Friday, December 30, 2011

Momma Dreams

“Do you feel this? This is happiness, boys.”

“What, momma?”

“This. This feeling. As you look out on the horizon, where the Earth meets the sky. And you feel as though everything around you is on fire for no other reason than because your eyes have made it so. This feeling that rumbles inside of you. Beginning at your toes. You are small, oh my babies. Small, indeed. An electron bouncing about in a weather balloon. But you stand here. Here, on top of the very world that plays host to your animus. And you see it for what it is. For all its dazzle and all its grim. And a smile begins to take hold of your mouth. The silly worries of humans seem as a fly on a railroad track while the corners of your lips allow that grin to take shape. Let it be. Let it settle there and stay a while. Breathe. Know that you are here. At this very moment in the midst of infinity. Let it be. This is happiness.”



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Tuesday, December 27, 2011

You Wait

There are times when the words don’t come. Though they are in your veins. Fill your lungs. Language. In a pot. Full of proclivities. Stirred with penchants. Simmering with histrionics. Add a pinch of verve chaser. Watch it boil.

It’s what you do.

There is a certain éclat in the way you make your words slither. You know you’ve got it. The step ball change and hip shift of rhyme. The syncopation in your groove thing. The flecks of gold in that bit of spit hangin’ tight on your bottom lip.

You laugh at the poets, the jewelers, the stringers of beads. The ones who fish for flair in the flick of a feather, use their little broken hearts, their boo-boos and sad faces to yank a rose of words and force it to bloom. Poets and writers and thinkers of things, effete and shriveled by the weight of their own creations. You laugh.

You are not a poet. Or a writer. Or a master, whip in hand, commanding your little word soldiers to goose-step to the rhythm of your choreographed fucking. Oh, no.

You were born of song, birthed in a lexeme sea, cried with perfect locution, screamed a tete e tete with a verb racket, bouncing off the frail hyperbole of the noun-beaten and lame.

But fakery and puddle breathing ain’t your thing.

So you wait. Silently. For you know that wasting words is an unforgivable sin. Giving them to the undeserving akin to thievery of the poorest soul. Molding, pressing, smishy-smashy finger singing naught but a second-rate castle of cards.

So you wait.

Not to pluck words passing.

But to stir them pouring.

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Sunday, December 18, 2011

Tonight

She lies awake.
Midnight.
On her back, the way she does.
His breath on her arm.
slow rhythm.
Her hands are clasped on her chest.
She can feel her nipples under her thumbs,
and she circles them when no one is watching.
One leg is tucked under the blankets
the other is naked and uncovered,
the way she does.
Dr. Lecter whispers about livers and fava beans.
She adjusts her glasses with the tip of a finger.
She secretly likes her glasses,
but outwardly teases herself
so that no one knows.
She hears his breath, inhale, exhale.
He smells sweet, his natural smell.
It has always turned her on- his smell,
ever since she was a girl.
She lays her head on his chest and breathes,
memorizes his every inch all over again.
Hearing his heart, feeling his lungs.
His fingers following her lines, back and forth,
back and forth.
back and forth.
She can curl just right
and fit her whole self, tip to toe, in the curve of his arm,
A tiny pleasure of being tiny.
He follows her lines
Just a finger
Shoulder, waist, hip, thigh, calf, toe,
and up again.
His breathing slows.
She adjusts her glasses once more,
blowing a wisp of hair from her face.
His finger comes to rest on her hip.
She marvels at Clarice running in heels,
at any woman who can run in heels.
She feels the weight of his body relax,
Inhale
Exhale.
Little Clarice runs to jump into her daddy’s arms.
Commercial.
She scoots ever so lightly to the edge of the bed,
one toe, and another, so gently to the floor,
and runs,
in her purple lace panties
and her T-shirt about hobbits,
To find her words
And the place where she hides them.



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Thursday, December 15, 2011

res ipsa loquitur

scrying scream drowned out
The Eagle stomps three-fourths time
Pillars rise, she flies.

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Wednesday, December 14, 2011

And Then

Once in a long while, if you are lucky. If your mind is open to it. It you are willing to see it. And feel it. And hear it. There exist windows along the path you travel. We all travel them. These paths. Some are walled. Some lined with trees or bush. Others open to the air and sun and rain, its direction only existing in the mind of the follower. My path was walled. Grayed concrete. Ugly. I spent years traveling this path. No turns. No ways back. No rights or lefts. No break in the grayness. And it was so important to me that I stay this course. So important. For reasons I cannot even remember. Cannot remember.

I don’t know how many windows may have gone unseen during the years. Perhaps many. Perhaps none. I rarely ever looked left or right. I doubt I’d have seen the windows anyway. In past years, they’d have been an unwelcome distraction.

But once in a long while. If you are lucky. If your mind is open to it….

And then I saw a window.
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Sunday, December 11, 2011

Reign Falls

He sleeps, although he says not very good. I watch him sometimes. He isn’t a boy anymore. The boy I met in summer school that day. A school I should have never gone back to only a week after my sister’s funeral. I never should have been there that day. But I was. I was there. Perhaps because of the comfort of routine? Or to escape the deafening sadness of my house? For whatever reason, I was at school that day. In the hallway. At my locker. And so was he.

