12/21/10

Wrong till Now

Think that I've been so very wrong. 
To think, oh to think - that I could out run all the angry mobs. The angered, clawing, mobs that wreak and stink of the decayed remnants of every sacrifice I made to be. 
Made to be the ever-loving humble servant. Made to bend, and dance, and stroke and seduce to succeed in having every single one. 

So that every single one moans as bones crack, like cigarette heads broken in the muddied snow, immediately exhaling and knowing that the thing has ended. 
I know that it ended.
I know every day that it did and I can't - I can't afford the cost of a carton of startings-again, can't afford the welled up eyes from new architectural layouts of where I practiced, where I prophesied.
Where, that I was loved. 

And on the mob does fall about my very feet, when I sleep - and think (stop thinking!) - that the sheets are much too thin, the space much too close…and the air does rip-tear in open silence. So I do stutter at the sight - of the looming decision, glowing with green eyes through the French window pane. 
Cack! Cackcackcack! goes the beastly leader. 

I want it no much longer. Want it all settled in the death I made for it one night - when I turned, and sighed, looked her in the eyes and said "Let's go".
Let's go on from this bio trance - and break it all in stomping riotous flailings. 
I've torn to bits a part or two. 
And now they whimper still. 

Whimperings do say that joyous motions mean finally actually opening the vine-covered ruins.
And that's where I've been so very wrong, suffocating the very best and beautiful. 
Suffocating the heads of wonderful, weird ideas.

So instead let us skip down the merry lane lined with tall black iron fences. 
Let us all just merrily be! 
That does not "mean" a merry thing, but that we can just breathe in the smell of roasted feasts and hearty wines…to mask all of that decay. 

12/20/10

Flurries

 "My dreams are going through their death flurries. I thought they were all safely buried, but sometimes they stir in their grave, making my heartstrings twinge. I mean no particular dream, you understand, but the whole radiant flock of them together — with their rainbow wings, - iridescent, bright, soaring, glorious, sublime. They are dying before the steel javelins and arrows of a world of Time and Money." 
- Barbara Newhall Follett


I watched two small children run--in that haggety-baggety, all arms and knees way - across a crosswalk in the city today. And the snow was pouring down through the early nighttime, and it seemed so strange to see, as I leaned my head against the cold wall of the #20 bus. 
It was joy running across the reflections in my eyes - joy in their tiny wonderful world where snow was just scary enough to make them giggle and not know why. 
So I couldn't help but smile-actually smile-counting the stops to home and loving those tiny strangers.

The bus trudged on - whipping an extra gust on my cheeks as I walked the last block - and watched it disappear into the low clouds of flurries. Each cold and shimmering thing, that is so wholly back with me- my dreary mind wanders again, and my chest aches, ....and feet that suddenly, sometimes go haggety-baggety across the sidewalk just in the nick of time. Cause that's when I laugh - for a moment behind my scarf as a proper reply
That's when all the memories that make up a heart cascade and caress themselves into some type of restrained yuletide joy. 
So why restrain? Bring on the fun!
 In a rush it all slides across my eyes...from a story from long ago...dancing in the hotel room with just a 300-thread count sheet wrapped around, smelling down to every pour like us, and pausing to stare at the view - and grin at you -  as you put your hand to your temples in that way to shake your head, ...and just laughed and laughed at me. 
Just think of it with a sigh...it's a story that happened long ago.  Saying it that way, feeling it that way, somehow fits. 
....^Give me all of those dead things from various lives past,  scraps of letters of all the love stories I've started, - my dreams are dying too. Squealing and screeching into the morning sun that drizzles like acid.






Let them be un-buried! 
Let them flutter, and stretch...and take every last bit of my teetering sanity - because I signed up for this. 
Bring this on again! 
I'd like to clutch onto dreams too desperately again and have my eyes ache from tired, and grin struggle to stop smirking.


But that's probably just the snow falling outside...















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11/23/10

Thanks for the Love

There's a whole wide world out there of songs and dances, and pretty little paper things...and absolutely none of it compares to watching someone - two people - finding, falling, finessing in front of your eyes.


The touched foreheads look in two lover's eyes when they, they dance engulfed in each other - and suddenly, the woman throws back her head and laughs - and the man he grins to one-side, (the side reserved only for her)...and they seem frozen in that silenced motion of mystery - and then they sigh and pull back together. And on they dance,,,,and on life goes around, in circles abounding outward... from the origin of just a laugh, just a kiss...just another beginning. 
It's just one moment; in a night in a bar somewhere.


