Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Excuses


Hers.
Aye, truly jack-be-nimble to decay-
to puddle round her feet, bare but for the dirt between her toes-
to muddle counted breaths, sibilant song sublime-
One fire, two fire, three fire-
Free.

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3: to fall into ruin
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Monday, May 28, 2012

Blackness and Junk!

My Google reader says I am 30 posts behind.  The dVerse prompt is Memorial Day and my husband is in the Army.  You'd think I'd be all over that shit.  I've let 3 Trifecta prompts pass.  There is a new Magpie Tales prompt.  And my Spawn and I are in the process of planning some super-secret blogfunstuff.  And yet here I am posting some lame shit about how I am tired and I feel like shit.  And I don't think there has ever been a time in my entire life when I have felt less inspired.

I'm going to try to get caught up on my reading.  And I am going to gorge myself on strawberry shortcake I just made.  Even though it's just gonna make me feel grosser.  Is grosser even a word?

Don't care.

It's times like these that I wish I knew how to snort oxycodone.

Okay, that was a joke.  Seriously.  I could never snort anything.  Just thinking about it gives my nose that awful feeling like when you accidentally inhale water at the swimming pool.  Ick.

Bad mood.  BAD MOOD.  And not the kind of bad mood that inspires all sorts of wicked awesome poetry about blackness and junk.

Just a "give me the fucking bowl of cheescake batter and get the fuck away from me" kind of bad mood.

Plus I feel fat.

And gross.

Go away. 

GO AWAY!

Get off my blog!



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Tuesday, May 22, 2012

I ain't got no toes

Her name was Matilda.  And she et my toes.  Put 'em right in her stew pot and et 'em.  Now I ain't got no toes.  Not quite sure how I'm gonna get along, but I'll manage.  Oh, Matilda.  Momma said she was a witch.  but I didn't believe her.

It was her blue bus that sucked me in.  Down by the creek, about a half a mile that way.  She'd been set up there for years, as long as my recollection could stretch.  Which wasn't very far.  I was supposed to be in school.  But most days.  Well.  Most days, I was at the creek.  I'd found the perfect spot to sit a spell, up an oak with perfect sights to her bus.  I'd watch her.  The bus didn't have no tires on it.  And the wheels were all rusty and buried half in the dirt.  But it seemed like that sucker rocked like the Foursquare Gospel on Sunday every time she moved.  Her pots-n-pans windchime was a god awful sound.  She'd sing songs bout God redeemin somethin... always praisin and redeemin and hallelujah and take-me-home-Jesus!

I just watched.  Every once or so, a couple of boys would run by, tossin rocks and hollerin something bout "Tilda don't brush! Tilda don't floss! Tilda et a baby with barbecue sauce!

Ain't nobody really believe she et babies, but that was the story anyhow.  

But she sure as monkeys didn't brush or floss.  And her hair ain't seen a hairbrush since her mamma pushed her out.  Leastways, that's what it looked like.  As wild as the day is long, like my daddy's duck huntin dog.  He called him Duck Huntin Dog.  Like, "Where's my goddamn duck huntin dog run off to? Wastin my goddamn time...." then he'd just grumble through swigs of beer.  

As much as my daddy liked to say 'goddamn,' Tilda liked to say, 'praise Jesus!'

She was singin bout praisin Jesus the day she caught sight of me peekin at her.

She said, "I see you up there!  C'mon down now.  Tilda don't hurt nobody.  C'mon and tell me your name, l'il skunk!"

Three years I'd been skippin school to spy on Tilda the baby-ettin witch and ain't never caught her eye.  I sure as monkeys done caught her eye now.

Tilda don't hurt nobody.  That's what she said, aight.  

I tell ya.  Don't believe folks when they tell you they ain't out to hurt nobody.  Thems the very folks that was put here just special-like to hurt.  

She sang them boys' song while she cut.  I screamed and screamed like them pigs down back of the butcher shop.  Screamed my little curly-headed face right off.  Ain't nobody heard me.  

She sang and sang... "Tilda don't brush!  Tilda don't floss!  Tilda et a baby with barbecue sauce!" 