But he isn’t that boy anymore. Today, tonight, every night, I see a man. A father. A soldier. A husband. A patient. A friend. A hero. A man with one gray hair for every tear I have cried, for every vile word I’ve slung at him, for every bullet he has fired, for every friend he has lost, for every blood test and spinal tap and MRI and medication he has had to suffer.

He sleeps restless with dreams of things he cannot control. I put my hand on his back to feel him breathe.

He feels old, but he is not. He feels used, and perhaps he is. He feels broken, but he still has so many years left to run and play and work and build things and break things and grab hold of all sorts of things that he can control.

I will show him. All the things I feel and see and think when I lay with my chest against his back while he sleeps, or when he reaches over across the sheets to cover my hand with his. I will show him that he amazes me still. That he rocks me more now than he ever did when his body was shiny and new. That he infects me with his grin and melts me with his eyes even now, 18 years after the first time he put a spell on me.

He feels old, but he is not.

He is exactly as he should be.

And perfect in ways he cannot yet see.

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Monday, December 5, 2011

Bane and Thievery

She knows every name.
She remembers.
All of them.
Every individual soul who has ever said it.
On even days, she sighs with a bit of pity,
Thinking,
Oh, how I have fooled them. Fooled them all.
On odd days, she blinks twice and smiles,
Thinking,
Yes, I know.
Then there are days
Neither even nor odd
The slipped days, the hidden ones
The days the mirror reflects
When she is sure its definition has its very own M.O.
Threatening some underhanded ploy
When the ones who matter most
Light that candle
And walk away.
Reflections then turn navy blue
Trace the lines but tell no truth
Balance on a pinhead of honeyed words
False flavor but a dead-end road.
Turn and pose.
Wrinkled nose.
The clock screams ten.
Over again.
That girl won’t move
Until you do.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Bewildered Bug challenged me with "What is beautiful is not necessarily good" and I challenged Lisa with "Without referencing your age, birth date, town you grew up in, your job, and whether or not you are a parent, answer the question "Who are you?"

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Sunday, December 4, 2011

Check It

Not sure how many of you fuckers read my other blog, but I'm super proud of myself today, so.... ummm.... if you have the inclination... I'm kinda bragging a bit.

Pleasantly Demented- 1:06:28!

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Saturday, December 3, 2011

Gingerbread Girl

Sitting on the warm bricks on the back porch at noon.
The corpse pose.
The rungasm at mile 5-1/2 that makes me laugh out loud.
Lying alone at night with him, cracking filthy jokes, laughing at the world, forgetting for a moment that we are parents of teenagers.
Books with big words that make me feel smart when I read them.
Tossing said books aside and fucking instead.
Inhaling chocolate with wicked debauchery.
Pretending to be Juliette Lewis in the opening scene of Natural Born Killers.
Running in long dresses, tangled and unbrushed hair, barefoot, with dirt in my toes.

The Velvet Verbosity 100 word challenge- "Escape."





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Thursday, December 1, 2011

Onlooker

It’s about the burn
Fire on skin to bone
Scorching tracts and tunnels
Seared to black the signs that show.
The ways.
The paths.
The turnabouts.
Trails of ember glow
Headlong/reckless/feckless
Lose yourself below.
It’s about the chase
Flight on rockered feet
Steam shine scream the trees
Motored motives row
The claws
The toes
The muscles shriek
Coffered whistles low
Landscape/airscape/seascape
Lose yourself in the show.
It’s about the self
Truth dressed in liar’s rags
Fold the night in blooms and seed
Water wails for a she to sow
To nurse
To sing
Her mother love
Blister garden grow
Naked/flailed/exhaled
Lose yourself, let go.

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Sunday, November 27, 2011

To Him

To me
your eyes
shine on
Pale waters
roll on
Beacons
flashing whispers
in the dark.
Their words
teased once
promise now.
Chasing demons
with a glance
Kindling life
when my fire dies.
To me
your arms
fight on.
Stronger than fear
sail on
soft as cry
of new life held.
Their sway
vanquished beasts
envy none
and trade their sword
to calm the fire
of me.
To me
your heart
holds on
Quiet song
beats on
pounding rhythm
felt beneath
my hand.
Its weight
carries me
over storms
faith alights
through raging sky
its life
raining down
over me.
To me
you are
the longest love
every love
every smile
every moment
every treasure.
My soul, in flame and shadow
who lifted me
and caught me
part of me
saving all of me.
Love defined
screamed and whispered
shared and stolen.
I write it all
for you.

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Sunday, November 20, 2011

Needlings

Somebody said some ridiculously nice shit about me and I just wanted to save it for posterity.  You know, during those times when I have to pick up my dignity out of the dirt and stuff it back in my pockets.

I don't know this chick who writes this blog, but she said some cool things about me.  And I like that.  It makes my middle finger feel twice as big and badass as it really is, which is kinda crooked and pathetic. 

