Babbling from a blatherskite
cheeses crust, i ham the biggest imponderable mystery to mice elf. if me appeals to you, I would love to meet up for coffee, squid and sauerkraut. I am very interested in how things yar life seem to always work out contrary tummy way. It is my goal to live in the moment and enjoy without pouting, to learn from everything that comes into my experience without doubt this mwm simian with a smallish prickly cock eyed convoluted brain with three legs skinny as those of a whooping crane in tandem with elongated combo Sphinx canine body of a great dane the unwitting a donor she dog called elaine additional about my cat a tonic pet agree i will refrain thanks you very mooch genesis, per this human protoplasmic mic grain sans freshet mountain spring, where fertile fecund field rosy cheeked feral lane inxs of seeking nirvana foremost in me mind and main reason this ac/dc charged beatle browed guy, who huzzah dow ting thomas pane upon verdant greensward hopes acquaintanceship, and friendship simple and plain as expressed in the following quatrain attempting to endure this unpleasant mar writ till rein from dis baad bard barred arse who iz newt insane despite riding with barred naked ladies on a gravy train while above in the heavens, the moon shadows doth wax and wane. mo'e about dis dennis well axle rod gun tha lil rose off limits by the thorn until trust grows, and friendship born intertwining body, mind and spirit of counterpart like a bowsprit after maybe a narrow miss lust will mutually adorn yet, i call on Eros to release another magical arrow. this simian known in the varmint world wide web as alias m. scott tulle bug amber liquids o the dogs he doth not chug nor down mind expanding drug boot experienced spurred me to hug and drink froom busty mother nada speedily from swollen bosom jug, which supple fingers did gingerly lug and suckle as if from a nip pulled mug sniffs with nose, when aye used to be a puppy pug ye and regale like some intricate oriental made rug only to remind myself this dickering dither nebbish on same slimy playing field retractable male member oozes like a slug. while sew king in a broth of brine formaldehyde n sumac, an eternal sleep brew elixir bitter like quinine, but otherwise quite fine dis paw made up each line noah lion eyes from mine which ocular orbs total sixty nine n populate my epidermis along each disk vertebrae of me spine which makes potion costs life an limb one sprig off the human vine noggin - after down in a gallon o wine. i enjoy a commendable comment, though many respondents rage at this gent sans wordiness, and valuable time ms spent to decipher my gibberish evicted since hours decrypting forces her/him to live in a tent. this poet can know a range of feline artful dodger with his non lion cat skills concocting totally income pre hens able confusing trills. some of these claws n nay pickling skills, which include maintaining mouse sized dignity, grace (while under fire from Stuart little), kibitzing, nibbling on self crafted bon mots, and then rubbing the dead giveaway crumbs (from double entendres) using all faux paus into thy maw paw cent less whole foods masticating dull blade less choppers. sanguine at one hundred thousand minus forty six hundred, or eight years plus forty nine = an apt and pithy phrase to matt's labyrinth best characterized as a twisted maze (along a boulevard of broken dreams) lodged deeply inside this dutiful dada shackled to an endless role of scullion, but silently gesticulates for salvation. this spruced up fun guy (and not unduly coy -- see) pines for female to cure nostrum from domestic plight. just a spoonful of sugar will most definitely help this medicine go down (best hummed to the mary poppins tune of the same name), mine current existence like a modern henry david Thoreau with a twisted sister. after perusing this rambling prose (from mine psyche feeling walled in), you might judge this personal struggle more on a par with oliver twist, i sincerely seek salient gallant wings (with or without dishpan hands) to take this humble human being who can (ha) bring a fairy tale ending to my cinderella patterned existence, rather than this helter skelter pell mell tread full life like a rat in a cage. away i want to soar no matter such fantasy a fool's' paradise! an extra ticket just located and could be a boon and salve plus preferable to travel in tandem with another. only upon surrendering to a deep and peaceful sleep (which dream state will take place soon) does the fictional world (within the wide wedded web of this wayward thinking wanderer) take hold and serve up a brief hiatus to a life devoid of contentment. this amateur baker would cook up a souffle or rhubarb pie if willingly taken from mine own personal lake wobegon awash with raw bits of flotsam and jetsam and empty boxes of powdered milk biscuits, the one with big blue stain on the outside. san sol invictus served ancient civilizations as their com-stock load transmitted from my ip node. like a modern day icarus this mwm mulls the possibility of finding a real live likeness of what constitutes a hologram of his mythic muse, who exudes able bodied confidence donning every filament. keep on dreaming cyber buddy, an anonymous reader might