She laughed and laughed.  

Tossed my 10 l'il toes right in her pot with some salt and onions with the skin still on.

She ripped an old pillowcase to wrap my feet.  Tossed me down her milk crate steps into the dirt.  Told me I had til the sun went down to get outta her woods or she'd keep goin up my leg till I ain't got no legs.  

Yep.  That was Matilda.  

Momma and daddy just said that's what I get for peepin at folks.

Not sure how I'm gonna get along.

But I'll manage.

Always do.
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Trifecta Weekly Challenge- Wild
3: a (1): not subject to restraint or regulation : uncontrolled; also : unruly 
      (2) : emotionally overcome <wild with grief>; also : passionately eager or enthusiastic

Studio 30+ prompt- Her name was Matilda

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Monday, May 21, 2012

Audience


Watchers, all-
mouths loose as she balances on two.
Tongues wet and ready to burn-
secrets, lies, and shame
- the story they tell so real
from the nose-bleeders' eye.
Onlookers, they call themselves-
caricature of Darwin
poised upon stretched necks.
To toss a rose in her direction,
a travesty upon gilded lips.
She knows-
sweet child of acrimony,
for she has always known. 
Eyes break rank to bathe her-
jaws unhinged by Mother Mordant
itch to spew folly for folly's grim sake. 
She gathers en masse
her bones, curls, and tulle
upon candles without flame
to rise for another pirouette.
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Sunday, May 20, 2012

Go Now!


I normally don't cross-post between "Aimee wife/mom" and "Aimee fill-in-the-blank," but today is one of my rare exceptions.  Because my husband and I did some cool stuff this weekend and I am excited about it and feelin' pretty good about myself and all that junk.  And I want to give everyone the opportunity to claw their eyeballs out by reading my drivel once again marvel at how awesome I am.  So here ya go.  Read!  Marvel!  Claw your eyeballs out!  Go to TGI Friday's and order the vanilla bean cheesecake!

 
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Thursday, May 17, 2012

Macho

* If you've read this once and notice it's different, shut up.  I'm a writer.  And I am reading way more about "sprung rhythm" than I ever wanted to know. ;-) *   

I don't suppose anyone can find my little nod to Mr. Hopkins? 
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He cannot give nor promise heaven-
no corduroy ponies gray or sliver of salt diVine;
Yet they want, as they will and always.
Will? My dreamer- oh, they will.
He watches as they slow,
Resting as they do on the lip of a thirty-second note.
breathe- breathe over- and Flow.

Little tease, picking bitty tufts of cotton bone
in a thought unwound from a thimble/ Locked
then glows the inscape from their teetiny bodies-
brilliant won'dring wild as the wicked are wont to do.
Fishin' low-
low, low, under...t-t-t-Toe.

With a wink and a laugh, give ‘em hell poppa.
reach Up with dreams of shiv'ry games.
Calm- shining liberty singing sweet, and sweeter calm.
pulled from the best branch, Sky running-
dot, dot, Dot-  smile-slung ranger-  sky watching.

Wake on a thread spun gritty with juice-
on the Shredded bed of a giant.
Holding, as he Does,
with swollen wanderLust
in dithering, dangling, dirty daddy Hands.

then he Looks, noggins spry-
then the Chase, beggars run
with flying flips and funk from Thataway.
yet whether be Hither
or whether be Yon,
his arms- daddy Please!-
dem Arms won't never let go. 
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dVerse FormForAll- Sprung rhythm

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Chance

Transparency is ambrosial 
when it is given along the string
tied
from your heart
to another. 

Clarity is morning rain,
lingers on grass,
a droplet for every soul
that dares dance unclad. 

There happens then
a lightening of each living trouble.
These or those weighing down a closed heart
lay no burden
on the shoulders of clarion beasties. 

Yet we fear it, 
for crystal breaks
as a raindrop turned to ice.   
Crack, it may. 
Shatter, it can. 
Yet the smell of a buried self reeks,
necrotic beneath the mold of neverever.

Never to show. 
Never to give. 
Never to share underling fancies
in a gentle palm
outstretched
to share with you. 

