#broken memories
Funny I wrote this in 2015. How things have progressed...Weinstein, Rose, Spacey, Toback, Halperin, Franken... and so many, many more.
Sexual Predators, Bill Cosby, Monsters Under the Stairs from July 2015
All this coverage of Bill Cosby reminds me of my own experience with predators.What people should know and remember is that most predators don't come with the celebrity of Cosby. I've encountered those at both ends of the spectrum, male and female, and it is remarkable how their tactics are similar. They hide behind a persona of kindness, an alluring spider, but spider none the less. Grooming, flattery, then the tables start to turn. Psychology Today had an article on it that notes something important"... sexual assault and rape is not about sex, it is first and foremost about power, and specifically for the perpetrators, about using force, both physical and psychological, to dominate their targets." I recently spoke with someone about a similar shared experience and it reminded me of something I wrote when old memories hit hard several years ago. I thought I would post it here. For camaraderie. Support.
Brother We All Have Monsters
Brother We All Have Monsters
Not all of them neatly hidden under the stairs.
Sometimes they mingle in polite company.
So much so, not even the neighbors would know.
An unwelcome manifestation in any situation.
That jeannie out of the bottle
of a dark amber brew,
no loyalty or wishes to fill a cup
of lotto vacant dreams,
only something to haunt your steps
no skipping allowed.
It’s no surprise these patterns follow,
bleating an incessant alarm
on a tank long on empty.
The sharp quickening of hollow steps
beating the street bloody.
His soft itch of a time bomb
in a heart of hearts
kept well past prime,
cached in a mind’s eye blinded
by what transpired long ago.
You won’t remember, can’t forget,
those monsters under the stairs
So carry on and comb your hair,
gently fix your tie,
each bootstrap lifts you up
for the stares and a badge
of bruised courage
from mother’s lacking love
father’s drunken rage.
Poor you, poor me, poor them,
poorer than poor.
Destitute and lacking forgiveness
for unmentionables no one believes in,
appetites not meant for the genteel,
the only defense ambivalence and silence
to quell a shaking hand.
Brother, we all have monsters, don’t think you are alone.
Look behind you, the darkness has spread
with a shadow’s tenacity
trailing the darkest of ink
binding any light through a peephole
or moral to the story.
Sorry there are no happy endings here,
just our ability to whisper the tale
about camaraderie,
and of monsters
out from under the stairs.
Sexual Predators, Bill Cosby, Monsters Under the Stairs from July 2015
All this coverage of Bill Cosby reminds me of my own experience with predators.What people should know and remember is that most predators don't come with the celebrity of Cosby. I've encountered those at both ends of the spectrum, male and female, and it is remarkable how their tactics are similar. They hide behind a persona of kindness, an alluring spider, but spider none the less. Grooming, flattery, then the tables start to turn. Psychology Today had an article on it that notes something important"... sexual assault and rape is not about sex, it is first and foremost about power, and specifically for the perpetrators, about using force, both physical and psychological, to dominate their targets." I recently spoke with someone about a similar shared experience and it reminded me of something I wrote when old memories hit hard several years ago. I thought I would post it here. For camaraderie. Support.
Brother We All Have Monsters
Brother We All Have Monsters
Not all of them neatly hidden under the stairs.
Sometimes they mingle in polite company.
So much so, not even the neighbors would know.
An unwelcome manifestation in any situation.
That jeannie out of the bottle
of a dark amber brew,
no loyalty or wishes to fill a cup
of lotto vacant dreams,
only something to haunt your steps
no skipping allowed.
It’s no surprise these patterns follow,
bleating an incessant alarm
on a tank long on empty.
The sharp quickening of hollow steps
beating the street bloody.
His soft itch of a time bomb
in a heart of hearts
kept well past prime,
cached in a mind’s eye blinded
by what transpired long ago.
You won’t remember, can’t forget,
those monsters under the stairs
So carry on and comb your hair,
gently fix your tie,
each bootstrap lifts you up
for the stares and a badge
of bruised courage
from mother’s lacking love
father’s drunken rage.
Poor you, poor me, poor them,
poorer than poor.
Destitute and lacking forgiveness
for unmentionables no one believes in,
appetites not meant for the genteel,
the only defense ambivalence and silence
to quell a shaking hand.
Brother, we all have monsters, don’t think you are alone.
Look behind you, the darkness has spread
with a shadow’s tenacity
trailing the darkest of ink
binding any light through a peephole
or moral to the story.
Sorry there are no happy endings here,
just our ability to whisper the tale
about camaraderie,
and of monsters
out from under the stairs.
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