I know I haven't written
In a while, but I'm getting in that mood again
And can't stop thinking about what happened
So I'll do this to get it out my mind.
And I hope I just stop crying.
And I just hope it doesn't snow in San Diego.
Journal entry #19
Once upon a time
The layer of cold rain fell
But was stuck together
Clumped just as dirt does
When molded by hand.
Frostbitten by the brisk winter day,
I described how this fluff of snow
Floated down to the Earth
Flowing with the wind in my
Journal, but that was the past.
The Western gust we're accompanied by
Keep the palm trees blowing,
Breathing in the wisps
Of the melancholy climate the
San Diego winter has brought us.
Staring off into the sunrise is my mother
Watching her foe approach
On the balcony of this hotel
We can only afford because of the
Discount thrown at us.
I believe she's
Just given up hiding her strategies of
Aquiring what she wants due to the
Riskay ensemble of sexualized
Innuendos and teases.
Maybe it's because my admiration of
Medieval literature and hand written poetry
That I don't speak up.
I'm too meek, too cheerful
From the fresh imprint Christmas has left on me.
Or maybe I just haven't adapted back into the
21st century. that I, of all people, have stooped
My social integration skills down to those of
A Viking of the Middle Ages for comparison,
Although it's the ones who have raised me
That duel as savages do.
Yet another screaming match unveils itself
Which was expected from the big
Man from which his property was stolen from him.
I'm sure that's all he sees in me.
Sees in us.
He beats her that way, and I'm sure
My burning brand will be soon enough
If we travel back to that dungeon of
Foreboding that man calls his domain.
For now I hope my mother stands with her descion,
Made as she saw the burning bush,
Just as I see her describe
How painful a flame can burn to him, without even touching it.
But "Real pain hurts, bitch!" Is all I can...
Well imagine him say through exaggeration and ignorance.
For I can hear the niceties of his words
Through the true grit of his teeth.
And the focused touch of her bosom.
And the convincing cry his eyes portray.
And the scar which wraps his right knuckle
In a deciptive type of sorrow from when
A driving jab drove my mother miles away
In a broken down, beat up car.
I see it, just as I saw the day it happen.
Yet I can tell these words will hurt more than
The pain any physical force can.
"Jessica, me and your mother may be going through
Some tough times, but I swear we're working everything out
Just as adults do, alright honey? This will never happen
Again." He says. His word slither from his throat.
More woe proturdes from the moment
As my mother tipsily speaks.
"Yeah baby, he won't hurt me again, Rob is a good man, he's gonna be taking us out to eat
Then we'll be on our way back to idaho! Doesn't that sound alright?"
She drinks when she smokes, and she's been smoking
A lot this morning.
I think to myself that it's still snowing mid january
In the springs, and no big house can house a driking man
And no fancy watch can move a season.
So I wrote a memoir in the closest to Anglo - Saxon
Literature as perceived to be
Titled "Once Upon A Time In A Paradise of Sunsets"
Before we head back
To the worst ending God could find.
- Jessica Buress 01/16/1996