- March 2017 (2)
- February 2017 (6)
- January 2017 (1)
- December 2016 (8)
- November 2016 (1)
- October 2016 (4)
- September 2016 (8)
- August 2016 (7)
- July 2016 (6)
- June 2016 (8)
- May 2016 (7)
- April 2016 (7)
- March 2016 (7)
- February 2016 (4)
- January 2016 (12)
- December 2015 (13)
- November 2015 (12)
- October 2015 (16)
- September 2015 (9)
- August 2015 (21)
- July 2015 (12)
- June 2015 (23)
- May 2015 (21)
- April 2015 (59)
- March 2015 (12)
- February 2015 (7)
- January 2015 (14)
- December 2014 (25)
- November 2014 (29)
- October 2014 (52)
- September 2014 (17)
- August 2014 (23)
- July 2014 (23)
- June 2014 (28)
- May 2014 (35)
- April 2014 (39)
- March 2014 (38)
- February 2014 (45)
- January 2014 (36)
- December 2013 (48)
- November 2013 (59)
- October 2013 (65)
- September 2013 (27)
- August 2013 (9)
Between the Waking Hours ~
I rise up,
slow dancing in the rumpled sheets and glancing,
into the mirror to see if it is still me,
or has the dream waif taken me over?
Red berry lips bitten once,
tousled hair hiding too much knowledge.
Have I fallen down a rabbit hole,
or have the rabbits dragged me with them,
requiring a new,
Is this a pedestal I have climbed,
or steps to the gallows,
hard to tell when
they both lead up.
Whatever copious mounds of gold may rest in chests hidden deep
is nothing piled next to the secrets I hold like red death over all
crushed into pulp in my fists.
I wipe my hands on the sheets
as I steady,
between the waking hours,
and wonder if the vision in the mirror
will miss me,
or does she laugh victoriously to see me go
feeling that she has won…
I knew you would leave.
I wish it could have been when I hated you.
I wish I could go back in time and break my phone
before your first call,
before I learned the texture of your name,
and how to call it like music,
like lighting a lamp.
I knew you would leave and my insides knew you would leave,
but my skin held them all tight inside and wouldn’t let them speak,
while my mouth practiced smiles like tying shoes,
all knots and sloppy loops.
And if I tried too hard for too long
what else could I do?
The devil doesn’t promise to break your heart,
he just shows you a list and every name on it is yours
and that must mean you matter…..
I knew you would leave and the air tastes different
now that I’m not sharing it,
and the sounds you…
View original post 62 more words
Hemingway said it so it must be right;
‘All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’
Here is the truest sentence that I know;
I will never tell you who I really am…
and you will never ask.
It’s in the places that I am supposed to belong
that I often feel the most alien.
Where I feel the most puzzled,
like driving with bald tires down an icy slope,
like the unexpected hem tangletrip on a stairway.
who are the life and soul of the party,
the ones everyone likes,
What a great…….
sometimes those are the very ones that make me feel like an aging, infirm wolf,
my eyes closed in ragged supplication
and throat turned up.
I’m tired. I’m sad. I surrender.
I can’t relax with them,
and their slickness,
their glib and their easily trotted out patter,
seems so obvious,
seems so painted-on-veneer phony.
Is it only me?
It must be.
Nudged to the edges,
I sometimes fall over,
(sometimes I’m pushed)
Birthdays never noted,
success never acknowledged.
‘What’s that? What accomplishment?
with an acid lip crimp that says it’s anything but,
and an immediate segue into their Larger! and Better!
exploits and feats of wonder.
Oh that’s just the way they are…
let it go
‘Be the bigger person.’
I’m not big.
I have tried big.
I can’t fill the shape or the shoes or the role.
I’m small, I’m nondescript and I feel closer,
to the corners where I can blend
the quiet spaces that don’t interrogate
and force me to wear this greasepaint,
that don’t squeeze me into an ill fitting costume that bites and pinches,
into ersatz interest in a conversation I don’t quite follow…
and only form answers to hours later.
I grin ingratiatingly and nod my head like a vapid bobblehead doll,
and I hate myself for it.
I will never tell you who I really am…
and you will never ask.
A day of bones
a day of bones
and breaking sticks and stones…
A day of lying undetected
under hot sand and bleaching.
