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.

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

The Scarlet Life*

Sometimes it feels like I feel you; drowning in the weight of all the lies I've told. All the many painful wires braided into this thing of ours-theirs-that once was such a puddle to dance upon.
Out there, in all the many nights that are frozen production stills on a click-clack projector repeat. So many that I've had-so many more that have stung.

And I'm just Hester Pryne.
__I've been met again and again in the middle of a wet, darkened street, with anyone, with tales spinning 'round my wrists

...and sometimes the lights are all GREEN at once-and I STOP,

and look suddenly either way-

and then I tempt.

I tempt the fabric on sparkling coals of gravel - like the grunged up existence of the woman; of a Communion girl - now a grandmother in lines-lies, and wrinkles of exotic "war wounds".
__Reaching far....to touch the forest branches Hester pushes aside; reaching high into the falling rain-the falling ache, in a cobblestone kinda city....as Nana's beads swing around my neck and I go chilly-wet into the space between the yellow lanes on bare feet and tiptoes.
Long, long hair swinging into the rain and sticking further into soft white cotton, my soft white skin....
Ah, ha ha. BEWARE you see, as you watch me-"don't fall too hard you see"-and I only smiled that time...

Cause then it goes on -

until maybe we hate some others,

and a bench below the trees and the southern roof; where life was whatever words were made-

folded cracked leaves of stories told in the after embrace.....after we've dug and kissed into each other's skin-

sitting so calm, and resting so sweet in the sensations only seconds past...that will soon be lives and legs and weeks past.

Funny how that is.
Funny how it may be.
Funny how it moves, how we move-when we move together.
Dig on how the heart swells THEN-when it pretends-swells more maybe than it ever can. Does it ever swell?

I hate ending. It's all but past almost, though I've been m~o~t~i~o~n~s from gone; boarding the plane-in my heart, my hands-for so very long.

yes, All the taint-the things possessed; they become tombstones. And that's when (oh it aches uneasy) when the skin itself becomes a eulogy of everything "once was"

...all the so many times-over boiling of insides-we can talk forever more within.

Scratch the scratch-

and burn into your own memory (sweet memory) another reminiscence of the SMOG....

"I was young, I was young, But it's all done - Take it away..."

Ah, that's how we'll do it when we leave- -
because there's HOME I feel (is it called swelling?) in my heart here.

The greatest.

Oh the "so much love", that truly does exist-and we all do feel it-when this group, it comes together.

And every starving character comes to rest within their soul as they roar and race into the excitement of potential and companionship.

These wildly character faces, painted now within photographs of a passing paradise

...the great bounding, saucy, exposition of our journeys to any spots all over.

And all over afterwards my smiles will carry the ones once made there, and my own boiling roaring monster inside will rest, maybe, one day - calmed with a once wild romping time.

-So that's how we'll do it when we leave-
we'll walk so sad into such a funky sun-
and then we'll turn you see, because it looks poetic, and then it's done.
And then it's done.
And we'll run then-
into the funky sun, and grin so wide, and maybe chuckle-when we go.

Daily headphones: Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young", and Smokey Robinson's "Tears of a Clown"