Today, I found myself sipping hot tea across from a face so familiar, so sweet and so evermore regal - and I could see the look in her eyes when she spoke his name. It started, it changed- in just one night in one bar, and one moment.
And I could see the way she was happy, and the way she'd done it right after catastrophe, and the way she was walking down that road that I - I only every once in awhile remember....
And it was all I could ever hope to have of love. 
All I'll ever ask of love - is for my friends to have it, 
for my loved ones to feel it, for all the exhibitionist days long gone to still be baked in it. 


Cause all the world does quake,
and everything,
everything sometimes does wake hurting....and I'm just making a career out of memorializing it; bleeding out the gory parts in ink, and letters, and paper things...to never completely compare to what it's like when everyone around you is smiling for a moment.
Raise up those hands, jump-jump, and on the night does go... as we're all dressed up, drinking champagne and laughing, and something is ticking in the distance...


Here it is now, dear nation-wide family of mine - that stretches on in starless skies and amazing ways - the times when we're making it. 
I promised long ago that'd be just enough. 
It's just enough for me. 

So it doesn't matter where we go. It doesn't matter what we call it, what they call of us, what's calling to us on the drive home.  It's just one night in one bar, and one moment.
Great nights do end (and then we wake up), great loves do live, great friends do move.
But today is just enough.
It's just enough for me to know all of that is out there in the airplane miles of my heart, my mind, my city.


So allow for a sigh, - and clutch the ones you love -when the cold wind blows, and the candles burn over the bountiful table, and the seasons change. That's family.





Happy Thanksgiving! 
Daily headphones: Bruno Mars' "Just the Way Your Are"

11/17/10

Just Wednesday

It's in the way...
The air feels in this city in the morning. When I'm walking to work - haven't had a proper sleep in days, haven't stopped for even a moment, haven't given in - as the air feels hard as grey slate with precipitation waiting to fall, with all my wool and leather layers easing into the burn of a red Starbucks cup and the wind pushing back curls for me.
Sniffle.
The light turns white, and for a moment - treasured moment of routine, I see miles down a 6-lane wide road into the depth of the city. All the blue glass, and the premature Christmas lights fluttering to Off in the dim morning light.

It's all those ways...
That we take at street corners and CTA steps underground, to lurch and hurdle and speeeeed high above the city.

So I took the wrong line the other night, just to dart off and switch trains - and see - raised on the wooden landing - all the blue lights of Chicago.
Sniffle.
Kept staring left and knew home was right inside of there. This month's rent paid, and that's my home-behind that building there-with the empty cupboards and carpet memories. Way over there, so high and soaring uncomfortably bright above the South Side.....what's this life?

What's this....think it's - dare I quote - "worship"? Worship of the streets, of the building pinnacles, of the grind, of the reaching hours, of the gravel nights, of the shapes around trickery and Stage, of the midnight oil oozing and sliding down our foolish, stupid, beautiful backs.......whoa, Pull it back. The clocking in. The clocking out. The contracts, the emails, the this-that "can you do me a favor?", "When could you have it by?", "I need something..."

Don't we all. 




Headphones: Kings of Leon's "Birthday", "The End", Paolo Nutini's "Pencil Full of Lead"

10/21/10

Peace and Tragedy

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I clutched my skin, and I dreamed the other night that they laid me in a wooden canoe. The inside of it was curved to a desolate forced mold, and a thousand dents filled all the sides, and all the bottom.....like a thousand migraines, like a thousand hammer-head dents that form a wooden Cabin in The Woods - the very planks of a carcass,....far from the true and beautiful thing it comes to symbolize vaguely.
Vaguely, there in the canoe I was loosing all my memories.

The heavy and white embroidered sheath they'd laid me in was the only thing my fingers could touch, and feel - though the knobbed dents dug into my back and my elbows. It all only just ached a long time ago, past the fence of knowing when..

Couldn't speak, couldn't dare move - it was so quiet. 
I blinked though, -- heavy and slow, in the chilled and humid mist all around.
And just then, their hands slid the Viking canoe over glassy pebbles and out...-into the lagoon leading to the ocean.With the gentle heave the pungent flowers tucked around me bent their heads and easeddd. 

