never was a first. Hurt is a reflex and it moves its way through the world like dominoes tumbling; everything’s knocked down before you ever saw it standing. So, what’s the use anyway? So, I fall down and in that action push you forward and we are all together in the mud, but it is so hard to recognize anyone in the mud, including myself and especially you. If I hurt you that makes it hard for me to see anything about you except my wish for your departure, which I subconsciously hope will take away the guilt I can’t afford to feel. If I make it out of the mud I can’t afford anything, but if I don’t pay up I’ll be in new mud soon, so I must break tradition and the first step toward that is seeing it and the second is calling it by its name.

Open up your secret vault and unload

*

BATTLESHIP

If the first is a guess, what is the second?

Paranoia or worse.?

Action is a blessing, reaction a debilitation

And to twist from reaction to self-doubt

Sinks the battle and the battleship.

When I can’t make sense, the gift is stepping back,

Better to put my hand down than to lose the farm.

When I find myself in a minefield I can walk gingerly

Or wait for aid to come from above, air rescue or other.

The option of rethinking every step sets me dancing

The tune which begins this hurky jerky polka of death which

Stems from the metronome of criticism playing in my ear.

When I am overwhelmed with critique

I give up acceptance of chance or joy of spontaneity

Throwing myself into a pit of apprehension.

I am safer being wrong occasionally

Then unsure forever