Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Murderer

What you don't know won't keep you safe.
Assumptions will leave their mark on your corpse.
You can feed the truth apple seeds and hope for a choking poisonous death after you've already marched in the funeral procession.
One tiny drop of cyanide at a time.
... .

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Mandarin Mandolin Madness

To the corner table, through the smoke and dust in the air, melodious mandolin waves push to drums clogged with thought. Like a forgotten box stuffed in the upper layer of a house and rediscovered by a new generation, memories escape from times adhesive closures and reveal themselves anew.

Hanging from the players neck, a string of imperfect pearls, set to the tune of the patrons black diamond ears. Meeting in the center, they dance with refined grace and skill, turning circles into figure eights while mouthing crescents through saline raindrops.

Lead paint chips from the wooden archways that nearly divide now from then and soon, leaving flakes easily mistaken for the purity of freshly fallen snow on the heads and shoulders of any who attempt to meander through these impassable, but impossible to ignore, portals.

Our dancers weather the mandarin mandolin madness, unthwarted by the charming notions of what lies beyond either passage, contented completely to swim in the undercurrent of their unusual embrace.

A. live.

Countless corpses invade my memory. Countless memories invade my mind.
Stealing moments from my life. Stealing fresh life from my every moment.
I really do know better.
I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the glimmering connections that feel more like tiny reflections reminding me that I'm not alone.
Love oozes from my soul disintegrating the tar on my feet as I find myself climbing out of the pit once again.
My nausea subsides to excite discovery in the boundaries of the unknown and the unknowable and in my continued love for the everything.
But it will return soon enough.
I've seen the way AIDS kills people. I'd count it as bad as the slow burn out of dementia.
Countless corpses invade my memory. Countless memories invade my mind.
Stealing... Stolen... Gone.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Stopping to smell the (anything but) roses

Only when I am lost, do I ever feel found.


























My new job requires me to constantly battle my unfortunate directional impairment. It wouldn't be much of a battle if I didn't have to be places within specific time constraints, because I enjoy being exactly where I am, especially when I don't know where I am.

So there I was... lost, as usual, and pressed for time, when I stumbled across this stunning scene. My anxiety subsided immediately as I stopped my world for a moment to embrace the beauty around me. Just after I took this picture great wide wings spread gloriously open and stretched a wide span of delicate rolling beauty to embrace and warm the youthful innocence resting nearby.

These quiet moments of solitude fill the framework of my existence to capacity and enable my complete participation in this thing we call life. As a majestic feathered creature camouflaged in a snow storm, I continue.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Sleeping butterflies

With great ease we make these inferences and throw them willfully into the vast open space between our closed universes. It could never have been any other way. What shown with brilliance in beautiful moments was simply shimmering bits of broken glass, poking through the hardened mud of the trail we were left to follow.

Bleeding, bandaged feet still sting with every step. Yet, we must walk at any cost. While some may use whatever crutch is found along the way to keep from crawling on knees shredded in hopeless prayer, I lean only on what dreams I might have hope enough to breath to life and crawl when crawling is necessary.

I have born your weight and marched to the cadence of a heartbeat stopped before it's time, while you sat on your icy throne and unapologetically declared yours the only truth, banging down your fist in judgements made in both ignorance and haste. An empire which once created beauty began it's reign of destruction. Your tears betrayed your intent in attempt to wash that ash, but the restoration you abandoned is finally complete.

Monarch flight patterns are painted on my wall, and I dream, even still, of such a flight.


*

Friday, December 10, 2010

OMG, it's like a real blog.

I have ripped my bathroom limb from limb and prepared it for painting. There's nothing like taking on a last minute project to avoid anxiety over a major life change, or to keep your mind from floating back to the things you'd rather not ever think about again because hell it's Christmas time and this shit just happens. It's not Christmas though, I'm reflecting because its the end of a year, so we... or rather I... HOPE for a newer better more badass year. Of course by badass I mean balanced. Duh.

So yeah, here I sit waiting for putty to dry, and soaked sheet rock to stop disintegrating. It's behind the toilet. I'm not all about extra hassle... I can make it work, and I am... making it work.

So far I have killed my taste buds and given my eyes a nice chemical burn... I managed to fix a six inch hole that I once put in the wall in a moment of uhm... well... let's call it passion... but in the process I also completely ruined an entire portion of perfect wall and should probably replace it but instead of going out in the snow I'm just going to hope it dries by morning. I've involved a number of fans to help.