And I was drifting, I knew that, but everything was so calm and so slow.


So what was it that was slidingg awayy in the smallll wake of the canoe?
It was sliding past me on the other sides of my encasement, wiping clean my heavy head somehow.
Erasing the origin of what might have been-faith?, life?, and...Erasing...Erasing all the time...
And I was letting it...I was letting it...
I was farther and farther....away........and I couldn't remember the meaning of so many cherished words.

'Many words....many words...
......The current underneath picked up. And I rocked laterally as the dark wind 'spun round overhead.
And the rocking
turned to shaking,
shaking,...
'Many words...many words...
the shaking,
the shaking...
SHAKING....
AND SHAKING...

and BAM! a sudden lurch spun the entire tomb with such force that the heads of flowers were scattered far across the water's surface.
And I plummeted into icy green water with such a clean swoosh 
of waves
and gasp
and fabric
and up-stretched arms, and long curls,
that it felt....effortless.

But I felt the piercing water and the algea all around. Felt IT hurling back to me.



(And I woke, I guess)
The alarm clock beamed a putrid-orange time, in the silvery-grey light shining through the apartment. Cars honked outside, in the heaves of the city's dawn.
The sheets were warm, and soft, so I eased back in...


Citation: Top image: Grimshaw
Daily headphones: Matt White's "Too Many Lover's", Paolo Nutini's "Still Crazy", Florence&the Machine's "Girl With One Eye" and Rihanna's "Only Girl"

10/10/10

That Boat.* (Lullaby)

There was a lullaby said once, for all the sea.
And all the sea does sing- 
Of ink and blood and love spent through
The hurdling swells of blue.
Keep hold the tiller through midnight sheets-
That soak with slanted drops;
The deep-depth pressure that consumes,
If ever the sailor drowns.


And so it is that the Sea sails on,
Because she carries still-
A woman at the helm in white;
The wreckage of a graveyard below her. 





9/29/10

Eternity

So it seems the flames have been suffocated. 

The structure is scorched from the base up in such rhythmic, beautiful patterns of failure. It lurches against fate in such a melody that great curved mounds protrude at the point where a palm or neckbone would be PRESSED. 
Behold the memory of the press; in a clouded, lover's shove. 


And then it is-the light, of a thread-bare window frame, strikes the sharp edges of charcoal wreckage...and slices off of the frame of a figure; enveloping a heavy gold light to the very edges. 
Pencilled stance bent into a lean for centuries - the figure stands - with both hands 5'd to a black wall; while glimmering icy eyes - round with resolve - stare on, POSSESSED. A sight never to be stumpledUpon. The sight you see, of the beginning of eternity....it reverberates a delayed, stricken, shiver up the frail frame of the boy watching from a distant door crack. Paralyzed, feeling that it hurts somehow in a place he doesn't know. 
The boy doesn't yet understand. 
Doesn't yet understand the violence in the world, or the violence of giving every last breathe to a dream. 



[ Somewhere in the night - of the past - the one the boy watches is searching, searching, amongst city markets and airplane passengers. 
And finally, finally, commits to rest - knowing each time, each night, that in the thick of sleep a cold sweat will take ravage grip of every pore and limb. Waking with eyes still closed and drenched, - knowing, knowing that something tall and dark is waiting at the foot-corner of the bed. Watching.

The boy doesn't yet understand. 
Doesn't yet understand the violence in the world, or the violence of giving every last breathe to a dream. 
But that night his mother hears him SCREAM.
And he's drenched in sweat by the time she reaches his door...


Daily headphones: Florence and the Machine's "Howl", Rihanna's "Disturbia", and Journey's "Oh Sherry"

9/7/10

Calling Fold

"Bid raised and matched. You - ma'am, do you call or raise?"
She looks once more at the cards. She already knows all the patterns embossed on the cardboard, but one more glance, just one more glance, in a different shadow of the green bar lamp may change their appearance....Besides, it's another way to avoid looking into all the dark eyes of the other remaining players.

There on the table is quite a high-stakes bid. All the dollar chips seem already swallowed up by the ripped and crumbled felt; that curls in boiled blemishes of where cigarillos and cigars were burned in passion, and there's oily gasoline-black leather skin underneath patches where it was rubbed so hard that it cleanly broke into oblivion. And she knows if she pressed her nose to it just then, it would reek so very sourly, but also smell so very much like polished farmwoods.

