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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Choices

Every choice you make hinges on the unknown.

It's not a leap of faith, or a diving in-

it's a letting go.

You give up who you are for who you would become.

#self #poetry #life

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Being

Here I am: a phenomenal person—

but all eyes are just walls—

so many chords cut off the box, the melody twanged,

then dropped, then wobbled, dead.

And all the past is running wild

behind such great fortresses, and like an idiot

I stand totally recognizable—

that makes me so strange.

All the urgency, honesty, shining forth from my body...

but you blink. Is it too bright?

Too ideal or perfect?

Is it me piercing, climbing, tumbling down truths

with all the earnest eagerness that I succumb to?

These levels do not exist, oh child in the sandstorm.

These levels are dotted lines in the air—

something that you did not create.

#self #poetry

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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M'aidez

Been in my head

watching shit go down and not responding—

ya know? Doing what I’m told and walking fast—faster

til the street’s out of view—behind the wall—round a corner.

Thought that's what you do. The other person's

more injured—let em be.

But the stress now. My brain is in a knot.

The thought is...would be nice to hit someone.

Ya know? I’m thinking hands up is I SURRENDER. It’s

I GIVE UP.

The cheek I’ve turned again and again

is a thorn—and a thorn—I've buried deep inside my head—

I mean I'm the one who's stuck it there!

Now a little voice getting louder—YA KNOW?—

until the thorns come bursting out my hands.

I DON'T CARE WHAT I AM.

I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU ARE.

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

And that's how it happens:

a whole nation—poof.

-In response to May Day, 2017

#USA #politics #poetry

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Why are you passionate about SPED?

I’m passionate because

isn’t it wonderful there are so many different ways to learn?—

to experience life, the sunshine, a string.

#teaching #special ed #self #poetry #people

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Everest

Something only a bit different done in a life

is something giant compared to the day-to-day that was.

Oh, the stress of doing a thing that’s—kinda new.

Eh, ok: new in any way. Here:

new workplace, but, come on: same ol job. Face it,

you haven’t changed—

you’re the same damn you

you’ve always been. Maybe a couple more bucks an hour, you.

Still stressed out, though. But it’s funny how

I could put on a tighter pair of pants

and feel a bit more put together—

swag sway

infection in my hips. Come on,

I’m still the same—just

make believing something else—just

failing (doing it anyway) to trick my brain.

Hey, something new is being done

I’m a better person and all these great new habits

they’ll stick around for forever—I’m doing something for myself!

Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah—man:

I’ve seen some real change, though, but

bending only as a heated rock down deep in the core.

It’s never been because of a job, or a girlfriend, or a breakup,

or a death, or almost dying on a bike—but just, you know.

Whenever I get a moment—some pause—like:

The dream you

gets some time to

examine you.

Tisk, tisk, tisk.

God, and if I get at least half a year with time like that—

start to think I’m unhappy, and then I am unhappy—

there ain’t nothing happy. Bitter blood makes me sick!

I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t want to sit on a couch

searching, searching, searching through the channels

for a mere bite at bliss—some addictive, predictable, stimulation shit. Fuck.

There it is: submitting to

a new job or house or pretend life as a better me when my soul

ain’t been touched. Okay—

how far down

do you gotta be

until the Earth crushes you

and grinds you—superheats you?

Do you get to be a mountain?

#self #poetry #life

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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[Polonius said to thine own self be true]

Something quiet sleeps—creeps and sleeps—creeps

soundless as a fuse—oh, I can’t go to sleep. Sleeps

with eyes wide open, it does—far away it looks in slumber.

Creeps me the hell out. Can’t sleep. I’m wrapped up

in a twilight tinted corner, not a peep—white moonlight

falls across the bed—lazy laying on the blankets,

inching closer to the toes upon my feet.

And the thing that creeps without a peep is

everything in this room. Thick and present, and heavy

on my chest—in the corner, I pull my feet beneath the sheets.

I shudder.

Its eyes—they peek past everything while it sleeps.

They twitch round and peek as I hug my knees and weep.

Everything is naked, struck with moonlight, grey and bright—

it creeps, and creeps, and peeks inside and knows everything in sight.

The door, I know, is locked. I weep.