In searching for extra fans, there was this really beautiful moment where I stumbled across photos of my ex husband thus prompting my children to inquire as to why he doesn't love them. While plugging in the fans and trying to come up with the best possible answer to the worst possible question I touched the tip of my right pointer finger to the prong of what I believe is an industrial fan manufactured in the late 1970's by sears and zapped my self... Zapped it real good! Let me just say that electrocution is so much more exciting when you have a metal screw in your wrist. Maybe it's just psychological, but I think that thing is still charged with the extra current.

The ruined wall is still damp... but the bit that crumbled away... well I can cover that with the trim when I replace it because it's by the floor. Yay for small miracles! So then came time to take shit down. I couldn't find my Phillips head and cut the back of my thumb from the nail to the first joint, length-wise, and kind of caddy cornered, trying to remove my towel rack with a steak knife.

It's been a little like living out one of those scenes in one of those stupid comedies where you get annoyed just watching because it's all so ridiculous and unfunny and without a plot or a punchline.

Currently, I'm smoking a cigarette that I can't taste and can actually feel the smoke sticking to the clorox lining my airway. It's an awesome feeling, that one, and makes me think about Drano for some strange reason, which reminds me of this documentary I watched this morning about physician assisted suicide, which then reminds me that I'm likely going to develop dementia and leaves me wondering when I should start my trek to the Swiss Alps, which then reminds me that I have plenty of time, and yet no time at all, and then I look at those fans pointed at my toilet and wonder what it would be like to take a piss in wind tunnel.

Should be great fun.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Posted Note

Dear heart,
Please do not explode. But feel free to keep trying.
Love,
Me.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

The Candlestick Maker

Thick wicked dipped
Tediously in her vast vat
of molten scarlet wax
Dyed with regeneration
a world's worth of bleeding hearts
Not a word spoken as sparked
Flickering her frozen flames
Forsaking darkest demons
Demanding illumination beyond
Alluring illusions bound to bitterness
Love dripping from her scolded fists
Purest peace flows forth
in the fire of her open palm

Saturday, December 4, 2010

The Baker

Tough fingers, calloused hands
kneading sweetest stuffs
meeting mouth to mind
without melting
heart bound breads
molded to love and reason
arisen each new dawn
unchanged with the seasons
perforated steam filled crusts
aromatic laboring
burnt in a perfect being
the baker's soul silently sings

Thursday, December 2, 2010

The Butcher

Raised arm flickers light from the end of a blade
Solid handling to slice open another slab of Shakespearian sonnets
The bleeding stopped as another life lay stooped
On that cold and cobbled floor

Tiles that remain etched in horrific memory
Nothing original in the butcher's artistry
A mosaic of blood stained metaphors
Sun bleached lies; lack luster, lost allure

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

From the crypt

The differences abound in all that has come unwound from what has been and perhaps may always be bound to the core of me. So often I fill a blank page with blank letters forming blank words and so oft I destroy them in their insufficient reflections of my insignificant interjections, to the fluid flow of pure expression, which exists only in the present's moments of the here and now.

Hope is quite possibly the most powerful, futile thing this world can know and yet it seems as non-existent as the god that created it. Ah, that hand pointing toward the luminous clouds with their shadowy lining, not made of silver, but of dust water. Why would I want to seek it out? Give me the freshest boiled stuffs, please. I want the distilled honest elemental forms of gases combined to awaken my senses. Keep your clouds and keep your stars, they are n ot my stuff though they may serve to serve you well. May they learn to serve you better, or may you at best, learn thing with to best learn from them better.

Hope. It exists only in the future and because the future is as reachable as the past in desire and in longing and in regret turned to fear, I'd rather have gratitude than hope. You see hope leads to expectation and expectation as even our dearest Shakespeare has said, is the root of all heartache.

My friend... he said he was soul sick, I feared it might've been contagious. I needed it though, to bring it all up. Like a peroxide wash bubbling all those impurities out. The festering infection fighting its way out after only a year. Or... after the entire span of an earths orbit finally spinning out the regurgitation of all I've been holding in the center of the pit of my void spewing forth into the world, fallen on the ground before me, radiating it's loveliest bits, glowing a myriad of color, before turning to hardened coal-like masses of memories and dreams.