Quiescence lives
in the seeing and showing
In the times,
and on the roads,
when fear sneaks a toehold.

Stop. 
Yield an echo
before the one who holds your key.  
Abandon your fortress.
Swallow a pint
of sweet cinnamon pretense.
Let them pass
Let them see.  
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3 : an instance of trouble <used to disguise her frustrations and despair by making light of her troubles

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Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Promise

A child’s tears make a sound.   Just whispers.  Of a heart that needs.  Bigness means so little.  Strength of bones and muscle- so little.  A heart that needs can lie in even broadest chest. 

I heard a tear once.  Whispery.  The ache in his heart for his momma.  From the eye of a man came the song of the heart in a boy.  A fragile grasp on the growing distance between a baby, a boy, a man, and his mother.  The promise I made to him, more fragile still. 

I’m not going to die for a very, very long time. 

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Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Naugahyde & Lemmondrops

Sometimes, the onlinez, interwebz, loginzplaces, usernamez, passwerdz, laptoppy computerizationz make me wanna crawl in a hole.

There is only so much of it I can take before I feel like I need to just unplug everything and run down the street naked.

It is so overstimulating.  In the non-computer world, there is only one direction I can travel at any given moment.  My brain focuses on that direction.  Perhaps a bit of the periphery, but not a lot.  I make a decision and go there.  Until it is finished.  And then I make another.  And continue.  Until I get hungry.  Or tired.  Or dirty.  Or bored.  Or horny.  

But online, there are a million different directions.  And everyone says you must travel all of them.  And if you want to do *this*, you must go to this website.  And that one.  And this one.  And another one.  And you must *network*.  And you must be here and there and everywhere.  

Um.  

Oh shit.  

Wait a minute.  

Hold the fuck on a second. 

No.  

NOOOOOO.  

Honestly?  The fact that I put my writing here on this blog at all is a huge thing for me.  The fact that it has escaped my notebooks and pencils and made it all the way here.  It's kind of a big deal.  

But did you know?  

What you see here.  And on my other blog.  Yeah.  Not even half.  

Not even half of what I write on a daily basis.  Nope.  

What you see here?  It's mostly the stuff I don't give a shit about.  Someone wants to steal my shit?  Whatever.  Take it.  I don't care.  I have 30 more where that came from.  

I've never been published anywhere.  Ever.   Why?  Because I have never submitted anything.  Ever.  

I'm dead serious.  Never, ever.  I have NEVER submitted anything I have ever written to any publication in any capacity.  

I remember as a kid.  In English class.  I would get so pissed off that I was given "assignments."  And that someone was going to grade me on my passion.  

I would get pissed that I was forced to turn something in.  That I was forced to allow someone to read my writing, and then that fat bitch was going to grade me on it?  

On hell no.  

Uh huh.  

No fucking way.

That is how I feel about submitting my writing anywhere.  I am giving someone something I poured my soul into.  Giving it to them.  My soul and my heart.  I'm just saying, "Here ya go.  Take it.  This is me.  It is now yours."

I can't get over that.  How is that okay?  And yet, "writers" say that I am supposed to do that.  That is the "goal."  It is what all writers want!  To be recognized.  To be petted.  To be told, "you're so wonderful!"

I already know that.

I am sure this is something I need to get over.

Even more than that, I am sure my point of view is totally and completely foreign to every single person who will read this.  None of you will understand.  Because that is how it always is with anything that goes on in my head.  I say those things.  I feel them and say them, and then have 50 different faces staring back at me with dead eyes and drool running down their chins like I just performed a Latin mass in a loin cloth.

Which convinces me that I have probably lost my mind.  Totally lost my mind.

My goal should be to get published.  My goal should be to shove my writing toward anyone who will take it and then beg for their acceptance.   To join this and join that and sign up here and go there and be friends with this person and follow this blog and that blog and be "branded" and get recognized and oh my fucking god please send me to hell now so I can make this all stop.......

And that's where the internet makes it worse.  Because it's all in your face.  Shoved down your throat.  It's a constant thing.  A constant conversation here, there, and everywhere.  How to get published, "self promotion," blah, blah, blah.

