Ogre Spiders

In the empire of the moon
shadows spill like Sunlight,
colors cower in fright
the Ogre wakes soon
in the empire of the moon.

Though the darkness leaves others without sight
the ogre finds the whole world bright
such contrasts are boon
in the empire of the moon.

Weaving in the motions it will often recite
it pulls thread nautically tight
but in a shape that easily balloons
in the empire of the moon.

The ogre hides patient with spite
hanging in the air, as static as Kites
the space beneath subtly perfumed
in the empire of the moon.

Every Movement no matter how slight
send the ogre in an ensnaring flight
with webs that forever entomb
in the empire of the moon.

All the work made ‘right’
draining from the victim what excites
the greatness of the ogre is pruned
in the empire of the moon.

The burning of the days light
raging against the audacity of night
takes all that was hewn
in the empire of the moon.

The Ur Resonance

That head cold of a place,
claustrophobic like asthmatic lungs,
a beginning, an ending,
depending on where you look.

In that heaving chamber,
a body stands misaligned,
like paper planes fumble folded,
the right side crawling away,
desperate for the solace of shadows.

The rest of the body too, one can assume
(but know nothing).
Where secrets grow like hair,
even as the source will never do again.

Another figure is inhaled,
drawn deeply from the darkness.
A reflection of the native,
lunging towards its chiral twin.

The folds of space between them thin,
become thinner still, non-existent,
a monstrosity of osmosis.

A tired rage erupts from the forebearer,
one ‘good’ hand emboldened and armed,
vomited out from the disheveled shapes,
plunging a dagger into the aggressor,
again, and again, and again, and again,
until, together, they slump away,
retreating from life, reality, everything.

Demolition

I wasn’t able today,
not for a few days.

They are so short,
while my troubles-
      long tired things,
heavy, hot breaths heaving
overcome the days with ever larger strides,
stretching shadows;
then fall-

like twelve stories condemned,
not pouncing, but plummeting on them,
the rest of the world obscured in billowing detritus.

The days buckle under the weight,
but they do not protest;
accepting the burden like responsibility. 

The troubles, wheezing, subsist through the nights,
just to wake me again.

Neither of us sleep well.

A Lament

I regret the tragedies that broke me,
the quiet moments after, parsing thoughts,
finding solace when I should have suffered,
and, at last, forgetting the lesson learned.

I regret mysteries I did not see,
those theaters of war where I should have fought,
the responsibilities I deferred,
and not recognizing what I had earned.

I regret not letting my anger be,
becoming the anxiety it sought,
not heeding the advice that was conferred,
and ignoring the peace that I so yearned.

I regret thinking time was like the sea,
capricious waves in which we were all caught,
a purity otherwise unperturbed,
and not an ocean, overfished and spurned.

Monster

Wretched thing.
scratching,
        nails against stone,
                the howls of one breaking;
tumbling up the long hollow
      thrashing weakly against the wood.

          My fists thrash back,
            “Die”
        [that wretched thing] screeches a reply,
languishing miserably amidst echoes. 


              drowning in shallow waters of anguish and hostility;

                         request denied.

Drowning In Confusion

Drowning in confusion. That was the state of my existence for approximately two months, maybe longer.

I was not given information about what Crohn’s was, or how it would impact me, aside from it being “an inflammatory bowel disease characterized by inflammation throughout your digestive tract”. In an attempt to inform myself, I tread upon thin ice, fell through, and found myself drowning.

I read about everything that could go wrong.

I took existing statistics and mashed them together to create new, more terrifying, super-statistics.

I was afraid of doing things that the month prior I was doing with great joy. I had anxiety before this year, but because of the self administered drip-feed of medical propaganda, I was on the verge of agoraphobia. I was away from work for almost two months and had tremors at the thought of returning. 

My husband struggled, I’m sure- actually, hear it from him yourself.

Brendon, how was that experience for you?

There are a lot of layers to that struggle. First and foremost, I love my wife very much and was heartbroken to find out that something like this could affect her so severely, forever. I understood that there were ways to manage it so it wasn’t debilitating but even ‘managing’ it is more than what I would want for her. But there is more than that. We are not just individuals anymore, we are a couple, a family. I was upset for Austin the person, for all the reasons above. 

But I was upset for Austin the wife too for entirely different reasons. Austin, my wife, was scared to do the things we enjoyed doing together. Biking, exercising, running, etc. But I myself, (Brendon the husband man) still wanted to do those things. These opposing situations created friction that was difficult for us to deal with. In doing them I felt guilty because I knew the impact it had on my wife. In not doing them it made Austin feel guilty that her medical issues were limiting my enjoyment in life. Both of us developed an underlying resentment on top of the other stressors inherent in the issue. That resentment also developed a sense of guilt, and it was all cyclical and felt rather hopeless.

On top of that there was Austin, the family person, who’s same fear impacted the relationship she had with our children and the things she was willing to do with them. The emotional toll all of this was having translated to bad moods, poor communication and isolation behavior which is never well received by kids. Watching that as the other half of the monarchy that rules over our family was difficult and disheartening as well.