The one thing I think we can agree on, that we have always agreed on... that love is an unstoppable, unmanageable and reckless force. And for me it has been dreadfully so much that truth to it's very end. And I struggle to learn to control the internal chaos to remember how even the best dreams end with a stiff neck and a need for coffee. Striking a stick of sulfur against my teeth I set fire to all the ultraviolet still pulsing through the ground, through the roots of all matter, and I watch the snow drenched landscape become engulfed in a flame held by my infrared gaze.

The fuel of this burning a beautiful surrender to reality, feeding the soil at my feet. Another obstacle turned opportunity by my inevitable optimism as I empty my entire world to fill it with a fertile, hopeless joy. Love is a choice! Love is the percussion, and the strings, and I dance to both, looking like an epileptic in mid seizure, seizing it for my own.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

In the rough

Again, it all feels so very juvenile ******* Monumental emotion
The best poems ever written ************** Opening
Were never words at all ********************** My heart to
Mere moments ********************************* Every
There is no sort of justice ******************** New memory
for sentiment of this magnitude ************ Time awaits
No defining such eternal gratitude ******* Setting stone

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Across the line

It's fleshy
prose

It's warm
words

Its tender
talk

It's primal
language

In the mirror
A dancer's form
Toes point heels away
Knees bending torso forward
Neck arches hair everywhere

Gripping post
Gasping breath

Pounding perfect discourse
Into my life
As it has always been
Feeling whole again

Unadulterated acceptance

Musing over loving
Loving the musing
The years,
The space,
The freedom,
The beauty,
The bliss,
The line of self
folding over itself.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Zombie Tree ;)

When I fade fast
I find myself faster
Rooted
in
love

And sending it

everywhere

As an autumn tree that never turned

Life giving leaves scatter
Crisp
Dry
Free

To decay

Into the everything

Soon sheltered in thickest ice
A weight for diseased limbs
Together with winter's winds
Make spring's new growth
whole
healthy
fruitful

and able to love again

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Literary abandon and demon destruction... Yay for NaNoWriMo!

The early spring greenery, flushed with golden sunlight shimmering in the morning dew, was a stark background to the black and white contrast of Nadia's hair, skin, and raw emptiness. Looking around at the wilderness that surrounded her she decided to lose herself to that which she was already lost to.

She pulled her cell phone from the back pocket of her faded jeans and noted that it was well past time for her to be on her way back home. Without a second thought she laid the useless keeper of time on a concrete slab, which separated stream from pavement, along with her keys. Then without a second of hesitation she began to run.

She ran the length of the busy overpass, her legs more powerful than even she knew, to the small winding road that brought her to the serenity beneath the busy bustling of humanity. A mirror of her self, and she ran from it hoping that a speeding local would come barreling down the one-lane gravel path and take from her the life she did not have the nerve to take from herself.

The thought of returning did not cross her mind when she noticed a clearing through the trees leading upward to the heights of the unknown. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief at the idea of leaving the man-made path to find herself lost in a wilderness where no one would ever find her, and she continued running.

Thorns and thistles quickly gathered in her long, flowing hair, barely pierced her skin as they attached to her clothing. She ran harder and faster with every step. Wearing only sandals to protect the soles of her feet they were torn open from the sharp edges of the blades beneath them. It mattered not, Nadia felt as if her skin and her soul had already been torn and burnt beyond repair.

Harder still, she ran up the side of that Appalachian mountain and harder she tried to disappear into it. The vines entangling the brush surrounding her grew thicker and she was forced to slow herself to manipulate her way through it. Her hands grew thick with the stickiness of the thriving life within the wilderness as she fought her way through. It was, she imagined, the only real sign of life about her.

She stopped, putting her hands over her head to catch her breath. Looking around she felt lost enough. Then the screaming began.

No words were echoed in that solid screaming. Just one guttural bellow after the other until there was no voice left inside of her to so much as even whisper. For at least an hour she stood there in the center of nothing and everything, screaming. She thought that if she screamed loud enough, hard enough, long enough that he might hear her despair. That he would come find her and pluck her from the emptiness he had knowingly given her to.