Seriously?  I'd rather stay in total obscurity than have to advertise myself.  Advertise what?  That I write?  I've always written.  What do I advertise?  That I am writing a book?  Or do I wait until I have a manuscript?  Why do I care?  So someone will publish it?  Maybe they will, maybe they won't.

I'm just not sure I even care.

I just want to write.

Pffffftttt...................

Holy shit, I am so screwed up.

But it's my writing.  They're my words.  It's my soul.  I feel like I'm smacking the fingers of all the little 3-year-old candy-stealers stickin' their hands in my candy bowl.... yet everyone says I am supposed to WANT people to take my writing.  Take it from my bowl.  Tell me you love it.  Tell me it moves you.  Tell me you're inspired.

But that's not why I write.

I write to inspire myself.  To move myself.  To love myself.

My husband and I are buying 2 kayaks next week.  I already have my Garmin Oregon 550, which is only like my favorite toy in the history of ever.

We'll probably never come back.

I'll have a pencil, though.  And some napkins from a truck stop to write on.

Or, I'll hit "publish," go back to my worky job I am supposed to be doing right now, calm down, eat chocolate, feel better, and then start researching the difference between a literary agent and a literary agent like I should be. 

And refucking my plot line so I can finally get myself out of chapter 3.  

Find a writing prompt that stimulates my axillary lymph nodes and write some bullshit to toss into the 3-ring circus that is my computer.

Email my BFF so she can say, "yep... yep.... yep.... exactly...." and make me feel a little less like a retard. 

And then go run a few miles.

It only makes sense that I am just as narcissistic as I should be, or I wouldn't be a writer to begin with, right?

Real quick- My son and I just had a convo about people misinterpreting our writing.  Do you make a habit of explaining yourself when you are misinterpreted, or do you let it go with a smile?  I had a friend one time tell me to never explain myself, as it takes away from my allure.  Yes or no?  He was probably just trying to get in my pants.  My friend, not my kid.

Oh god.

I need a vacay.  






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Monday, May 14, 2012

Shits and Giggles

Found this in the closet just now.  I made this for my husband for Christmas when I was 15 years old.  A week before he left for Army basic training.  Click on it to get the full punky/grungy effect! 

This is like full-on, hardcore, mid-90s pop culture BLOGVOMIT!  Shut up.  Don't be hatin'.

I suddenly have a weird, subconscious desire to go on iTunes and get my Jesus Lizard on.  While wearing plaid flannel and combat boots.  Stop looking at me like that.  

Maybe I'll start a brand new Goddess blog series called, "letters from boot camp?"

Ohhhh my GAWD..... I'M BRILLIANT!!

Although there was that one letter.....yikes.



 
YES!  We can start a blog-pit, can't we??  You know.... a mosh pit, but with blogs.  Which means absolutely nothing.  Shut up.  Listen to the Jesus Lizard.  Let the mid-90s permeate your soul. 



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Sunday, May 13, 2012

Unawares


I felt it as a tickle.  A buzz.  Just in my toes.  The consciousness of a soul-hiccup rising.  The awareness of a flame I had lost.  Not lost.  Never lost.  Subdued.  

I forgot myself.  Hardened myself against the mortality of my wants.  Unsure if I deserved them.  Self-loathing is a parasite.

They stare.  They all stare.  Even now.  I feel their eyes.  Waiting for something.  To watch me fall.  Slide face-first through the dirt.  I hope it's cool dirt.  Miracle Grow dirt.  That's the best.  It smells good.

They watch.  Even now.  I stand on stage; sweat from the hot lights rolls down my neck.  I can't see them there in the audience.  But I hear gasps when I write a word they know.  When I poke their belly-buttons and make 'em giggle.  When I put my mouth on their chests and catch a nipple between my teeth.

Those things.  Those little things.  The ones that make you think.  Make you melt between the warped boards of an old pier teetering on the brink of crumble.  I'm not a lake, you know.  I don't ripple and sway with my shushing finger on my lips.  Waiting to catch the melting. 