Instead, she takes a heavy sigh - one of those rare breathes where the lungs seem to process and export the pain.
But the lamp, and the cigarillo smoke she still craves is burning her eyes....
"I fold." and with a scratchy pshwooshh, pulls up her bustle and her heavy gown - curtsies, just enough that the dealer follows the arrow her white breasts make southward, and leaves the table.

"It wasn't her game because..." go the whispers,
in various forms of sympathy or apathy of the expert player. She's won several titles before this damned ferryboat tournament...and there were still rumors afloat of cards held up her beautiful sleeves in past games.
But she walked from the room with poise, and her head held down...as behind her - the players left squinted into each other's eyes, and leaned into the table and all her precious chips.

"It wasn't her game" 
"It wasn't her game" 
 "It wasn't her..."

"It just wasn't my game -" she whispered in a raspy sensual tone and turning the key to her compartment-directly above the poker floor. "I'm sorry Dealer, I sat down at the wrong table. My cards were ok. enough-sure I'd had better once-but I was coming off a win, and played with what I got. I knew the players I was up against-damn, I knew their strategies and their history so well....Damn, damn damn..." she cursed to the roars of the ferry wheel rumbling in the distance for a little while...

But then, as any great poker player does-she went back to the cards,
and the stakes,
and the way she'd conned to the high-stakes round.
The cards - had been a house.
A Full House, in the red suite.
They had been shit-for-wits marvelous cards.
But she had always played based on where the deck was spread.

She knew the pair that made up either side of her each held Queen of Hearts in dark suites - a mucky, bad omen.
And the Joker she'd somehow pulled in the first round had made her cautious of this shuffled deck.
Then there was the player directly across-who'd hopped on board just barely in time. He held deuce Aces, but she knew he had poorly played magnificient cards on memorable occasions.

She had a marvelous hand.
And funny, they were held so tight-you'd never know if they were a pair of fours or a deck of Kings.


They never knew.
The game went on, on that windy, windy night on the River. It was hard to decipher who won; quite a scandal erupted when all hands were laid on the green felt finally. The newspapers all reported different outcomes.

But the woman upstairs knew how the deck was laid.
And it wasn't her game.




...{Here marks the Anniversary of BB! 2 YEARS and counting! Thanks to my wonderful readers! It all started with THIS}

8/24/10

One More Box

Blip…Bleeeppp…Bleeeeep… Goes the plastic phone on the other side of a high plastic wall. The sounds of “Hello, You’ve reached..”, and “This girl last night..” on the other side of a song I swear-I swear then---is the best damn words ever sung. La da da dum, la da da dum....


But you know I don’t think in poems anymore.
Tha-tha-thought in that poetry so long.
Tha-tha-those secrets-
don’t match the same.
Quaint round little boxes,
magnificent lengthy columns. They tend to
make prophets
out of,
out of, ja-ja-just

magnificent Round things.

But then again, I am a liar too.

Blip…Bleeeppp…Bleeeeep… “I believe-
it’s called 2.1…”
when you seek to be-
the newest version
of the lasting installment.
When you’re walking,
(I’m only still
walking-
          beside the tremors here),
walking atop the SQUEEZED cracks on the asphalt.
My head makes cracks-
of heavy, soft, sweaty things.
And the secrets that felt
like thread, the 21 lies that come
each January-
to breed maybe,
only, there
where fingernails rub their fingertips;
Rub in circular needle-like tweaks, while leaning over the great puddle of street,
to the great wide w.i..n..d...
That moans of when it’ll crack us.
When it cracked us.



 

Daily headphones: "Braille" by Regina Spektor

7/25/10

*Our Dreams.

I had a dream that, a dream that you couldn't half-aware make right.
She's just always there.
She's there in the moorish boathouse, in my dream--and up against the wood and bubbled-glass paned door I rubbed the place I'm sure you had. Any of the behind-places that are soft. Any of the places you hold when we sleep. And this dream you see, it gets so tangled, it gets so mangled. And it tries and tries, and she tries and tries, to rip open my heart again to where it was when I loved a building. Merely a building.
And I swirl downward w/ colors on my own hands.
And I swirl downward, farther into the elevator of memories that are beginning to delicately, to distantly, to grey-mist roll and suffocate me...and fade from me...