Of course she knew better but she screamed just the same. No words could ever do justice to the violence brewing under her skin. No words could make him love her. No words could change the pain that she would face every moment from that dreadful night on. So she screamed until she was as depleted physically as she was in every other conceivable way and then she fell to the moistness of the earth below writhing in agony until she fell into a deep sleep.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Faint

Blue hued hands against pale white thighs
Veins pulsing purple the will to survive

Resting softly in the trickling end
Absolution for undefined sin

Rising from this warm nook, a hollow cough
Echoing the depths of an empty loft

Forging a path through an open door
Knowing there should have been more

Memories fade with each tear wept
Strong knees weaken with every step

Surroundings spin and all goes black
Falling forward instead of back

Stiff arms reach to embrace the floor
That's twice today, no wonder I'm sore

:)

Friday, October 22, 2010

Beneath the ocean of collective tears

Third story window hung
Drops of distilled love
Shatter pavement bound
Before the grand soak and dry
By the gale unwound
Wrung free flying
Circular patterns above
Turbulent waves of truth
Whirling hope sinks in silence
To broken coral collaborating
Elaborate reconstruction
Forsaking purpose and duty
Maintaining untouchable beauty

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

First rate hate

I grow weary at the outright ignorance and childishness that governs the hearts and minds of some people. Growth is not about textbook knowledge or being a better, stronger, kinder kind of person. Growth is what happens when you allow your life experience to fully manifest within you your unique way of being. Of being in the world amongst all the other creatures vying for a place in the survival of fittest. Of being in the world with all it's hardship and strife and agony, and injustice served in the greatest quantities in the most heartbreaking capacities and still being able to know joy and warmth and hope and love. Of being in the world and making the most of what it is to be a being in the world amongst all the other creatures in the world who are being with you, growing with you, dying with you, decaying with you, or unfortunately remaining stagnant right next to you.

I feel pity for those who stay locked inside of notions such as hate and envy and bitterness, because I know what it is to be that person, and because I know what it is to not be that person.

We all make mistakes. We all have regrets. We all form attachments. We all long. We all need. We all love. We all breathe. The same air.

I feel nothing but pity for those who can not appreciate the basic human right of every individual to seek and find happiness. I feel nothing but pity for those who would rather make it their life's purpose to tear others down and rip them apart instead of lifting them up and wishing for their well being as if it were their own. I don't envy these poor, sad souls the difficulty they will face in finding what they most truly desire while trapped in an oblivious world comprised of venom, malice, and self-destruction.

Hate is ugly and in a funny, almost hypocritical twist - I hate it.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Maqsoum

Beating it out on my bedpost
Three hundred times
The familar rythm echoes and soothes

teca-DUN-DUN-teca-tec-DUN-teca-tek

Three times ten is thirty
Thirty times ten is
Three zero zero
DUN-teca-teca-

Fuck.
Backwards.
Slow it down a second
Divide the rythm to singular heartbeats

teca
DUN
DUN
teca
tec
DUN
teca
tek

too slow to be comforting
kills the flow
ruins the math

Pause.
Breathe.
Focus.
Re-start.

If I make it to my goal
flawlessly
If I can go that long in perfection
If I can turn off the turmoil til I get there

Everything will be okay

teca-DUN-DUN-teca-tek-DUN-teca-tek
teca-DUN-DUN-teca-tek-DUN-teca-tek
teca-DUN-DUN-teca-tek-DUN-teca-tek

White out

Little gray oysters sunken like stones sing to me of their bittersweet plight.
Bright mums bloom against the backdrop of autumn's booming decay.
Dizzied am I in this twilight of unspoken things, carving love into heavy armor.

As pearls bubble to the surface of a snow covered shore.

Friday, October 15, 2010

The Abandonment of Mr. Frost's Famous Path

Three hundred sixty five days into the future or a thousand empty nights into the past.

The fuel that burns the fire of my dreaming is constant, even when in short supply.

Everything I've done that has not been to keep the kindling alive has been a futile effort to extinguish that eternal flame.

I'm not at a crossroads here. It's not even a fork in the wild woods. There's no untraversed path. There's no well worn road. I'm simply standing in an open space as violent winds force me to dance in their embrace.


Catfish whiskers

I will always be okay.
Just peachy.
a little fuzzy.
pit in the center.

Too much sugar made me vomit

Safety bored me to tears

I need to go noodling
in the murky depths again

Mount that great fish on my wall
Name him George.
After Georgia.
Where the peaches come from.

Then, at last, I'll sleep.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The fine art of dandelion burning

I watched you morph
from your golden throne
Transcending to seed
by morning's light
Perfecting purity
to snowy white
Unable to pluck you
from your earthy perch
with roots of a silver birch
So illuminated by my flame
intent to populate in vain
Charred stump in my heart
You'll for ever remain

Monday, October 11, 2010

Raped

Father time runs his heavy, calloused hands across my once supple, lithe body. The dust of another era courses through my bloodstream. I force a futile cough in his face causing the corners of his mouth to move upward into a slow, certain grin. We do not speak as he winds a lock of my brittle hair through his fingers and leans forward to clamp the whole of my useless tongue between his stained and crumbling teeth.