Financial impacts were hard on both of us too, but how can you value income over one’s health? You can’t without feeling like a monster. Yet at the same time very real threats to our livelihood rose out of the ashes of the old Austin the diagnosis had tried to lay to waste. As a caring husband you can’t really say anything, but you can’t hide the calls you have to make on a weekly basis to your mother for help, or trying to apply for other jobs to either supplement the income or replace the income you already have with something better. That too developed into some very guilt heavy resentment over those months.

Eventually you just have to tackle that fear though. You have to identify the value of what you’re doing to protect yourself from any and all risk against the value of living your life in a way you love. That’s how we broke the cycle without breaking each other. Because we realized that we were worth taking some risks, and we always had each other to see us through to the otherside. 

Thank you Brendon, I appreciate you sharing what that experience was like for you. I am incredibly grateful that I have you in my life and that you were there for me when I needed help resurfacing.

It wasn’t easy. We fought a lot. At the time, I believed that I had every right to live in fear, and I felt like he was telling me that I didn’t. I applied every grim statistic to myself because I had every right to, but the point that I kept missing was that I didn’t have any reason to. He was always trying to help me understand that distinction, and eventually I did.

Stress is a very large contributor to “flare-ups” , a sudden showing of more severe symptoms, in Crohn’s patients. In “educating” myself, I was causing myself so much unneeded stress that was actually perpetuating my symptoms and increasing the possibilities of certain frightening circumstances, such as cancer, becoming a reality in the future. I was making myself sick! In choosing to be afraid, I was choosing to abandon my family, and live a very sad, and most likely short, life. 

So I started thinking more positively, letting go of the things that I had no control over, and prioritizing the things that I love. I can’t control whether I get cancer in the future, but I can control how often I get to feel the satisfaction of kicking my husband’s ass at a bike race.

I’m still working on myself, and staying positive and productive is a constant battle, but I believe that it is worth it.

If you find that you have a diagnosis, are confused, and you are wanting to know more about it, I would recommend that you find resources that can help guide you and support you rather than attempting to go at it alone. At the very least, have a support system of friends and family on standby to help give you a more positive perspective on things.

Choking Hazard

Those dark hands ever questing for my throat
they find their bonds and break them
gliding accross the skin like an anecdote
whispered words of maligned memories
transcend crescendo unto grievous guttural notes
bursting through the ears and crashing through the skull
driving my sense of self into places most remote
their sole purpose met as I cower condemned
seeking refuge behind all the words I wrote.

Ministrations of an Anxious Mind

Let errant dreams fall beneath tires
the same dreams that can build empires
often plague the mind like wild fires;
they serve only as cruel satire

Friends must be kept at a distance
though they may offer assistance
they care not for your existence;
they serve only with insistence

Success should come with suspicion
one doesn’t achieve ambitions
the thought is a contradiction;
they serve only exposition

No matter what it is you do
I beg you not to misconstrue
the need for personal values;
they serve only to limit you.

Alone

Cold walls make emptiness hollow
a word becomes a paragraph
but the silence is often worse;
that soft, sobered condemnation.

It grows on you like wilted vines
masking mortar and stoic stones
with a web that pulls at the bones
and antagonizes the spine
into emergency room lines.
‘Twas silence that broke Apollo
and surely I too will follow
beneath all this desolation
with my own frigid narration;
cold walls make emptiness hollow

but they fit the mood of the thing.
So I sit, intensely alone
processing all that I was shown
wearing tragedy like a ring;
the whole of my mind in a sling
thoughts circled like an epitaph
rubbed raw in stone on my behalf.
‘Ouroboros,’ the term scoured
when spoken at the right hour
a word becomes a paragraph.

Poisonous prose sinking inside
deep within the ardent soil
that place where thoughts oft wont to roil
and become greater than they should
louder than the self ever could
spitting out erratic free verse
without pause or time to rehearse
and asking, “repeat after me,”
so you spew disheveled debris…
but the silence is often worse.

A void mirrored is oppressive
a wave that splits the earth and sky
sent upon us to purify
turning the peaceful aggressive
the charitable, possessive.
Nothing is more than stagnation.
It’s more than obliteration.
It is the ego sacrificed
sold out for a zero-sum price
that soft, sobered condemnation.

Anxiety

The wind, it whispers, “something is wrong,”
Lest it grow and drive the lot of us mad,
I beg you, drown it out with song.

Though this may be a place you feel you belong,
Weighted with countless reasons to be glad,
The wind, it whispers, “Something is wrong.”

To ensure your days may yet be long,
and without those events that leave us sad
I beg you, drown it out with song.

Cuts down the most jubilated throng
Turns the best of days sour and bad
The wind, it whispers, “something is wrong.”

From the weakest weak, to the strongest of the strong,
Don’t allow your armor to go unclad,
I beg you, drown it out with song.

Though some seem to just go along,
Many have lost all they had.
The wind, it whispers, something is wrong,
I beg you, drown it out with song.