So what did she say, exactly?  This.

"Okay. Let me just say this word of caution: if you are easily offended by language or dark humor, don't get mad at me when you visit this amazing blog and find yourself so entangled in her words. This woman is an AMAZING writer. I found her through a virtual writing society and haven't let go since. When my writing gets weak, or lacks a certain edge, I look to this chick to pull me out of my rut. Amazing in a horribly, demented, high IQ kinda way. Check her out."

Dude.  That shit's like confidence crack.   Pretty cool, yeah?  I thought so.   She writes as De Su Mama and you can read her here. 

I'm running a 5K next Sunday.  Never done it before.  Always wanted to.  So I am.  I know, it's a sad little 5K.  I run more than that every morning.  So then why don't I do the 10K?  I don't know.  Maybe I will.  My husband is running with me.  He pretty much thinks I'm a rock star.  It's so bizarre that after 17 years with him, I so easily forget that if I want something, all I have to do is ask.  He would move galaxies for me.  How could I forget that?

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Friday, November 18, 2011

Fallen Peaches

Her knees got boo-boos
Skints and scabs and knots
Devil child with baby cheeks
Barrettes hung loose
The ones momma made
With ribbons
Tangled and wild
Tears and No More Tears
Only a girl would know
Running and rolling
Dirt in her lashes
Bruises and scars
for every race won
And every grip lost
Tire swing zen
But the rope was what she eyed
Shoeless feet find friction
Tiny fingers lose it
Crawdads in the creek
Wild blackberries
In the fold of her shirt
Fences for jumping
Basements for hiding
Musty and dank
Until the mouse came
The one momma killed
It cried and screamed
for so long.
Camel crickets
Rolly pollies
Granddaddy longlegs
She kept them all
Ate a couple.
When no one saw
Lightning bugs and frogs
At gramma’s lake
The peach tree
Pawpaw helped her reach
And his glass of water
That never was
But pawpaw died
His eyes were closed
On that day.
The blackberries
Soured and old.
Fading bruises unreplaced
Healing skints forgotten
Dead frog in a purple purse
Fallen peaches rotten
Vague times
Vagabond minutes
Begging for hate
that never comes
The many ones
Pocket deep
Steal just enough shine
From each rising sun
Memories lost
Worth forgets
Grace stumbles
Faith stolen
Dawn grays
Eyes close.

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Monday, November 14, 2011

Stigmata Of Recent Bleeding

A spot.
Rub a little.
Just with the side of your hand.
Fingernails behind the curtain.
Waiting for their turn.
Rub a little.
Little pills of skin flake.
Sweet burn of sated itch.
But the wiggle smolders
Wee at first
Don’t touch
Can you see it?
The wiggle
The itch
The way your eyes lie
The way they whisper behind your drums
It’s a dance, a little nerve dance
Wiggle and dance
The way the endings do.
Ha.
They don’t see it
But you do.
You welcome the scratch
When the nails peek out.
Scratch
Scratch
Salty burn of sated itch.
But the sizzle smolders.
A prickle at first.
Don’t touch
Can you see it?
The prickle
The itch
The way your eyes cry
The way they fester with a socket rattle
It’s a rattle, a little nerve rattle
Prickle and rattle
The way the endings do.
Yes.
They don’t see it.
But you do.
You welcome the dig
The nails grind and pull
Grind
Dig
Red, fat flash of sated itch.
Lick your fingers
The way the wee ones do.

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Thursday, November 10, 2011

Skool

This is the second week my kids have been taking a class at a public school. Out of all the reactions I expected to hear from them, their first one kind of took me by surprise. They are absolutely fascinated with the concept of “teachers.” You have to understand, this is all pretty much foreign to them. My oldest kid (16) said to me, “I just don’t get it, mom. So, the teacher stands in front of the class and, what, just tells the kids the same information they could teach themselves in half the time? What am I missing?" And then he proceeded to solve the state's entire budget issue by suggesting they just tell the kids what they are supposed to learn, give them a few months to learn it, give them a test to take, and be done with it. I'd vote for him. Sure as shit, I would.

Sigh. My babies. Little bro (14) is enjoying the social aspect of it. Not for himself, but just observing the dynamics of the classroom, the interaction between the kids and between the teacher and the kids. He thinks it's hysterical watching the teacher try to be relatable. The little gestures like casually sitting on the corner of the desk, using common slang, interspersing his lecture with jokes. Bro says, “does he really think the kids will pay more attention to him if they believe he’s just a 50-year-old teenager? It’s kinda creepy to me.”

Sigh. My chirrins. Daddy asked them a couple days ago if they now have any desire to go to “regular school.” I don’t think the darts coming out of my kids’ eyeballs could have been more deadly. Jake says, “do you have any idea how dumb we would be right now if we were at that school?”

Sigh. My little smartasses. I truly feel sympathy for the world they are set loose upon.