Thick salty fluid fills my airway just as I release a guttural cry of pain. The scarlet hem of my life stains the very whites of his eyes. Fury envelopes the atmosphere around us. I remain defiant yet powerless, awaiting his next move. He loosens his grip on my scalp, but not without snatching away another small tuft of my identity in his palm. Staring tenderly into my eyes, as if searching the core of my soul, he licks his coarse, wiry fingertips to fervently wipe away the aftermath of my silent screaming with his fermented saliva; before it even had time enough to dry and cake in the creases and folds of my face.

A moment of peace in the midst of rage. A flicker of hope that he will finally show me the mercy I have long longed for and offer me the grace I have always craved. I imagine that if I can find a way to hold his gaze that it would be so for ever after.

Before I can finish the thought I am thrown backward into a cold concrete wall by the strength of his foot in my chest. The crackling sound of shattering ribs echos loudly up the dark and narrow passage. As I struggle to find breath his laughter fills my ears mocking my childish hope. His jagged nails pierce the center of my neck and tear through the paper-thin skin leading to my clavicle.

I drop to my knees as if to beg for an end but keep my eyes fixed on his, reminding him that I will never give up and tempting him to test me further. His jagged titanium nails rip through my sternum with great ease and fierce agony. I dare not look away. I dare not blink.

Swiftly he carries my limp and nearly lifeless body across a wide, quiet span of emptiness and lays me to rest in a bed of stargazer lilies while my beating heart is left exposed to the elements and the burning sun. With a soft kiss on my forehead and the gentle caress of his hand across my cheek he whispers that which I have always known, "This is how it must be."

I have been here for what seems an eternity now, with the disturbing comfort of those final words ricocheting relentlessly through every synapse and sinus in my skull. Alone, exposed, and praying for rain.

There has been an occasional passer-by who came along to poke and prod at the universe reflected within me. Always blinded by the darkness of the barren trees looming overhead or the brilliance of their own luminous ego, not one of these has yet to offer a genuine understanding or acceptance of my existence and only time has been willing to hold my hand in my most dire moments.

While I am content to stay here in the grasp of time's choke hold, Orion beckons to me and offers a mystical escape. Though I know his often deceitful nature, it is but his steady calling that keeps me breathing and hoping that there is more to living than enduring the torture of time's brutal tests while waiting for him to drop his final, most rapacious blow. There may well be an eternal love for a mortal soul hiding among that glorious belt of stars prancing about in the night sky for the lilies fresh bloom and the ether in my eyes, or perhaps it is already streaming from somewhere deep within me simply waiting to find another infinite helix to bind itself to.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Sweet well water in a tin cup

I'd like to say it was his eyes that first caught mine but it was something more.

Something undeniably undefinable.

Captivated completely by the hold his eyes held, I knew his arms could do as much.

Shaken to my center by that first unintended touch, I called him Jesus.

To be in his arms is to worship divinity, divine serenity.

I'd fear losing myself to it, but I fear I'm already too far gone for that.

Sweet Caronia

14th century vulgarity permeates my being here, now, then, and always. A melodious pour of words from a distant sister defining the beauty in the carrion of a murdered prey. Where there is overwhelming horror and terror in the eyes of every beholder, I suck in the foul stench with every breath and savor the beauty in the saccharine undertones laced throughout this vital air.

Choking on the maggots already at my throat I push another empty day into my self imposed clarity. Basic primal urges drive me onward. Primitive survival instincts lay the foundation for my every pleasure seeking endeavor. Surrounded by decay, in vulgar Latin terms, by my own caronia, and by that of the world which surrounds me. Emotion is the only notion of knowledge I will ever own.

Like the death of each spring flower, wilting in the summers heat, blowing away with autumn's breeze, and waiting for new life under winter's frozen, heartless palm I am incapable of escaping this rotting sphere. Wanting to wouldn't alter my fate of awareness.

It's not meant to be beautiful, it's not meant to be warm, it's not meant to be anything, to DO anything. It's just my soul, and it just is. Singing. Shrieking. Expanding. Shrinking. Loving. Waiting. Accepting. Seeking... safety. Sweet Caronia in a world of the same.