Pretty Feet

March 15

PRETTY FEET

I look at the line on my heel where I must stay vigilant with the pumice and the moisturizer. My toes are clean and straight but nothing more. I see my feet as passable; it’s hard for me to see them as beautiful. Well cared for is the best I can do, but there is a beauty in that. I think of myself; I am an alcoholic. There is nothing beautiful about alcoholism either. The care I take in tending my sobriety, the nurturing I see others use in their own lives, there is a certain loveliness to that. Crusted-over hearts, scraped and oiled, are fit and ready to beat anew. Polluted minds, drained and reformed, turn lives upright. Step work and making meetings are just functionary things but gorgeous in their own way. Efficacy is a pearl not to be disregarded.

Congratulate the part of you that survived.

*

My Experiences with Tennis

I have held the racket, I have hit the ball,

but I have never played with a partner.

I have slammed the fuzzy orb against the wall

for long years now, but I have never had a mate.

There were times when I had opponents;

yes I’ve had a couple of those,

a collaborator though, that I have never had.

I have learned to overcome opposition

either through wile or guile.

Slugged my way toward some inevitable outcome,

I never expected you on my court.

The game we play is for keeps

and the muscles required I have never used,

I ache from the pain of ending an atrophy

imposed on me by isolation and misunderstanding.

Often I don’t know how to stand,

don’t know how to act;

don’t know how to be the equal to your serve.

I play chase, running after the thing I didn’t see

and only faintly felt.

I have come to the place where

I know, you and I are a team;

You will not be leaving looking for someone

better equipped or with greater experience.

It is time for me to layout in front of you

my host of tendencies and inclinations.

I’m in the habit of overwhelming with my strength

to hide my weakness;

I must expose this all to you,

the strength and the weakness,

and work together for the resolution.

I will no longer pretend that I know

what is right and wrong in this un-played game.

I fear that I will lose the old game by making this change

All that is familiar put up for grabs

to the uncertain outcome of paired sports.

All I truly know is

that with you by my side I can never lose

and I will learn to do whatever it takes to be your partner

The First Father

March 14

THE FIRST FATHER

The rest of what I have to say I will slip under your gravestone if I have time after I buy that red dress. To say I hate you is an overstatement; I only detest what I know of you, the rest I leave to other people who might have the misfortune to cross your path. Your unavailability can protect you from anything I could ever do to you. Your hurt and arrogance is far worse a punishment than I could ever inflict on you if I thought you were worth the energy of an attempt. Having to be you every day must make it hard to leave the bed in the morning; I know I couldn’t do it if I had to drag your baggage around all day. The sad part is I’m not sure you know it’s baggage. You might think it’s armor, but your misnaming of everything is just another of the things I never miss about you. That is why, although I pray everyday for your well being for the sake of mine, if I never see you again, it might just be long enough.

Live up to your height.

*

Bad Acting

Because there never seems to be enough love

in the world to fill the wound,

my wounded self riots.

At times the debauchery seems good natured enough,

flamboyant yet without harm,

at other times the disturbance is apparently violent

and the issuing tumult a crime.

All for want of wholeness and sanity

I pursue shattered fractured activity

just to keep from dwelling where I cannot live,

where there is no air.

I want land beneath my feet

and full, full lungs

on my own I find neither of these

and little else of use.

Isolation even in a crowd is the tell tale sign

that I am in the, me, myself and I mode

of drowning in a teacup and require rescue.

Little more than raising my hand above the surface

and asking for help is needed

though this is a Herculean effort as we all know.

Rowing up stream is a bigger battle then it ever looks

and I know the river runs through me.

Friends

March 13

FRIENDS

My sweet, dear, funny friend, steeped in Beat, whose hand I can no longer hold. I yearn for the wildly flying words, like feathers in a snow. The shock of hair and glinting eyes I see so clearly in my shivering mind. I must let go. I miss all the friends who for reason or no have traveled down the yellow brick spiral to who knows where. My arms feel open and starved but there is no way for me to retain myself and follow them. Some are lost all together; some are lost only to me but my arms remain empty nonetheless. My ruined heart is sore and sad but chasing this friend or that will not heal it. The lonely path before me is the answer for me, possibly only for me among our former group. And will the paths cross later in this day or the next? I don’t know and am better not knowing. My path requires me to release outcomes as well as kindred. I must travel with my arms open; some fall out of them and others find their way in.

Organize a loophole and escape through it.

*

Three Card Monty

When I learn to excel at the good games

and learn to leave the bad ones alone

I think I will be alright.

Simple enough to do when I can take off this blindfold

and see the long term consequences of my pursuits.

Engage this pastime and have no future;

abandon that play and squander hope.

Eyes open wide, I see what there is to see,

but around the corner I am lost for anticipatory sight

and must guess at destinations, let alone intention.

Tricky, tricky, is this life which toys with me. I

I think I have the bow in hand,

though as life rubs me wrong then right,

I see I am played upon as much and as often as I play.

I take up the reins, but must also be led,

I can lay out the deal,

but sometimes I just have to roll the dice.

Spirituality

March 12

SPIRITUALITY

The bedpan of spirituality was shoved under my ass in early sobriety. It kept me from increasing the mess with which I surround myself. The cold smack of enamel got my attention. The old timers showed me there is a place for my shit; it was not any of the places I had been using. Discretion is the better part of everything. I needn’t show my backside everywhere I go. My side, your side, all sides were strewn with my waste. Fragments, tatters and fearful reminders were all there for me to clean up. Amends as the shovel and willingness as its handle are what I use to clear my past. Sweat is refreshing when progress is being made. I’ve made inroads; paths of travel help me move easily from the past to the present without regret.

Write directions to your heart.

