The Bone Is Back!

Hi there!

The Bone is Back!

I recently recovered a portion of over 2000 poems (seriously...but most of them suck worse than the ones you will read here) from an old hard disk from the early-mid-90s. It's a rather long story, involving alcohol, resentments and divorce. While I don't have the later poetry back, and am making a sort of peace with that, I do have what I have, and it's an amazing snapshot of my early drinking career.

So, I thought, as part of my continuing recovery, I would post one of these earlier poems every day or so, and write a bit about them. Since this blog thing is called "The Bone Inside," I thought I would start with the titular poem. Here it is, in all its unedited...glory...or something:

The Bone Inside                                                             Commentary

Spirits and psychics can be savagely torn                    *I have no clue about this part, but I enjoy 

unrelenting, it’s like having to cover your                    the image of having to hold back vomit 

mouth and shudder just to stop from puking.               from the society we’ve created.   

A headful of group therapy

and Rosie O’Donnell choosing for me                          Commentary 1

for those first few weeks.

There is a place I go                                                       The place I went was total inebriation. When

far away from the seasick gang-rape.                             I woke the next morning, after being drugged,

It’s more horrible, though,                                              I felt seasick. It was the worst "hangover" I've

because when I wake up it                                              ever had. Alcohol and drugs protected me

keeps me safe.                                                                 my waking hours.

I’m a dream, a spirit with no God,                                 An addict, if they are truly hopeless, cannot

bleach-bone smooth, a shadow in the rain                     usually have any connection to a spiritual life.

unaffected by renewing drops                                        The meat has rotted off our soul--in the purest

from the gods I wished and washed                               sense, we are bleached bone. Dead, but pretty.

and willed away.

I hover above me,                                                           This is an expression of the out-of-body

shivering in my bed vomiting up                                    I had when being assaulted. I don't think I

the cultures we killed off while                                       puked, at least there wasn't evidence the next

we raped them in turn or alphabetical—                        morning. Race, for those who can know,

                                                                                         played a significant part of the assault. Here,

 - it doesn’t matter -                                                        I tried to make the hurt universal.

and as I hover, feeling just a                                           Ah, pain felt through the haze of being dosed.

pin-prick of the pain, pause                                             This is about how I so badly wanted to be 

and wish to death I had the strength                               able to deal with the trauma.

to digest this bone inside.

Commentary 1:           When early in recovery, I was in no place to make any sort of decisions. I can’t really remember the first months of my first try at living a normal (read: sober) life. And, well, Rosie O’Donnell. Kinda summed up my feelings at the time, I guess.

Well. That was easy! I hope you enjoyed the short poetry lesson. I hope to provide more insight into poetics, as well as other issues through this blog. Tomorrow, I will discuss The Line and maybe Line breaks.