And then you fall in your own sleep and I wake.
And it's just a dream.
\\\\\It's just one of the little fragments that form together to make what I call sleep.
And I think I don't know how to live,
when there's so much now to lose.
\\ Was any of it really lived?...the gulp,gulp, way that I once drank up one single lamplight.
Oh, this waking, waLking,
talking, holding, - stand still and see the city lights - moving, moving, just keep moving Life.


And it's just merely the smallest little pebble in the beginning.
It's just merely the very first irreversible steps taken to reach......what?
The fame(?),
the fame
of the blame
of making something that people breathe in, drink in, gulp down....in the same way in which you wanted it to actually all be.
And what if, what if - it really all just comes together, and they all, we all just get the things we dreamed of in INCENSE SUMMER NIGHTS, and drops of SNOW ON THE BRICK steps, and BUCKETS OF RAIN ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR and the street cement below my head.....and we all laugh together somewhere come together, at a table all of us sit lit by the warmest golden candlelight, and somewhere in the place there are amber reds and cool blues, and the porcelain white plates are filled high with half-eaten meals, and the glasses keep emptying, and there are a million back-stories to each, to any two of the group you could pick....[Two of them are toasting drinks mixed of stolen slurps from everyone else's glasses-reaching high into the rafters of the place for the next epic night to really get going..and next to them one of them is sitting too much higher than the rest with her hair and raised-to-lips fingernails in a mock-coyish attempt...beside her a friend leans one shoulder against her-as she wraps arm and leg around her curly-haired man-so sweetly wrapped around one another......and then down the line......a boy and a girl are girlishly whispering things-each smoking away from the other-fully immersed in noiseless talk, and then one of them is gallantly putting on hilarious stand-up bits-hopping up, and down, and up, from his seat with each hair flick.......and beside him is the only truly modest one-beautifully speaking with anyone near...and at the end--one of them is chuckling in the most Herculean of ways, and daring the symposium to go on......and then around......and one of them still keeps tapping his big sneakers against the floor-resting a cigarette between each side of himself......one of them is so painfully handsome that he every once in awhile checks himself, looks down, as if forgotten-and no one notices-then grins so, so very wide at each raised slurp toast......and one of them is building great meals with her hands-to the groans of the always-hungry ones--in a lavish English Tea fable........then, well then one of them smells of lake wind as he twiddles his knuckles-and is watching all of them in such a way that he'd never believe they'd let him be just who he is], and they are all laughing and smiling to each other, and they are all so brilliant....and they are all so good and so great and so sad and so beautiful, and they all got what they wanted most, with such different families now, in such various places that they'll all go back to afterwards....and I see them as I'm walking in the heavy glass door from the street and my flight, shaking off the snow from a heavy black coat....and I see all of them together, lost together again. And the last one looks up and smiles his snail grin at me. And I sigh, and smile finally again-in that way you only can then.
And I walk over and sit down again.


And I wake up.





Daily headphones: Ray LaMontagne's "Hold you in my Arms", GooGoo Dolls "Black Balloon" and Springstein's "I'm on Fire"

7/13/10

Sliver of the moon

Hear, hear my friends! Here, here (I am). Gather round, gather round the oriental rug that covers up an altar that I once made- I think there might be a burn mark here or there....in the places between my thoughts, between my legs,
 between the pages of any summer novel
left behind in the beach sand.
The particles of cupcake sprinkles that sink and chafe
                      and sprinkle every Saturday of summer everafter
                                                           with the feeling of forgetting something.
Because we must forget,
{merely pretend to neglect} our times we each have,
our weeks before we say
"I love you". Cause that's the only time it ever means, everything that shudders in heat, as you drip, and you choke so hard against it that it burns somewhere farther deep that the deepest level of the city street.

That sliver of a MOON right there, that sliced opening, gleaming into the sinews that pumped a pumping heart- of that old factory of brick-stacked nights....one on top each other, ON top each other....one on top of each other we rolled...
But I think I don't remember them. I think they spiral in a hundred lopsided figure-eights made by a sparkler in the sweaty, sticky night of the East coast summer so many miles away. When all of us forget each others faces, because all of our eyes are burning with the dripping salty water.



