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. 

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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