And out the window is silver light forever. It creeps in its sleep

though it looks dead—its eyes lay open as it peeks.

It peeks at everything—everything!—without a peep.

“Good God,” I say and lay down.

“Oh, God,” I say—and pull from my feet, above my head, the sheets.

#terror #self #poetry #horror

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Love,

thank you for your perspective.

It is a beautiful gift to get to know you.

You have given me another view to see the world through, and

it's lovely. It's

lovely, lovely, love.

#poetry #love

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Existential Breakdown

Stole a soul and here I am:

walking about the streets

looking for personalities that suit me.

Ever meet a person

so captivating

you wanna talk like them?

Ever catch yourself

using your dad’s favorite catchphrase?

“Can't wait for tomorrow, cuz I get better looking everyday.”

Reading up online

what a perfect posture looks like;

sitting at the dinner table next week

when someone says, “feeling tense?”

Or wear a hat you like

but all day you see yourself

in windows and automatic doors—

what an idiot.

Look at yourself:

examining and picking yourself apart, man—

placing it next to that perfect moment

you've witnessed in other people.

Oh boy, nothing natural can be helped,

and all the unnatural shit

is so controlled, and then here we are

coming up with subtle ways to blend

the things we want to be with who we are—

rocking that leather jacket,

but I cried at the end of Bicentennial Man—

Jesus Christ.

Romanticism was a freeing of the ego

and to be eccentric was to be desire.

Ok.

But what is freedom?

I have a kind of answer—eh, well, here:

so much of freedom has been

perception

of how another perceives

us as an individual.

Freedom?

I wonder if freedom could be

a giving up to others? A laying bare?

Not a “look at my life and

what I can do,” but

here I am: my flaws and suffering,

my joys, my everything—take it!

Take it from me and love it!

abuse it! manipulate it! cherish it!

I'm not a puppet!

I cannot hide and you cannot deny.

Am I an individual then?

Is that selfish?

The nature of it all is contradictory:

that’s freedom.

Freedom to fuck up and apologize.

Freedom to own up and let go.

Freedom to love and hate—but...

I wouldn't hate anything.

Maybe it's opportunity, too, but,

you never know until you know.

Every second is a chance to change—

stumbling and bumbling

and on and on all through life:

suddenly, everything you've expected—well,

walk slow. You'll see something you've never seen before.

That's life.

You will never unsee it. You will never

unthink it. You will be faced

with yourself in the world.

#self #poetry #life

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Tangled Tango

To drop all perceptions

mind and body

and soul

has attached itself to--

to dare to be open, to be challenged. Here:

to let strange hands in

to tangle up the heart chords, and

the axons running electric in my mind.

Alter everything, be engaged--listen,

watch, talk, be honest. Walk a bit--

just around the corner, even.

Love is to be tangled

and open, interwoven, or

wires out and sparks flying from chest cavities. Yes,

almost automatic, almost robotic, but

necessary and true: coming

and going and ebbing and flowing.

The motions of people walking by, all

breathing, beating, being--tangle up in em.

I try.

I try hard--

tangled up in everything.

Again:

I try.

See pain, know pain, but touch pain, too.

Sympathy or empathy, depends on perception, those two do.

All things move toward goodness. Here we are:

human. So guarded, why?

In triumph, I danced around the fire

and got so drunk and had a story to tell, but

during trials I learned to love and trust.

All of us are a trial

unto each other, yes--

don't be gentle, no, and

don't be reckless, no, but

be honest, open, tangled.

I try.

I try hard to think about these things.

It's hard.

I want happiness.

I want it.

While walking down the street,

I shook my ass and spun around to the beat, and

while I spun I saw an older lady laugh. I stopped

and laughed, having noticed her notice me. So

I spun around again, bowed, and waved, and

saw her laugh some more.

I said hello and she said I made her night.

She made mine. Funny how lessons are learned.

#poetry #people #love #life

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Swipe Right

Tequila and porn and texting girls—and

I don’t get why they text back.

I have nothing, I can offer nothing, I own nothing—maybe

I’m easy, too. Maybe for us kind of people, we’re easy.

Wanna get fucked? Here I am. I’ll fuck you and

leave you alone. We’ll only text each other

in the middle of the night on a weekend.

