The incubators birthday

So sad that she infused you with all this anger that is eating you up. Someone said that the best retribution is to live a good life, but it’s always difficult to come from a minus to a plus. I’m not really religious, but there was a time that I prayed daily to be relieved of my hate for someone, because of what it was doing to my insides. Hate doesn’t hurt her….Keep on writing!


So today is my incubators birthday. It will be turning 58. There are no cards or well wishes sent and certainly no visits from one of her children given the fact she tortured her from the moment she was born. All I hope for is pain loneliness & misery. I hope that she is ridiculed with some painful disease which leads to a long miserable life ending in a painful slow death. If I had my way she would have her womb ripped out without any anaesetic. Still what goes around comes around and no suffering will be enough for her.

This poem was written on Mother’s Day. It’s just as applicable for her birthday.

Happy Mothers Day
to the woman who gave birth
who ensured my coming years
would be nothing but hell on earth
Happy Mothers Day
to the woman who I had to trust
to meet my…

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About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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