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Thursday, September 29, 2011

Second Bottle

This week's Indie Ink Challenge came from K. Syrah, who gave me this prompt:  Write about a discussion that happens over a glass of red wine. I challenged Amanda with the prompt:  Listen to the song Nightswimming by REM. Tell the story of the memory this song evokes in you. Preferably nonfiction, but the choice is yours.

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We’ve spoken before. We two. So many times. And it is always a struggle. I desperately try to slow the movement of her lips, to create in my mind a kind of stop motion animation of the constant tumble of vowels and consonants and the words they birth. There is never a give and take with her. Just a barrage of words that are hurled from her mouth. It is painful at times. I’ve even developed a conditioned response which causes me to break into a sweat the minute I hear her voice. Even if it is coming from a telephone pressed against someone else’s ear. Sweat. Anticipation. That voice. The painful pelting of her words against my brain.

The woman never shuts up.

And I don’t recall a single thing of value that has ever fallen from her face.

Oh, and a woman she is. With her “me’s” and “my’s” and “I’s.” Her and her and HER.

But there are times. Events. Gatherings. When avoiding her is futile. When I find myself sitting across a table from her, trapped, an unwilling receptacle for the garbage chute that is her face.

Her fingernails fascinate me. I try focusing on them to dull the noise. The tips of them are strangely white, stark white, like when I’d paint my nails with Wite-Out when I was a kid. I think she might have actually paid someone to make her nails look like that. I glance down at my own nails. The tips of them are kind of yellowed, a little dirt maybe, a jagged edge here and there. They look like perfectly functional fingernails to me.

I’ll glance at her face every now and then under the guise of paying attention. It satisfies her. The word pelting continues. I hear something about husbands and car payment. “Why doesn’t he just do what I tell him to do and shut the fuck up about it?”

I hope she doesn’t expect me to answer that.

“One day he’s going to be sorry.”

I doubt it.

“How do you do it, Aimee? You guys never argue.”

I hear my name. Snatch my eyes away from the most gargantuan, over-stuffed purse I’ve seen in all my years. Half smile. Shoulder shrug. How much shit does a woman really need?

“......what the hell did he expect me to say?”

Clearly she’d moved on to the next topic. Half smile. Shoulder shrug. That always seems to do the trick.

I begin to mentally survey the contents of my purse. It’s small, black with some hand-sewn embroidery.  It smells like the bottle of patchouli that lives in the bottom of it. There’s some gum. Loose change. A picture of my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Letlow. She used to whack my legs with her yardstick because I talked too much. There’s a card from the dentist with my next appointment written on it. Chapstick. A crumpled dollar bill. My car keys.

I rest my chin on the palm of my hand.

“…..I want to go to the Virgin Islands, but he said…..”

I suddenly get a vision in my head of Charlie Brown sitting at his desk at school. A kind of spontaneous giggle rises up and breaks rank. It appears to work in my favor, though.

“I know, right!? The whole thing is just fucking ridiculous!”

Oh, I know. Trust me, I know. Fucking. Ridiculous.

“How the hell do you do it? Running every damn morning like you do? Goddamn! My body is just....”

Bouncy? Oh, I hope I didn’t say that out loud.

Bouncy. Like her mouth. And her tits. And her ass. And her hair- A Dyed. Blow dried. Hairsprayed. Death trap.

I sit back in my chair. The backs of my thighs are sweating. I feel a trickle on my forehead and wipe it off with the sleeve of my shirt. The once full bottle of grocery store wine on the table in front of me is almost empty. I’ve had none.

“What the hell? Are you too good for cheap wine all of a sudden? Don’t make me have to remind you of Boone’s Farm and frat party Fridays.”

Her laugh is a guttural thing. Loud and low and husky. There is spit involved. She squeezes her eyes shut so tightly that it leaves little dots of mascara underneath them. A caricature. Is what my eyes see. What my ears hear. It is alive, but not. There are the tell-tale signs of 21st century femininity, of a humanoid type creature, a sad evolutionary detour into painted, life-jacking, male-hating madness. To say that we were once friends pains me. Her voice pains me.

I glance at the clock. It’s been an hour and 47 minutes since she has taken an audible break between sentences. The bottle of wine is empty.

I’ve had none.

She turns her glass up one last time. Swallows. Smiles.

“What the fuck happened to you? You used to laugh. I’m not even sure you’re conscious.”

I pull my legs up into the chair. Fold them underneath me. Stab the corkscrew into the second bottle of cheap grocery store wine. Fill the glass in front of me to the rim. Sigh. A long, deep, emptying sigh. And begin.

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Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Truth

Sweet! It's Indie Ink weekly challenge time.

This week, I was challenged by Trish at 3 Kids and a Breakdown-
“A drunk man sits next to you in a bar and thinks you’re his friend. He starts confessing “the truth” to you. What is the truth?”

I challenged Major Bedhead.

However.  I have a confession to make.  I cheated.  Like a damn punkin' eater, I did!  For reals, yo.  My mind completely went blank on this.  I super suck at fiction anyway, so I was really suckin' wind here.  So what did I do?  What any self-respecting homeschooling mom would have done.  I made my kid do it for me.  Damn straight.

