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 ├ęclat 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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