The stares.  The waiting look.  The lurching irises.  The swollen pupils.  The lids flipped inside out like a 12-year-old boy sitting in the back of English class poking the pretty girl with his pencil to get her attention.

I punched that little motherfucker in the face, you know. 
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Friday, May 11, 2012

Scar

A mother espies her unclothed reflection,
naked flesh-covering marred.
Eyes trace her outline,
drifting through untouchable time.
Flexed and firm,
now undone-
muscle given to softness.
Finger draws her scar,
she remembers.
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Trifextra Weekend ChallengeYour challenge is to write anything you want, in whichever form you please, so long as your response is exactly 33 words and includes the word "mother."

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Thursday, May 10, 2012

No Distance

Her legs give her purpose. 
When else fails to feed her, legs assuage the hunger. 
for movement – for fury – for fire. 
She stretches them. 
With the tiniest magic that lives
in the pit of her wit,
she tries to draw them long-
Pull them from the hips that hold them,
Peel them from the joints
threatening a revolution.
No and never
Never long.
They hurt.
Today and always.

One on foot, the other afloat
They know the steps-
the way out and back
where the money hides,
trees bent toward singularity.
The gray sliding into home on the safe side.
Tendons thrum a bone drum,
tap a rimshot-
crash and thrash and metaphlash
on a crass brass symbol.
Spitting life between cheek and gums.
The chaser won’t chase.
She’d stop.  If he would.  She’d stop.
Turn, let him chase.
Laugh as he sweeps her legs from under
let them rest
Weight balanced in a dust bowl shiver.
                They hurt. 
                Today and always. 

Revolution staggers
as a side-down-up fool
asleep in the bottom of the bottle. 
Chase me, hook me, reel me, net me.
Let me soak in your ice water pond.
Butter me, toast me, roast and eat me.
I hear I go best with tempura toes.
Step up, neither fore nor hind.
Just stay, heel to heel
Jump the falls                                                        
the caverns and grottos
expanse of time
93 million miles
from Mother to Sol.
No distance these legs won’t run
                They hurt.
                Today and always.
No distance these legs won’t run. 

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Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Creek of Consciousness

How many flowers would there be if we put flowers in the spots where every person dies?  Lots and lots, I am sure.

The spot.  The one I talk about here Undones.   Now has flowers beside it.  I cannot imagine.  Not even a little.  What it would be like to live two houses down from a blood stain on the road that marks the place where someone I loved died.  Can't they pressure wash it?  Or do they want to?  It is just so... bizarre to me.  That spot.  In my mind.  I think it has taken on a life of its own.  Am I anthropomorphizing a blood stain?  Is that what is happening?  

I know that instead of working right now, I am writing about it.  I know that I ran around it today, gave it a pretty wide berth, actually.  

I smiled on purpose.  I do that sometimes.  You know, when you find yourself with an inadvertent scowl, or maybe you are wincing or tensing your muscles, and you suddenly become aware that you are doing it.  And it is kind of confusing because you know you don't feel that way.  The scowl or the tensing or wincing is not properly reflecting your countenance, when inside you are not upset or off-put or straining your thoughts.  So, you smile on purpose.  Because it better reflects who you really are.  

That is what I did as I passed the spot.  I smiled on purpose.  I do it a lot.  

Heart's Crazy On You had just started playing.  

I realized something else yesterday.  Something I'd never given much thought.  

I like Metallica.  But that isn't the strange thing.  The strange thing is that I always have.  But I never knew it until yesterday.  You go through life hearing certain songs.  And you say, "Yes, I like that song."  I like Nothing Else Matters.  I like For Whom The Bell Tolls.  I like Master of Puppets and One and Enter Sandman and The Unforgiven and The Judas Kiss.  

AND HOLY SHIT I JUST REALIZED...... I used the phrase "Judas kiss" in something a wrote years and years ago..... goddamnitalltohell....

Anyway.  I hear all these songs.  And I say, "Yes.  I like that song."  But if someone asked me, "Do you like Metallica?" 