So, this is from the mind of my 16-year-old son who has never had a formal English class in his life, is full of piss and fire, and a marvelous writer in his own right.

If you're interested in reading more of his stuff, here's his profile on the Writer's Network and his brand spankin' new blog Spawns Of My Imagination.  Prepare for your sensibilities to be offended!

Enjoy, lovelies!
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The date is Thursday, January 23rd, 1975. I was sitting in a booth in a dark corner of Richie's. For those of you that don't know – Richie's is a bar that appealed to us poor types. As I drank my large mug of beer, the heavy wooden door swung open and slammed up against the wall.

“Hey, be careful!” The bartender's raised voice swam across the cloud of smoke conjured by the annoying drunk bastards talking about their failure of stepsons and such. A large burst of wind blew snow into the bar. “In or out, come on man.” He said.

A middle-aged man walked in dressed in a durable camouflage jacket. He stomped the snow off of his black boots and slammed the door shut. He slowly swayed lightly to the bar; he was obviously already drunk. As he ordered his beer he peered around the bar. His search stopped when his eyes met my face. He walked over to me with the beer in his hand and slid into my booth on the opposite side.

“Um...excuse me. Do I know you?” I asked, confused.

The man stared at me. “No time fer games, Darrell. I'm seriously fucked up, I jus' need someone to talk to about it before I go insane.”

“Darrell?” I questioned.

“Goddammit!” The man raised his voice. A few people looked then turned away. He leaned in whispering. “I got something to tell you about the night we were alone. Do you remember? It was 1945 – we were in Japan. Don't tell me you forgot.” The look in the drunk man's eye was terrifying. “There was something that happened differently than what you thought...and I need to tell someone.”

I took a minute to think. This man thinks I’m his friend, he thinks we were in the war together, he thinks he needs to tell me something that no one should probably know about. A curious storm took over my brain and the words just came out of my sneaky mouth. “My memory is really foggy, start from the beginning for me?”

“Your memory has always been a pile of shit. Alright, here's how everything happened.” He started. “It was the middle of the night, we had accidentally moved away from our group of soldiers. We were lost in the woods, remember?”

“What weapons were we using again?” I interrupted.

“M1 Garands...you know that.” He said with a little frustration. “Anyways, we were both too scared and too smart to yell for the group – so we continued walking for about an hour until we were taken to a Japanese base by a couple of gooks hiding in the trees.” He sipped his beer. “They took us into a small room with multiple people; there was three or four. They took you into a separate room. You escaped somehow...”

He wiped his mouth on his jacket and continued. “I took one of their handguns from the table and shot every damn one of ‘em. This next part is what I didn't tell ya....."  He took another sip and glanced around, as if to make sure he was not being overheard.

"I shot the three soldiers on my way out of the hut.  And as I ran, right in front of me, was a woman.  She was pregnant and about to pop any second.  She saw me and opened her mouth to yell. I snapped. Snatched her by the hair and covered her mouth so she wouldn't scream. Four drunken soldiers came out, saw me and pointed their guns at me. I took the woman in front of me by her neck and remembered I had a grenade on my belt.”

I sat there shaking in my seat, dying to know more. “So what happened?” I asked

“I grabbed my grenade, pulled the pin, and rammed the goddamn thing in her mouth.” He took a big gulp. “I kicked her towards them and took off the other way. I ran as fast as I could til I found my group on a trail. That's when we met back up.”

I leaned back in the booth and folded my arms across my chest. I was floored. Confused. Morbidly curious. I watched him down the rest of his beer in one long draught. His hands were shaking, and there was a slight twitch in his right eye. I was desperately trying to find a place in my brain for this, decide where it fit, how to process this. A confession never meant for me. This blister on the ass of this guy’s life. A clearing of conscience. It felt wrong, as though he was looking to me for a kind of forgiveness I was not qualified to give.

I asked him what he was drinking.

His eye twitched. He blinked a couple times and looked away without answering.

I pulled a couple wadded dollar bills from my pocket and slid out of my seat toward the bar. “Whatever he’s drinking.” I told the bartender, waving my hand in the general direction of where I’d been sitting.

“Who?” asked the bartender.

“The guy I’ve been talking to for the past half hour.” I said, pointing towards my table.

The bartender’s face contorted into a quizzical shape, the corner of his lip raised in a half smile. “Damn. You serious? You’ve been passed out on that damn table for the past 2 hours. Maybe I should call you a cab."




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Friday, August 5, 2011

Mine

You, the sweetest thing
A flame reborn in madness
Take your falling star

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Sunday, July 31, 2011

To Wit

This week is my first foray into the Indie Ink weekly challenges.  I've been hesitant to play along up until now because I didn't think I was good enough.  Despite the fact that they've published my shit three times already.  I just figured I'd fuck it up somehow and blah....blah....blah.....whatever.  So.  Now I play, too.  I'm actually not even sure that I like what I wrote.  But, I have it on good authority by someone whose opinion I trust more than my own that this is totally not gay.  And I mean gay in the most non-politically correct, offensive way possible.  I repeat.  This is totally not gay.  She said so. 

