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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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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Cadence

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

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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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Nexus

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


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laissez-faire

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

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