I would invariably say, "No."  Of course not!  I like more pretentious hipster cool ....uhhh.... different stuff.  You know.  The Black Keys.  Yeah.  R.E.M.  Shut up!  You know, Dinosaur, Jr.  Sonic Youth.  JOAN MUTHUFAWKIN' JETT, BITCHES!

And They Might Be Giants.  Because if you aren't hopelessly in love with The Johns, you pretty much suck.   If my kids hadn't been with me a couple years ago, I'da thrown my bra at 'em.

Even though, I don't think I said "No" on purpose, just out of habit, you know? 

Anyway.  

Yes.  I like Metallica.  And I think their cover of Turn The Page KICKS MAJOR ASS.  

And that is all I have to say about that.  


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Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Can I Annoy You?


For just a moment, perchance?  

He mostly writes short stories, and kicks a significant amount of ass in so doing.  But this is the first time I have seen him write poetry.  And I must say, I am floored.  

He is more than brilliant.  

Oozing with slimy talent and heart.  

He is my boy. 

Take a moment, if your day allows.  

And go read the spawn of my uterus's spawn of his imagination.  

He doesn't need me to pimp him out.  His writing stands on its own.  

But I am doing it anyway.  Because I am his mother.  And I love him more than gravy.  

Even more than chocolate gravy.  

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Sunday, May 6, 2012

Dead Man's Float

Preservation.  
Idle saccharine survival.  
'Let down your hair, lovely princess.  
I shall save you.' 
Drift and breathe,
precious flotsam treasure in the surf. 
Under the aegis of languor and lies,
'pine for me, waiting girl.'
You are called for naught but sweetness, 
loved for naught but lips,
bred for naught but lady feet,
held for naught but a shimmering dress. 
Your knight,
his devil's coat shines,
looks valiant along the horizon
for his woman atoll 
to catch the sun, 
a beacon beggar
on a feather sail
whisper
for rigor mortis rescue.
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My first foray into Magpie Tales

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Saturday, May 5, 2012

You, Soft and Only

Dear Elise-
your fire eyes caught him
taught him how to dream
of castles clutching sand
of make-believe hearts
and worlds where your blue eyes
mattered. 

Dear Spiderman-
your furry holes made him
shivering, precious, hungry boy
hiding in the parlour.
Creeping softer, quicker in the gathering gloom.
Oh, your candystripe legs
with your tongue in his eyes,
I know your dinner is the suddenly flies.

Dear Dead Man on the Beach-
sea and self at the end of a gun.
Staring at the dead.
Staring alive.
Kill the stranger,
his eyes smooth in your hand.
Kill the Arab
or absolutely nothing
and walk away.

Dear Cagey Tigers-
such a wonderfully treacherous scream.
You hissing, groovy lovecats, you.
You sleek and biting lovecats, you. 
Broken mice
and hated pieces
growing wider and brighter
with cream in your tea
and on me.

Dear You-
my pictures are real.
The kiss in the rain
running soft with drowning angels.
In the dark, we were lost
in the make-believe sky.
As it fell, you broke apart.
The right words, so close.
And the fear, like pictures of me,
was real. 

Dear boys-
you take it for granted.
Tell me you love me.
Hide the tears in a laughing lie.
Plead and judge me.
Cover and beg me.
But boys
Do
Cry.  
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dVerse promptPoetics, "Our music."

I had way the fuck too much fun with this one.  Hopefully, my old man will read it, or I'll give him a little nudge in this direction ;-)  This one's for you, lovely man who lives in my marital bed!  Totally cheesy, but I expect raunchy sex tonight.
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Friday, May 4, 2012

The Man That Life Built

He aches.  Here and there.  His body, unfamiliar.  In the thin morning, dawn stirs.  He sits silent on the edge of his bed.  Feels the carpet between his toes.  A navy glow burns through voile coverings.  He breathes.  Slides fingers through tousled hair.   His mind unfolds to waking.  

A girl shifts beneath a sheet, turns, and settles.  Without the chaos of the living hour, her smell tarries longer, swirls, rests on his memory.  Strawberries and champagne.  He bought it for her.  He turns as he sits, casts his eyes in her hair splayed across a pillow.  An ear, tip of her nose, eyelid, corner of her mouth.  He sighs, draws faith of familiarity into his lungs.  Smiles, feels a spark of spry passion in her vulnerability.  He’s loved her since the moment he learned the word. 