My challenge was from Head Ant "You wake up and the sun is burnt out like a lightbulb." 

I challenged Jason Hughes at Life & Otherwise

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and so it goes
he lies awake…..
    a hand to trace her absence
    fragile grasp of silhouette
    painting swirls of vacant curves
eyes across a window pane
through glass and pitch of black
chase the shadow of her ghost
    a tongue to taste her remnants
    lying dormant in the corners
    hints of rancor and restless heart
ears beg to hold, strain to savor
memento of her voice
and the sigh she whispered last
    her scent he inhales slow and desperate
    chai and absinthe linger
    trailing wisps of fading life
and so it goes
he lies awake…..
    her shine but a singular moment
    on the horizon
    of a shattered star.





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Thursday, July 28, 2011

And She Breaks

I am 34 years old. I am the mother of 14 and 16-year-old men/boys/children/things. My body is fucking falling apart. I am beating it to shit and it is rebelling. Sometimes I hurt. A lot. This kind of pain really starts to fuck with you after a while. It creeps into your head and scrambles things up. It makes you feel useless and worthless. You stay stoic so you don’t look like a whiney bitch. But all you want to do is crawl into a dark closet with a heating pad and cry yourself to sleep. You do stupid shit like ignore it, put your tennis shoes on and try to run from it, feed off the endorphins, get a couple miles away from home before the endorphins wear off, and BAM. Sucker punch to the gut. And now you have to run all the way back home. I’ve even started taking my phone with me in case I can’t make it. I’ve refused to use it so far. You can’t concentrate on anything. You can’t think. Sometimes, it even hurts to breathe. I can’t stand this anymore. I can’t stand thinking about all the things I want to do and be, but remembering that my body is failing me. And I can’t climb out of it. I can’t shed it. I can’t get another one. I am at the mercy of my broken body. And it’s fucking killing my soul. I can’t keep doing this. I fail to see the point. I say nothing. Except here. Except now. I am saying something now. I am angry. I am PISSED. Who the HELL would want someone like me? I’m fucking useless. I’m tired of people telling me I should stop working out so much. I should lay down. I should take it easy. I should eat something. I’m fucking tired of armchair doctors. I just want to stop hurting.



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Saturday, July 23, 2011

Cadence

In dreams, zen fusion
twice and again/skin to skin
souls blaze in the night

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Saturday, July 16, 2011

To Wonder

Does the weight of conscience keep us chained to our humanity?

Or does the beauty of conscience keep us safe in our humanity?

What if I want to be neither chained nor safe nor stake any claim to humanity?

Does conscience then cease to be a variable?

I like bubbles.

The End.


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Monday, July 11, 2011

Nexus

beneath the aegis
burning elysian fields
I will take your hand.


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Wednesday, July 6, 2011

laissez-faire

eyes closed, thoughts of you
tripping the light fantastic
fire, feet, and the dark

