Category: Uncategorized

dark mysteries
civilize
the ivory mind
that grows confines
Inner Station infestation

snaking vines –
who swallows whom?

carnivorous heart, his
a hungry captive
feeding its obesity

bloated, insidious church
of Might makes Right
preys on
sovereign
bended knee

through shuttered windows stained

voracious machetes
wildly castrate all
as red
in random patterns flies

The cook passed the food.
Like all schools, she keeps
secret agendas, hiding
green among the masses,
fooling perceptions,
creating, forcing,
new appetites, cravings, desires.

Juices are forced inside
boiled or steamed.
Textures become one
in death. No life.
No life present.

I wonder how wind would taste,
like, if it were infused with food.
Or water rising up from dirt
through roots, carrying eternities
of events:
Memories of sky adventures,
Torrential change,
Acceptance,
Rebirth.

Why can’t I taste that?

We take each–falsely enflavor–a cost of identity,
and mix them together to create something that bursts
common experience.

Richard S. Chiochios
3/14/17
Draft I

Dear Jenny from Forrest Gump 5/9/25

I’m sorry about how they treat you. You would never fall in love with him the way they wanted.
I’m sorry my dad asked the female siri on his phone “was Jenny a whore” , And I’m sorry it was on a sunday morning
And that the first result was an article -written by a man- beginning with “Jenny was a bitch.”
And I’m sorry that your dad was a man like so many others who did not love you and I’m sorry that’s what that article blamed you for.
And I’m sorry Forrest loved you and you are the villain because of that and I’m sorry perspectives are considered unfathomable when it bottles down to chivalry.
You told him to run, it’s not your fault he survived.
And I’m sorry you died soon after but then not soon enough

Dear Amber Hagmen
I remember the last time I saw you riding your bike
Telling your little brother to go on home first
Promising that you would be right behind him
Trusting you
He left

Dear Amber
I saw your brother come home
But without you
He told me what you had said to him
I trusted him
We waited
Dear Rene
I need you to come back home now
Come back to me

Dear Amber
They haven’t found you
I wait
For an answer
For anything
For a sign

Dear Amber Hagman
They found you
Dead
I need to know who the culprit was
Whose idea was it
To take you from me

Dear ________
I will not rest until I find you
I will take you like you took her from me
Until then
I wait

Revistion:
Dear Amber Hagmen
Dear Amber
I remember the last time I saw you riding your bike, pedaling your way home-
Telling your little brother to go on
Promising that you would be right behind him
Trusting you
He left

Dear Amber Hagman
I saw your brother come home
But without you, nowhere to be seen
He told me what you had told him
I trusted him
We waited
Paitently

Dear Rene
I need you to come back home now
Come back to me
Please
Please…dont go missing

Dear Amber
They haven’t found you
I wait
For an answer
Anything
A sign

Dear Amber Hagman
They found you
Dead
I need to know who did this
Whose idea was it
To take you from me

Dear ________
I will not rest until I find you
I will take you like you took her from me
Until then
I wait
Searching

I’m stuck aging with the rest of these millennial fucks who can only wax nostalgia with what they got. Boy bands, Britney and modem noises. MTV’s last gasp. Kid Rock sucking Scott Stapp’s cock and you bet even the ones in suspenders and man-buns will be there, not knowing whether to jerk off or call them problematic or both. Saving the world and running for office like it’s some Marvel-MAGA-Whole Foods picture-show, only you’re half-blind and kinky and shun anyone who doesn’t flaunt your couture brand of rage whether left or right, and you never quite grew past all that mall goth sarcasm in Congress while determining the fate of millions, did you? You’re boomer lite, sans the money. And you’re gonna vote Regan too. Every generation thinks they invented sex but here we invented tradwives and social justice. Oh mama, can this be the end? To be stuck inside the fascist sequel with the breadtubers again. Wholesome hoedowns and soy palloi, and NPR hosts who speak to us like kindergarten teachers. Let us make a more just, verdant and peaceful world, full of pudgy little Cocomelon banshees who foam sugar and serotonin at the mouth and blink like halls of flashing lights, nothing another whisper-talk about feelings can’t fix they draw blood at the merest request. Pats on the back, “Madison’s on the right track.” She just strangled a cat. But that’s none of anyone’s business anyway. We’re a generation of bad bitches who know what we’re doing and smirk. We’re a generation of bad bitches who shit avocado smoothies and pretend the past lasted all of five seconds because, in a sense, it can only repeat itself