We’re both drunk. Texts go out:

-Put your ass in my face!

-I would but it’s too late. If I grab the next train,

I’ll get out there too late. Eh. Secretly,

I want to go to bed, but

if someone will suck my dick and I can stay home...

maybe I’ll stay awake. -Uhg. I want your dick!

-Then come get it!

-It’s too late!

Then why are you texting me?

Because I wish we were in love— were working towards something golden.

Thinking of your face doesn’t do it—

unless I’m also thinking of my dick in your mouth,

or slapping it across your cheeks, or resting it on the tip of your tongue and chin.

An hour of fucking is all the time I’d spare

for you. The conversation is, I don’t know. It’s forced. It’s all a lead up—

buuuut, just getting to the fucking—we'd be sluts. We’re classy people.

Right. I think a lot, you think a lot, we solve problems at our place of work,

we come home and have opinions on things that come up. There we go.

Some time goes by.

-Send me a pic of your tits, ok?

I’ve got a rock hard stiffy going on and I need something to knock the crazy out of me.

I’m a poor boy. I live in a garage that barely fits my body, and oh,

don’t you know it suffocates my soul.

Everything about you is where you live

and everything about where I live is cramped and dirty and dark—

underneath an alcoholic and a dying mother.

I’m not allowed upstairs where the washer and dryer are. I have to live

in their shadow or walk the high strung streets.

I Snap my cock and blast it your way.

No response. No titties.

In the glow of the red light from my tiny,

little lamp, Chet Baker sings to me. But I've gotten nowhere. So I do it myself.

#poetry #love #internet

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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D—

Never knew there were so many dicks

until I turned 30. Everyone’s out to get everyone

fucked over. Survival has been cemented cuz we’re all

losers. Any excuse I can find to say I’m a badass or that

I’ve contributed, I’ll take it. That’s what I say. The reality

all around me is hard to look at, and if I let it sink in

to the bottom of my brain, I’d come unhinged.

I’d be ruined so hard that killing myself wouldn’t match

the depressing, crushing truth—and wouldn’t do my misery

justice.

We’re such dicks

to be living like shit on this fucking speck suspended in the nothingness

of nothing. Better watch out—wake up—chill out or else

only those who could kill or be killed will understand that

it doesn’t matter. Imagine a world of monks coming to the same conclusion.

#poetry #life

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Fifty-One Fifty

Aaron, remember Silvia? She’s been in the hospital since Monday—three days now. Today is Thursday. You finally found the hospital’s number—God bless Mario—and called her. Joe was in the room and it was raining, Amii sat in the corner by the fridge, and Trenton was at the computer with his back to us, but he could hear you. Ryu was on the floor, and every now and then Nick would come in and walk to his spot and then walk out to his other spot. You got through to Silvia smoothly, and she sounded beat as hell. All life and love was gone—betrayed by people. Betrayed by misunderstanding. Betrayed by humankind’s greatest flaws: dominance and laziness. Maybe that last part is a bit too wordy. I don’t know, these thoughts are hard to group together.

But she answered and the whole room listened in on the conversation.

Hey, Silvia!

Hey.

How are you?

I’m ok.

Pause. Long, long pause.

How was your morning?

It was ok. I didn’t sleep so good.

I can imagine. It must be scary.

Yeah. I don’t know anyone.

I understand. Has your social worker visited you?

No.

Has your public guardian visited you?

No.

That’s what I thought.

How long am I going to be here?

I don’t know. I wish I could tell you.

I need to go home. I don’t want to be here.

I understand. Me and Laurie are trying to light the fire under people’s asses.

Please do. Hold a candle under them if you have to.

I’m doing just that. I’m trying to annoy the hell out of them.

Haha. Good.

I have some updates for you.

Ok.

We’re going to meet—me, Laurie, Lesley—with your new social worker and guardian, and your group home managers Tuesday. We want to get you out of the hospital as soon as possible.

Do you know when?

Tuesday.

No, when I’ll get out of the hospital.

I don’t know until the meeting happens. I hope it’s soon. And I hope to God you’re invited to the meeting.

Me too.

-Pause-

I have a special guest for you.

Ok.