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Sunday, June 26, 2011

You Know

You know how when you go to mow the grass and you get halfway done with the front yard and run out of gas? You go into the garage and look for your gas can, but then you realize it’s empty. You stand there in the front yard looking at your trusty lawn mower. You reminisce about the many springs and summers it’s been with you, all the hard work you’ve done together. It really begins to tug at your already thin heartstrings and you’re suddenly showered with an overwhelming sense of duty to give it what it needs. So you grab the gas can, put it on the floorboard on the passenger side of the car, quickly turn on the air because it’s as hot as a whore’s pussy in hell, and drive toward the gas station with every intent of simply filling it up and returning home. But on the way to the gas station, you see a guy on the side of the road selling watermelons out of the back of his truck. You pull to a stop hesitantly at a yellow light. For some reason, you just really want to stop and look at him for a few seconds. The car behind you honks in exasperation. You ignore him. Watching the watermelon guy is worth every curse falling from honking guy’s face. And as you watch watermelon guy wiping the sweat off his brow with a filthy hand towel, you are suddenly gripped with a golden, glowing idea. When the light turns green, you ignore the insistent pleas of the gas can and make a right onto the curb next to watermelon guy’s truck. By this point, your idea is screaming and dancing the Nutcracker on your fused anterior fontanelle. Know what I’m sayin? After inspecting each watermelon with all of the prowess and watermelon-growing knowledge of a hedgehog, you pick out the one that you believe to be the best representation of green, oval, fruity perfection. You hand the guy a five and tell him to keep the change. You don’t wait for a response, but evict the gas can from its prime real estate in the floorboard, relegating it to the back seat instead. You ever so gently place your watermelon on the floorboard, concerned that if you place it on the seat and have to make a sudden stop, it could possibly roll off onto the floorboard and break its neck. For a fleeting moment, you consider the gas can and the half-mowed front yard. But it’s only fleeting. As you turn in the opposite direction of the gas station and begin to drive back home, your senses start to reel at the thought of unclothing this ripe, juicy thing of beauty rolling around on your floorboard. It’s almost more than you can handle. Almost. Pulling into your driveway, you see your lawn mower still sitting where you left it. So empty. So lonely. Dirty scowl on its motorized face. It’s been waiting for you. And you have only returned with disappointment and rejection in your arms. That is, until you retrieve your watermelon from the floorboard, at which point your arms are overflowing with wonder and brilliance, like a long, cold draught of ice water after a sweltering afternoon of cutting grass, but without the cutting grass part. Because you have no gas, remember? But to the lawn mower, it means nothing. No matter. You make your way into the house, fumbling with your keys for a minute because your hands are busy cradling wonder and brilliance. When you finally yank the deadbolt out of its warm little square-shaped slumber and sling the door back against the rubber stopper, you feel a rush of man-made refrigerant hit your face. Safety and comfort and silence. All those things your lawn mower has denied you, while in turn demanding to constantly be filled, unrequited and unreturned. The grass can wait. With all the ginger plucking of a 3-year-old in a field of dandelions, you unsheathe the sharpest most dutiful knife from the cutting block on the counter. Position its tip just right, intending to cut straight down the center, but the very second you plunge the knife into the bowel of your fruit, something happens you did not intend. The watermelon sprouts a leg. Just one. Kind of skinny, a knobby knee, 5 little gum-wad sized toes. It sort of wriggles the same way a granddaddy longlegs leg wriggles when you pluck it off. Strange. You stab again. And again, another leg, perfectly matching the first, muscles spasm the same. Interesting. And again, the knife cuts. An arm. And another. Another slice. An ear. And again. You stand in awe for a moment, in awe of this creature fluttering into existence upon your countertop, gaping wound from what has become, merely by location, a stomach of sorts, watermelon juice from each incision puddling underneath, flowing in a trickle down the side of the counter and onto the floor. You’ll have to clean that up with Windex or it will be sticky, you know. By now, its eyes are fixed on you, pupils pinpoint, orange irises, perfect contrast to the blotchy greenness of its hide. You consider for a moment the alternative, had you not spotted watermelon guy, had you not stopped at the yellow light, had you not ignored the incessant whine of lawnmower face. A giggle begins in the back of your throat. You let it escape unhindered. You know without hesitation that you will eat this alien anthropomorphism regardless of the questionable taboo of doing such, but first you must know. You must have answers. You must investigate just a little more. You must see the extent and purpose of its magic. So, with one last downward jab to the hilt, a mouth appears. It sputters and chokes on its own blood, the same that will soon be on a dead end journey down your gullet, and with a slight motion of one gum-wad sized finger, it gives you the universal signal to come closer. As well, you do. You bend an ear with the face of a child straining to hear the last words of her dying mother, but without the inappropriate smile on yours. And in your ear, with this strange being’s only few breaths it will ever take on this planet, it whispers to you the meaning of life. You stand mesmerized. The hair on your arms stands at attention. A surge of electricity begins at your tailbone, ascending through your lumbar spine with all the fury of a fire ant on a rampage, and exits in an explosion out the top of the dance floor of your skull. Confused for mere seconds, only the time it takes for you to stand erect again, hovering above this dirt-grown infantile sage lying dead upon your counter, legs it will never use limp on its body, eyes glazed with the sudden absence of life, mouth frozen in the shape of the last syllable of the only 4 words it ever spoke. You give it mere seconds of respect before you finish the halving, rabid, with wild abandon. You know. Now. You know. In a moment of utter primal regression, you plunge your hand into the bottom half of the melon creature you cradle in the crook of your arm. It had to be the bottom half. The face half would have just been too weird. You retrieve your hand. You feel the gritty texture of the fruit smooshing between your closed fingers. Your mouth takes the whole thing. You try not to laugh. You know, remember? As you run out the front door, bottom half of half-eaten melon wizard in hand, dripping juice blood in a trail of life behind you, flashes of moments begin appearing in the cinema of your mind. Like a Viewmaster, they cycle. Click. The lawnmower. You see it. You kick it. Laugh in its shaming motor face. Kick it again. You jamb your toe, but instead of pain, it’s goddamn orgasmic. Click, and you run. A stop sign. Stop? Click. Every face of every soul who ever told you to stop. They don’t know, but you know. Kick them. In their insignificant, deformed faces. Run. Scream. Laugh. Chunks of pink guts stain your shirt. Click, and again. The faces of those you lost but should not have. The life that was stolen from the deserving, the life that was given to those who waste it. Anger fades with every mouthful. Now, you know. What they would tell you if they could. Click, once more. The chain of consequences, the lock of fear, the key of chance, the freedom of the shedding of its weight. You run. You scream. You laugh. Asphalt. Bare feet. Now you know.
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Saturday, June 18, 2011

Toe Stew

Flood of sanguine words
stain dreams with life in lost worlds
You made a mess, boy

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Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Unlocked

A wanderer
in dark and light places
over thresholds unrestrained
lone expanse of blank walls
bare floors begging to hold
stark windows a screaming beacon
teasing with paths not walked.

Empty smiles returned
with an aching jaw
around corners, another
from the floor, a third
smelling of blind nescience
like fading puddles under dry heat.