There is no bond between me and the mirror.
The ceiling of my chest collapses beneath the cold boot of loneliness,
and sorrow melts across the brow of memory.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
The harsh slaps of absence sting the child’s face,
as the black parade of clock hands
marches to the tune of your vanishing.
Toys.
Heartbeat.
Fear sprouting in the ashes of forgotten youth.

I was not a phoenix, nor a seeker of manhood.
I was regret curled in the lap of life,
an innocent fault trapped in the loathsome snare of obedience—
a premature release,
a rush,
a helplessness.

You were not.
You are not.
You will not be—
That is the question.

I embraced the doll. Nothing.
I embraced a friend. Nothing.
I embraced a cigarette. Nothing.
I embraced a lover. Nothing.
I embraced the bottle. Nothing.
I embraced the crowd. Nothing.

In my city, no one knows the worth of the sun.
The towering canopy of thoughts forgets the blessing of day.
The turquoise tide of mind forgets the worth of the moon.
The torn sail of feeling forgets the gift of wind.

And still,
no bond exists between me and the mirror.
On one side, this aged middle-age,
on the other, a rejected child.
No bond between me
and me
and me.

If I knew anything about my mother she didn’t buy the shoulder bag the year it came out.
Found it on a clearance rack somewhere:
Orange, brown, cream and fuschia floral quilted diamond pattern
on a cotton blend “Carnaby”
-part of the 2009 collection
Taking in a breath, I unzipped the shoulder bag.

Silver change purse:
4 quarters
14 dimes
3 nickels
4 pennies
1 haphazardly folded dollar bill tucked inside

Cell phone

Crumpled and faded receipts:
Wegmans $3.17
TJ Maxx $42.38

Tic Tacs:
When she was my age her bag would have had a pack
of Merit Ultra Lights and a lighter alongside Tic Tacs
-It took a heart attack for her to quit

Tide Stick

Lipstick: definitely not my shade

Reading glasses

Rosary:
Thought it was jewelry as I reached beneath the wallet
She’d given up going in the ’80’s
-Seems she got tired of wearing sunglasses at mass

Key ring:
Holding the keys in my hand to feel cool metal slide between my fingers
and the weight of it all, grateful she’d been the one 30 years earlier who’d reached the
keys before me. 15 since she shared what scared her the most in all those years with dad
-Said It was the look on my face as I screamed: drive over him

Camel colored, leather tri-fold wallet.
Opening her wallet felt like reading her journal, like a box loaded with bricks made of
secrets too heavy to lift.

Medicare card
Library card?
I loved reading books to my boys when they were young
read to them into high school
would read to them still, if they’d let me
I don’t recall my mother going to the library
-I do recall her mentioning she didn’t enjoy reading to us

Citi Mastercard
USAA member card
dad was in the Army for 2 years- says he got out because mom
didn’t want him in Viet Nam
drove down to Asheville, taught from the mountain until the morning
they didn’t expect him to live to see the next.

Going through his desk:
found his father’s honorable discharge papers but never
found dad’s
found fifty years of Father’s Day cards.
found a bill from Dr. Berkey stuck between letters from mom

13 years of counseling:
Individual
Couples
Group
It hadn’t saved their marriage but did save their friendship
-Figured if mom could forgive him so could I

Macy’s
Nordstrom
Guest ID: The Villages
-My uncle’s had Alzheimer’s for years

Appointment card from Dr. Gardner’s office.
She’d driven; an uneventful ride to Springfield, on the way home, she’d run
through stop signs, a traffic light. With a chuckle, I reminded her to stop at those
big red signs
-she just laughed.
On the back was the name and number of a neurologist
She’d seen a neurologist two years earlier who’d given her a clean bill of brain
health
-she couldn’t recall the name

Shane: a single picture of her youngest grandchild.