The clock chides.  He rises with twilight.  Muscle on bone, ligaments, joints, chatter and fracas weaving among the brawn.  Orchestra of the aging. 

A switch rapes the dark.  Filaments blaze.  Lids dim with wincing.  Carpet gives way to cool tile.  Above the sink, he sees the man that life built.  Broad as he is, heart beneath the tarnished armor of years.  Face of the weary, jaded against the spurious light of industry.   Sapience of time and play.  Burden of the needy and false.  Desire for wild things, organic seether of wicked locomotion. 

The banshee who lives in the sunrise wails his name.   He shuts his eyes against her incandescent judgments. 

Calls and bellows of unseen beasts echo against rock as he steps from behind falling water.  He draws the blood of the earth into the most desperate corners of his anemic audacity.  Into the water, he reaches, falls to his knees, and baptizes himself anew. 

As his eyes open again, he sees the man he knew snarling back at him.  Switches the light away.  Returns to the place he rose.  Buries himself into groaning and stretching strawberries and champagne.   Arms hold.  She squirms and settles.  He smiles.  
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Three truths and a lie in 33-333 words.

(Yes! it is really there.  Pinky swear.) 
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Thursday, May 3, 2012

petit mal

words in a fist
fingers curled, clenched
one bound to the next
pearls of thought strung
for the only one.
To soften
To breathe them
know them
and catch them
Before they fall around.

turn of phrase
safe in a veil of night
easing the thunder of an angel between
rolling on a jazz pulse,
alighting for the only one.
To hold
To save them
unveil them
and sing them
Before they fade away.
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Trifecta week 25- thunder -
3: bang, rumble (the thunder of big guns)
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Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Undones

Last weekend, my son saw a man die.   You can check out this post to get caught up.  My Son Saw A Man Die Yesterday.  My kid needs to talk.  About this.  A lot.  And we have been.

He was 58 years old.  He'd just bought the 4-wheeler for his grandkids.  He'd been divorced since 2007.  And by the crowd in front of the church Friday afternoon, he had lots of folks who loved him.

The 4-wheeler skid marks are still on the road, as well as the orange police spray paint.

And his blood.  The stain of the puddle and the splatter.  The grass off to the side of the road is flattened in someone's attempt to clean it.  I run past this spot every morning.

I am not an "obsessive" person really, but sometimes I do seem to develop.... habits.  Rituals, maybe?  Superstitions.  With invented consequences.  And I have begun to feel this.... responsibility.  Every morning.  To continue to run past this spot.  Let me see if I can explain it.

A responsibility.  Out of respect, maybe?  For this man.  The place on the road where he took his last breath.  Where his last blood spilled.  I think to myself that he cannot live, but I can.  What were the things he wanted to do, but didn't?  I can do those for him.  When were the times he wanted to jump, but couldn't?  I'll jump for him.

And as horribly cliche as it is, how many moments in his life took his breath away?  Were they enough for him?

What things would I do?  When would I jump?  Who would I want to take my breath, had I only until Friday to live?

I run past his blood.  I try not to look.  I try not to be a gawker.  I never step on it.  But I see it.  It looks like any other splash or spill or dark spot on the asphalt, unless you know what it is.  It makes me wonder, how many of those other spots we never notice are the end of someone's life in a puddle?

If I knew, would I feel responsible for their undones and unjumps and breaths never taken?

I close my eyes and still see the picture my son painted with his story.  The man on the ground.  Blood from his eyes and ears and mouth, gurgling as he struggled against the paramedic's suctioning, the puddle swelling outward from some unseen crack in his skull.

My son saw that.  This man experienced it.  His last few moments.  I pray into an empty hand that he was unconscious.

And each morning, I have run past this spot.  And my unwritten list grows.  My doings and jumps and stolen breaths that must be ticked off before I am ready for that puddle to be mine. 

Yeahwrite.me #55
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