And down my school-girl little mind does skip-
from Parisian streetlamp to streetlamp;
                      zigzagging in a dizzying, wonderful suffocation...like the thousandth lick on a swirly lollipop by a pigtail girl in the backseat of the family van.
...Then I stretch my arms up high, around, and grasp an entire Columbus-flat land that I punched-in-the-side bought one night.
[[10 fingertips hot against the window, sitting Native and naked underneath a sinful white sheet, and it was mine. And I thought it'd never be, like the he's never were. ]]
  • But now it is. How it is?
  • When it is, when did this (grin) all become?
....when did we find ourselves, each of ourselves, in the cities we walked in memories-pride-,... no dear blurred recollection-in haunted Addiction of.
We were addicts.
(We are addicts?)
Of the reckless to the responsible scale of law which....law, LOUDly, plank-hammer-nail themselves apart.
....but when did the porcelain makeup actually cover up scars in my womb, [/////] and my, my, my, ...my cancerous marks that may just smear balled-up cotton of my warmest sleep...
Warmest sleep in the city of my, the city of my, unwritten descriptions.
The middle ground west of my next adventureland. My darling dear, and my lack of words. Here's to you! - the views I see from all around.

Running from a burning firework, a burning magic, in a wide open sweet-smelling green space....only to watch it reveal and arc overhead....
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Daily headphones: JET "She's a Genius", Spoon "Underdog", CCR "Bad Moon Rising"

6/4/10

From the plane*

Photobucket Photobucket

Tell me - hey - do the trees really fold like that? Fold like folded hands (above our folded words) - in same number and same pattern. I think they really do.
And it's that - its things like that which make me sink into purple creases and crinkled dried flowers, to the smell of burning, as it goes up in flames.

We go up in flames.
Aching for the fountains of icy water to reach burning cheeks and sundried hair. And to reach with their full and hearty palms the sweetest finger-tracse of relief, from the bottle-rimmed heat we did camp in.

Complete with smores and tempestuous coals that twitched and crackled against bursts of three formations of laughter. All the laughters, that get released when you find that you've found - that you're far from the plot your parents picked. And the farther we do go, and the wider our calls do stretch, and the more it is that I'm flying home through the sunset turbulence...and the ones I hold dearest aren't there for my return (soon).

And I think we're like that couple who sat at the table to the left. And I think that I missed you already upon waking up and driving by the lake.
And ain't it funny, hunny, that I left flying through a thunderstorm?
(Wonder if it was the very same one)
Wonder where all that GOES - when it goes.
Wonder where all THAT - icy beautiful hands of rain, all that thunder and raucous, all that I want to remember and to have - goes when it goes...

Because you see, maybe it doesn't.

Maybe the clay and brick and tent vinyl soaks it up, deep into the pores of where trees&leaves&heaves, of things, do GROW.
I can see it there - in cloud-fluffy dirt clods I hold and crumble between those fingers and those palms, and it breaks but isn't broken. It pours but doesn't make poor the very first source of its creation after the storm.
Ain't it funny hunny?

5/25/10

My Goodbyes



I think that we never truly get goodbyes. See? For people like us, for people who see it often, feel it often, venture it often.....we never truly use the word quite right - there doesn't seem to be a way to say it right. So then ain't it something light - when we pretend to "cya later".

And you- ohhh you; I wanted words and hours and glances to span the ones we'd lost [we'll never have]; to make justice of the advice you gave - when I suddenly contemplated, all the mistakes I'd pave--d. Mistakes, "mistakes", -sigh- you've been such a first-chapter wonder to the body that I adorn.



To the priestess life! When it is that I walk barefooted and sore in a too-long green velvet cloak...slowly [swoosh] slowly, [as the velvet swipes the heavy cobbles] and I carry one thin red candle...and the wax drips down to my knuckles, and I don't hardly notice how it stings anymore. ...It's a hallway dripping with lace spiderwebs and dazzling, diamond flecks in the muddy crevices, and all the world feels like the bottom of a lampshade when a thick scarf is thrown over it.

The light, it peers.
The light, it douses us soaked.
I used to glance every single time before each ritual, at the streetlamp just outside- that curves just as if its grown from the heavy East Coast branches of the tree-that could swallow it entirely [but it doesn't].
And it satisfied me more than any of my "Wicken" bubbling brews ever did.
It filled my heart, and made me smile and I felt all of that putrid yellow-orange light....like I was soaring heart first into the orb, and upon reaching found it was just viscous, it was just nice. It was just hot enough, and it filled me inside just right.
And there I swam and swam...and felt my legs, and my arms and my tired, tired, hands soothed in the syrup. The maple syrup, the amber wax, that we do pour down our throats-from grooved break-proof glass; some invention of the doctrined state that reigns hard upon our vice-proven bodies..the scarlet flickers of candlelight, streetlight, do GROW the more we consume of amber, and the more we consume of each other. I'm a free-love Priestess.