Love you, Mom. Can’t wait to see you in July. Save this one for me.
-Finn

A note worn thin wrapped round a gift card to Coastal Flats
I don’t know how many times we’d eaten there gatherings
from 2 to 20 depending on who was around
-She always ordered the Filet Tips.

In the clear plastic sleeve:
Driver’s license:
dark, wavy, short hair,
ivory skin with barely a line on her face
hazel eyes,
McDermott nose
-I don’t know where mine came from
Organ Donor

I cupped the license in both hands, held it a few breaths before pulling out my wallet and placing my mothers license behind my own
-Where I go, she goes

After Dianna Vega’s“boy laughs at my period-stained skirt”
(Contains the verse“a bleeding woman. don’t” from Vega’s poem)

Making eye contact with the
very male Target employee
as I place tampons in my basket
and as I walk away I have to laugh
because he looked like he saw what
he wasn’t supposed to.
I should apologize right there
in the fluorescent aisle for this marring
of his innocence.
But I don’t.
I just add chocolate to the pile.

Once, Dad, the same man
who burst blisters on unwashed feet
after hour-long hikes in the hot
New Mexico summer found
an unused, fully wrapped tampon
in the car cup holder and exclaimed with
disgust. A scandalous secret of the other
sex. I think, is this what it is
to be a woman?

Mom tells me to lower my voice
when I complain of pain in my middle
because my brother is coming down
the stairs and God forbid he hears me.
Lest he know that I am
a bleeding woman.
Don’t let anyone see that
there is life leaking from
between your legs.

I pay for my items alone
at self-checkout.
Why should I be ashamed?
It is not just women
who bleed.

I think you know
how much it hurts,
being this close to you,
but you’re staring at her.

I told myself you’re off limits,
at least for a while,
but you set my heart racing
when you approach with a smile.

Each time you lean close
with a nervous face,
I’m hoping for a kiss
or a warm embrace.

You’ll pass me or dodge
from someone’s view,
and I’ll turn around
finally seeing the truth.

She’s standing there,
Her hand in his,
and your heart’s hurting now
I know it is.

So I play the friend
and stand by your side;
now I realize finishing last
isn’t only for nice guys.

I always get anxious in public, but I blast heavy metal in my ears heavier than my thoughts, so I don’t hear myself think. I love the silence that’s always hiding behind the chaos—I love the silence that I only find when I’m soaring through the skies. I haven’t processed any of my traumas this year, and I’m quite frankly good! or at least functioning? Considering my struggles with getting up in the morning, heavy on the crying when it’s storming. Everything seems pointless. I don’t have a purpose, I don’t even know how people find shit that deep within themselves, it’s like I’m the one that’s out of service. All I’ve found were bleeding open wounds, the product of being abused when I could’ve been swooned over. All I know is that I’m something called a ‘human’ living on a floating rock in space, those are the proven facts. The rest of the memories of myself are blacked-out nights and drug marathon trips or binge popping or snorting or sniffing or huffing or puffing or crying on the bathroom floor in a party, but it’s dark and I like how the floor feels cold against my skin, exactly the opposite what I felt like when he was raping me when he was pushing my face against the burning pavement, now he’s just an engravement. An engravement he is on the walls of my brain that rebleed every day. But it’s just me in the end, just me at the end of that tunnel. It was just me who held my hair up when I threw up. Just me when I forced myself to purge when I took two too many. It was just me when those I loved betrayed me. It was just me when my heart felt like nothing but a hollow cave that echoes forever and ever. It was just me who cared too much. It’s always been just me and an eternally lasting engravement of him.