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