*

Wax On

“Sometimes a dish is just a dish,” I said to my sponsor.

“Yes and sometimes it is the world away,

which you hold in your hand,” her reply.

I stand at the sink and try to wash the dishes

when I am washing the dishes.

I try to drive the car when I drive the car.

These simple acts of concentration

focus and sooth the jagged mental sutures

where I am supposed to be coming together,

but ultimately come apart.

Anything to break my frenetic gyrations is a blessing,

anything to cut away to a closer view

and a clearer understanding of where I really am;

Anything to derail the speeding blur

of a life of my creation, is good.

What I do and who I am are secrets and mysteries

when I don’t know how to pay attention

and ironies when I do.

And if you doubt me, just go ask Arnold.

The Wall of Pleasant

March 11

THE WALL OF PLEASANT

How quickly I am protected by a sweet smile. A disarming countenance and a gentle phrase save my skin and psyche. No longer do I defend my reputation as a wit or critic. I let it all flow by. The simpler I appear the more effective the facade. The energy I conserve not fighting losing battles is well spent in the company of like-minded sober friends in the pursuit of sober lives. I stay out of the fray and behind this partition. Its insides are posted with announcements proclaiming my opinion and the lunacy of the person on the other side. The reading of these notices does not persuade me to dismantle the enclosure but encourages me to keep it sound. Many years of shelter behind this now vine covered fortification allow restraint of my words, spoken and written, to safeguard my sanity. When I am gifted with comment, I am spared the desire for credit. Boundaries are a blessing and living within them a saving grace.

Reconnect to hope.

*

Creed

We have a long standing family tradition

of viewing miracles as tragedy;

this custom has afforded us many

a fine escape from the unknown.

Most things in life are bad; people, places, things,

this belief is protective though useless.

Ultimately I feel this belief is not what colors

the dynastic impression of the miraculous,

but the apprehension is due to the limited nature of the thing.

I come from a line of dissatisfaction;

miracles are provided when what is desired is panacea.

If everything is not imperially resolved

then it is all for naught

Because the same psyche

which cannot begin a process

without a guaranteed outcome

can’t pickup the slack after a triumphant start.

Give it all to me tied with a bow,

I will begin the critique from there

though I will accept, offer me a beginning

fraught with uncertainty and I will decline.

A secure entrenchment is preferred to inexact risk.

I will die with my boots on,

but I mustn’t leave the house.

Voluntary Mute

March 10

VOLUNTARY MUTE

I have learned I don’t have to answer just because someone asks. I have learned to change subjects. I have learned it is better to say nothing. Repeating the phrase, ‘it’s just my opinion,’ followed with, ‘I could be wrong,’ has proven insufficient. Somehow things frequently turn out worse than I expected but, as of yet, none have turned out better; this upsets. People become angry when I am correct; they are less angry when I’m silent. I tell the truth and trouble follows. I didn’t get sober to lie. So, I keep my mouth shut. There is no reason to distress folks, and reality has a way of doing that. Silence is my new defense. I hide inside of it and find my new freedom. Unless it concerns my sponsor, my sponsee, or my cherished friend, battening down the hatches saves me from a tempest and spares others their outbursts.

Persuade yourself to breathe.

*

Conception 2

My active voice is the elixir of fire

my addiction would have me snuff

in order to keep us hidden from each other,

me hidden from you, you hidden from me

and no one noticing you or I pouring the drinks.

Minus my active voice

I slip easily into unconsciousness,

my effectiveness doused.

My active voice is the light in my room

the candle in my window,

the glow within me,

which illuminates my days as well as my nights.

Moving ever forward the gyroscopic precision

of this voice never fails me

if I keep my “listening ears” turned on and tuned in.

My active voice is and will always be

the live wire connection of my Higher Power

uniting with me through people, places and things.

My effective conscience

is everything that results from this bond.

I run at an unfathomable rate of efficiency

when my active voice is on,

my feet fail to touch the ground as I fly to right action,

The nature of my effective conscience

is just that, nature,

as natural as if I were not carrying a fatal malady,

but instead possessed the secret to serenity,

which in fact I do: sobriety.

Pictures and Frames

March 9

PICTURES AND FRAMES

I paint my way into the corners of the frame. Each picture I fill diligently, color, texture, all the tricks I use. I work hard to get the desired effect. I hold nothing back; I put heart and hopes forward. I load my brush with pigment; I propel my tongue out of my mouth. I use it for balance like a kangaroo uses its tail. Stroke after stroke, I layer the image. My depiction is fresh to me. I bring the green, the red, the blue, blue, blues; all of those flow from me. The canvas fills; my soul soars through the tinctures. Then the disappointment begins, the complaint and lamentations. The perspective is off. I can’t seem to contain this scene within the confines of this gilded prison. I re-adjust. I tilt my head; I paint from the bottom up, then the top down. No, no. I must pick up a new canvas, the frame oak, burnished and honeyed brown. I cast to the side the gilt and sculptured casing; I lay it along the wall with the others, the many discards of life. As yet, the obvious has escaped me; the tint, the hue, angle, size may diverge but that is all. I have recreated the same scene in all the frames. In all my attempts, I have painted only one picture.

Learn your process.

*

Résistance

Resisting tough love

is approaching long run action

with short run thinking.

I hate to set the toddling babe down lest he fall,

but in the end if I do not put him down

he and I will both be the worse for it.

Whether I see a forest or I see trees

depends so very much on my perspective,

also on my willingness to delay

the prevention of minor scrapes

to eliminate the need for permanent scaring.

The theme is greater personal responsibility

and less irrational fear.

Guarding tomorrow’s possibilities

by not hamstringing them today

through the resistance of tough love

saves lives, it saves mine.