A key shines in the dark
gold, or just fools
perched on the ledge of an ear
mumbling smoky promises
of an open door,
a wisp between reaching fingers.

Fickle and frail
this wandering thing
let it pierce the rusted groove.
With mortise freed, grace then fled
and the lock fell
to the floor.


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Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Oh, Steven

I used to date a guy named Steven.  We met on a blind date in high school.  Steven.  Oh, Steven.  What a character.  Long, long hair.  Five o'clock shadow.  He was a senior.  Played the guitar, but not death metal like the last douchebag I fucked.  Oh no.  Steven played music.  And sang.  In his bedroom.  With weepy eyes behind his long hair.  Oh, Steven.  When I met him, on the blind date, I had a cast on my leg.  Just the knee down, but I was still annoyed and self-conscious.  He decided to take it upon himself to carry me everywhere that night.  Ev-ah-reh-wheres.  Yeah.  It's charming when you're 15 and crushing hard.  Not so much now.

Anyway.  Steven was a talker.  At that age, I was certainly not familiar with that kind of male creature.  And I saw a flash of innocence there that I wasn't quite sure where to place, either.  But I was crushing, so I shrugged it off.  Over the next several weeks of completely innocent "dating," I found myself emotionally exhausted and sexually frustrated beyond any teenage girl's ability to tolerate.  By that point, I was ready to fuck anything that moved as long as they would let me punch them in the face a couple times first.

Let me tell you, this guy was the most depressing, self-deprecating motherfucker I have ever met.  Woe-is-fucking-me, you know?  This cat needed a whole slew of violinists to follow him around all day.  I would spend hours on the phone with him talking him off the proverbial ledge.  He was never talented enough, smooth enough, attractive enough, smart enough..... The sky was the wrong color of blue.  The dirt wasn't dirty enough.  Blah, blah, blah, blah.  I was throwing myself at this guy and all he wanted to do was talk?  He has to be gay, yes?  I thought so, too.  So I started asking around.  Nope.  Not gay.  You want to know what he was?  A fucking virgin.  Holy mary mother of god pray for my sinning soul, Steven was a virgin.  Here I am 15 years old, crushing on this scruffy, guitar-playing senior, and I get more action wiggling on the seam of my blue jeans in homeroom than he's had in his entire pubescent life (whatever you're imagining, the answer is yes).

What's worse is that he effectively saddled his issues squarely upon my shoulders.  He wanted me, asked me directly, to be his "first."  Yep.  Because he didn't think I would judge him or dump him if it sucked.  I'd love to say I was a kind soul.  I'd love to say I took him under my wing and let him use me to take his first tentative steps into the world of carnal pleasure.  But alas, no.  I freaked.  And promptly relegated him to "friend status" while, at the same time, continuing to straddle his lap and grind on his dick through his jeans just for my own perverse pleasure.  OH MY GOD, I was such a horrible person.

I just thought, you know, since I told my story about bullying poor Jennifer, I might as well make amends with Steven, as well.

Dear, dear Steven.  You were such a sweetheart.  If I could go back to my 15-year-old self and fuck you silly, I would.  And I really hope your dick is okay. 



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Saturday, March 19, 2011

99 words

Ride with me
for the night
in the dark, where the lost lie
veiled and dirty
like a whore buying time

So many mouths
breathe words
languishing, buried
bête noire in a dress
and a rat in the walls

She hides and lies
behind a dead smile
glass on a finger, just barely, just slight
ticking on the second hand
like speed in a hole in a vein.

So ride with me
and you’ll see her
the ugly, the naked, with mud in her toes
she’ll tell you her real name
like the empty face of a new moon

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Monday, March 7, 2011

Recurring Dream

I walk
even strides, long
Tattered dress, trails the grass
Dark hair, reflects the sun
Snow White, how do I know?
I can feel her in me
I walk

I stop
A pond in her yard, dirty cement
Koi, spotted, gold, alive
They swim, through scum
Sun fades, throttled by clouds
I can feel her fear
I stop

I kneel
knees bent, dress in dirt
eyes knowing, same shit, different night
reflection of wrinkled brow, brown water
Koi call, I answer
I can feel their command
I kneel

I reach
one hand, fingernails cut, into earth
one hand, hovers, lingers
last night and again, submerges
water- no, acerbic familiarity
I can feel rendering of fat and flesh
I reach

I draw
hand from under, no hand- evanescent
liquefied, deliquescent, dripping
bloodied- bone to sweat
eyes dead, tilt of head, closer
I can feel no pain
I wake.
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Figured I'd give the "Childhood Dreams" prompt a go over at Studio 30+.  Oh, who the hell am I kidding.  I wrote this a couple weeks ago.  It's a recurring dream I had a couple times a week for about 3 years, I guess starting around 10 years old, maybe?  My best bud told me that over-explaining poetry defeats the purpose, so I'll leave it the way it is.  And I'm still super bummed my blog got deleted.  So, If you're coming from the Studio, and you were following Fire In A Frigid World, please click my little followey button over there.  It sure would make me a little less pissed off.

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