Or at least I was.

Cause now I stare and stare and lie a different way, and squint and plead, and -sigh-; now it's just a place.


But it's the still the place I'd rather be.



So tell me please, will I remember?
Cause I remember..
... waking up to see the trees of 5 states whirling past in a green barbed fence of leaves and unease. But I felt so very calm. So very tired of course [nothing new], and my body grunted that as I shifted and I saw that you had seen. And I knew that we were driving, "driving in you car, speed so fast.." and we both knew. There was ground beneath our feet beginning to grumble itself, and all our family [that sweet family] is spreading&shifting in their spots..and switching sides...we came in so late...and no one even took notice. But we, we smirked a little too long after each joke that was made....thinking softly, softly, of the yellow silk-it fell just a little down, and your suit seemed just right, and the candleflames quaked, and the motown played, and we moved so, veryyy slowly...and I...


But tell me please, will I remember?
Since right before that answer^^ there's a space between the lines where 10 months are squezzed together into the thing that I'm now feeling.
Since it is that "The most important part of your life was your time with them, that's why you're all here...to remember, and to let go"


Should I leave it there?
I think we just might.
Because I haven't leapt the 3 tall brick steps off the "let go"--though we were certainly there to remember. [Oh I do remember]
And then it must be that we were certainly there to let go.
Close
the soft canvas pages of the leatherbound book.
...and the nauseous morninglight comes through the crack in the drapes and catches the light on my ringed fingers for just a moment.
For just a moment I throw back chin and laugh to no one and smile wider than I can again; and it feels like I'm all enveloped in it all again and we'll see each other tonight, and it'll go like......like it did. -sigh-
So then I pick up the book and feel the leather meet my leathered palms and I sweep the velvet cloak around my ankles and walk back down that the dark corridor, to something always just barely illuminated, ahead....

I'll be on a plane this time soon.



4/26/10

Bid on Me

Have you ever wanted to stand atop a telephone pole? Stand perched with arms up-stretched to reach anything the skies may give you....reach upon the destiny of falling weather, while you straddle all the communications of strangers and their lovers...
See, I'd look down only every once in awhile
to see the vibrations of their messages
shake my base,
and shake the far away ground
upon which a million passengers zip by unforgiving. Unforgiving they've all been; when I've given it [my soul] to the highest bidder. = Unsatisfied customers.
And I've given oil and wax-hot lies to any bidder. = Satisfied though they are. It melts just the same into an epitaph of slippery rock, slick mush. It's just mush in my memory...oozed together into one great fantasy of what we're supposed to.....supposed to [i don't know] something or other....

//
And I've just said what I've put up for auction most...because you see it was all for passion.
It was all a grand circus trick done by a haggard beauty....to keep the striped tent aflame with passionate motions [whichever form they take, they make] in order to create more passionate creations.
In order to create.

///



Here, sit there. Sit down right there-dear treasure friend, and take my seat. It's made of hollow braided wood, and it sits so low in the mushed piles of cigarettes, and neglected revelations of why we come.
Why do we come?..
Watch the door swing to reveal each ribboned carnival sideshow as it comes to pass.
Because it will come, and it,-I promise-will pass. So many have closed their tent and walked on.
And you'll see that soon you know,
and soon you miss,
and soon you look up to that door squeak expecting a face that won't be there,
[from that chair (someone else's seat (sometime else)].


And then it is that you must put your tired dancing feet up on the brick window ledge,
and watch as all the characters itch their makeup-and marvel in their stage markings.
They're so truly wondrous,
[....and so that makes them forever doomed]
and they sweep you from your ordinary life and make you all the tested
-all the tested little one in that seat-
[trying] to match the power of the lightening [always striking outside in the night].







COME ONE, COME ALL!
There's a bedazzled soap box for you too - it was left behind once - just shake the dust from the red velvet striped curtain-
and open up for us another soul to consume...






Daily headphones: "Let Her Cry" by Hootie and the Bluefish, "Aint no Sunshine" by Otis, and "First Week" by Graham Colton