Here’s Joe:

Hey, baby. What have you been up to? Are you ok? What do you do all day? Uh-huh. I understand. I heard a rumor that you’d be back by next week. I hope so. Uh-huh. Ok. Are you watching TV? Ok. I understand. I love you, baby. Love. Ok. Hope you’re out soon. Love you. Love you. Aaron wants to talk to you again.

What do you do all day?

Nothing. Just TV.

Sounds boring.

Yeah, I don’t even have magazines to read when I get bored.

No magazines?

No! The ones they have are old and falling apart.

I’ll try to visit you this weekend. I’ll bring you some magazines just in case you have to stay the weekend.

I hope I don’t have to stay the weekend!

Me too.

When do I get out?

I don’t know. I really wish I could tell you.

Ok.

Ok, Silvia, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Ok.

Love you.

Love you, too.

Ok, have a good day, Silvia.

Ok.

Bye.

And then I don’t know what to do, so I cry. I walk out of the room and into the empty room across the hall and just unload in the darkness. Mehrin comes to me and says Do you feel bad? I say I don’t feel bad, but I feel very, very sad. She says Oh, do you need a tissue? So I cry some more because the people I work for are the nicest people you could ever hope to experience. So much love and thought and caring and you can see the hope for humanity right before you and in that moment I can’t stand the injustice and I fall down and weep like I’ve never experienced before.

This pain is too overwhelming, it surrounds—it’s present in every interaction on every corner in every part of the world. The Great, Great Misunderstanding. The injustice done. The pain. The constant fear and an inability to control one’s life. The most adaptable species on the planet is resistant to change. And it’s change to stupid stuff, like missteps in the daily routine.

One time, I set my sights on a destination far into the distance. I said, “I’m going to run there and back.” I pushed off along the shore—

this was on the beach and the sun was setting.

Purples and oranges and yellows and blues. And the water slowly reflected the grey of twilight. The mist and sparkles and wavering, shimmering, rolling reflection of everything in the sky within the wake. And running, and footfalls and the snowy plovers chasing after brine shrimp and crabs. All these things within my peripheral as I locked onto the Cliff House in the distance. I ran and ran and ran, everything in synch, each breath easy and cool and crisp and fresh upon my tongue. I ran past families, and lonely walkers, and dog walkers, and sitters, and people who stood upon the cliff like statues completely taken by the scene—and it’s true, it was beautiful, it was like God’s hand upon the land—and hundreds and hundreds of seagulls and plovers and shrimp and crab, all—all of them—doing their thing upon the shore. I ran past picnics, and surfers, and crumbling sand castles, and trash, and shells and rocks and sand got into my shoe and I got so fucking mad I had to stop. And then I focused again and ran. But the closer I got, the longer the stretch was. I crested the slope I could barely tell I was running up and realized that this gentle hill had blocked my view from so far away, and that the distance I was to run was much greater than I had prepared for. But I ran, and kites flew up into the air as the sun made everything gold, then purple, then black, and slowly the people disappeared and I was alone in twilight when I touched the cliff.

#poetry #mental health

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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Scrolling

Now that the world is literally in my hands—

perhaps this point of view is bad posture:

downcast and wiser—or exposed over and over.

Find myself responding strongly so endlessly

to visuals sublimely subliminal—pausing—

my tunnel vision expanding headline-by-headline—

on the bus, in a crosswalk, or in my crawlspace

at work—the cosmos unfurl across my retnas

giving proof to the inch-by-inching that I do.

At the doctors I try to get worker’s comp.

“Mm,” she said. “No, the pain’s been coming on a while now.”

#poetry #internet

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aa-buckley-blog · 8 years ago

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If you wanna be a thing you have to suffer something.

I don’t know what to do.

I mean I like being me but the anxiety of being me

is torture. I can’t pretend and be something.

I can’t push a personality that I’m not,

or push the motions to play the game.

I don’t think this shit’s a game. To do this in order to get that.

If you wanna be a thing you have to suffer something.

Take the steps? What steps? Live in denial of everything

but my own ambition?

It terrifies me. I don’t know the rules, or what

we’re even attempting. I’m petrified—

I’m watching movement as a rock in current,

pummeled.

There is no retribution, that’s how I feel—True.

#poetry #mental health

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