A day of being still
and being hungry and hunted
for in the sand you feel the secondhand warmth,
but can’t ever see it golding across your face;
can’t grasp the light that your eyes crave like a drug,
the trembling fall of brightness, tumbling like motes through the sifted air,
is lost in the rasp
and in the motion denied…
and the bones stay still
in sin and in secret.
and the rods and cones run their machinery overtime
to keep the color locked tight within,
and the bones lock
to keep the trembling at bay.
Burrowing in all soft and fat,
for the sand dollaring,
the hardening of your inner and outer self.
While the curtain calls for retribution not redemption in your rerunning dreams.
For in the simplest and most dispassionate of truths
there is no white charger,
the flying monkeys are out of control,
your knights are trembling with you in other, separate burrows,
and the day plods by….
Your cocoon gently strangling as you helplessly watch the sand settle in more tightly around you
and your bones accept this with resignation
and any brief and random thought of emerging
smothers itself in self-preservation.
A day of bones,
a day of bones,
a day of breaking,
of sticks and stones…
dance with me through the streets of beaded windows
and wine washed cobbles.
Tie a string of sorrowful songs into your hair and let them flutter as the wind
washes us with spice and gold spinnings,
catching on the pearls of your mask
and shining like dragonfly wings.
a night of magic and a day of wonder
with jugglers of butter-yellow suns
and a waltz never played before
because, at its merest tone,
the weeping would overrun the rivers.
But still we dance,
my Columbina and I.
Little dove in the starlit alley with the incense wrapping you like a burnt sugar cocoon.
a stage for you to shine like the moon,
like the secret chamber of a nautilus shell.
These sinister diamonds
all in velvet laid out like a carpet
of finest Persian to tempt your touch,
to tease your flashing feet,
and we pirouette in the rosy dawn.
We unravel the clouds and weave them into portents to drop like crystal balls in the gypsies’ tent.
I will play for you a mandolin of sighing zephyrs,
dark winds and skies that do not flicker,
do not lighten
but only deepen,
infused in ancient and delicious sin.
*original artwork by the incredible Sorell Matei*
The Box stands glimmering,
electric with dark magic and a wanting that goes beyond reason,
flutters moth like outside the boundaries of explainable and expected,
I trace my fingers across the carved circles and lines
runic symbols with an edge so finely crafted it swallows the light.
A press, a turn, a recognition of where it wants your finger to go
needs it to go….
I learn the trails and my fingers warm
the air growing louder and the vibrations traveling along the flesh of my hand,
a buzzing as if a hive had opened up under my feet,
which sets the lamentation humming like a wine glass.
But like a priest only I can hear this confession
these repulsive glamours spreading like frost
threading into my ears and eyes.
Ignore the screaming nerves and drop your polite expectations
they only slow your motion
like trying to run in a bad dream…
What portal did you envision, what cave of wonders did you think you had gained access to?
I rolled the stone away searching for a key
to join with something higher
experience something with a sharper, keener edge
an intensity that would speak to me in ways the sad and worn streets of
Our Town never could.
That search was a medley of frustrating themes replayed in a thousand variations…
At the very end stood an innocuous puzzle box
diamond cut and filled with those arcane mysteries
I was seeking.
It is now left to me to find an interpreter
a guide through this serpentine landscape.
To construct an answer to the humming
to signal my acquiescence
for it is not my hands, dusted with fear and ashes,
that summon the lamenting….
it is desire…
I will stand and wait for you
in the covering dark
and in the simmering silence of the night.
Keep to the unmapped path,
listen for the restless song of the leaves
and of moon drugged bats and
they will lead you through the perils of this old and ever shifting forest.
I will be waiting at the bending
under the hanging tree.
Strange things may happen outside
but in the shade of the tree we can stay
and water the ground with tears of promise,
of borrowed passion,
and a moment stolen like a pearl button,
ripped off and clutched tightly
in a fist damp with desperation.
Who knows what may grow from such a spilling,
from ground that’s only used to blood?
Who knows what knowledge may be given to us
if we listen,
ears pressed against the bark,
the wind speaking in the branches
sighing in the same pitch as the rope once did,
rubbing in rhythm against the living wood.
I will leave you at the bending
discarding the darkness harvested like black tulips.
I can wash away the sap and salt and pry the dirt from under my nails…
But the crying woodsong in my ears will linger
until I can’t ignore it any longer.
And the rope I weave inch by stealthy inch
will tighten one day
and the wind will count the beat once more
as I twirl
under the hanging tree.