think, telepathically communicate or even communicate via email, which idealism goads me to broadcast the following fanciful (and perhaps not so far fetched) feasible female find among the frequent purveyors of this website. the vague nebulous barely perceptible kernel of a fictional account per my own conjured up vision (as pertains to what might comprise a companionable woman to me) could conceivable materialize into an actual arch de triumphant revelation once landing this wistful nugget of an idea into the conscious of unconscious mind of an unknown gal, who just by a fluke (of the worm holes populating the universe) finds herself piqued with curiosity about me. not a whit of information yet exists about this writer who envisions himself in seven heaven (no matter he in truth really admits to espousing an atheistic outlook on the cosmos) if that all to fickle finger of fate (usually the middle one raised by an obstreperous onlooker) finally found me in the company of a woman able to articulate in a civil and democratic manner emotions, ideas, sentiments and thoughts with an unpretentious air of sophistication. she (meaning this balsamic scented woman) would also possess a cosmopolitan demeanor yet clear of all any unpretentious knotty suaveness, but also able, eager, ready and willing to allow, enable and provide quite an ability to get into an amazing tangle of literary profundity. unlike this older fellow seriously believes he got borne in an in apropos century and revels in another illusory consideration - aside from trying to summon forth a living gal of flesh and bone from this overactive imagination.frequent farcical notions flit to and fro inside the so called major sex organ, and in moi case one with not an immensely large head incorporating being transported to say the renaissance or medieval ages or more recently that war between the north and south. if hedging bets with yours truly being a union soldier of yore, you no doubt already can infer where thy political and more pertinently national would get cast. okay, the original aim of (what many might tag as a yahoo) really wishes to explore the make believe world and just maybe prick the inquisitive of at least one online browser, who although she might not in the least be seeking any male relationship just by happenstance or circumstance experiences some inexplicable necessity to reply. in the event that should lady luck be like a divine guiding star, i know best to tamp down any premature illusions of grandeur, but let the natural course of familiarity usher the chap a roan of sacredness to be cherished for however short or long such a friendship might endure. oh yes, an ongoing (specifically offline) interaction motivates this doubting thomas fool hardy spurious posting for to be ransacked with absolute and total consent in an effort to be plucked from this (utterly difficult to describe) morass (at date of crafting this mishmash) of discontent with thy marriage, which then quite contemptuous wife, yet consideration to pledge thine troth to another could be a moderate to strong consideration. so, now with a zing a hoop ye kin be yang 2 me ying i step in2 the digital xing via summit da fall low wing written jest 2 byte tongue in cheek yet unsure if zee phone here will ring or an unexpected gold plated invitation after yodeling ding in a catch 22 effort to hear pleasant, yet discordant musical ka -- ching for cherished pennies, nickels, dimes, et cetera from heaven 2 bring. patiently twiddling fir and twenty black bird shaped like green thumb as schmart simian Semitic arse gets comfortably numb after quaffing humongous amount of rum while also downing into me gullet oral roberts sesame street pudding made of pureed plum unlike jack in the corner mull huck mooch more glum and despite this facial stubble with here n there a stale crumb, this dabbler in words haint å no cracked barrel size petsmart, skidrow, dire strait bum. If receptive to react, redact, re-enact, refract, repack, Rorschach, et cetera ...the above scenario abridged text slack or email rsvp asap 2 me -- aka khan of union track the above message approved by the late doctor zeus n swiftly tailored president zack. from a sub human holed up in his man cave this one bedroom perky oh man dwelling, thee one i moost fave scratched with deep intentions grave, whereby credo, ethos and integrity induce me 2 be-have like the hairdo shellacked (substitute requisite stick figure or other symbols), understandable to this primate of a knave bang to rocks together to signal myself as a wah na b ya sigma sixty ninth audioslave signed: yo yo ma's, king crimson beastie boy.
From blank screen to logorrhea, I write with confused adumbrations
Methinks hmm, perhaps
I admittedly self plagiarize and quite aware
aforementioned amalgamated, conglomerated,
fabricated, jerry rigged, and organized
eye gripping titled
poem already aired a year plus ago,
though revisiting said theme
downplayed now as thoughts blare,
though similarly filched content
(pertaining to other literary endeavors)
invariably glommed electronically
(digitally remastered and remixed),
nevertheless gobbledygook enigmatically
jerkily, and quirkily communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine (seen) fishtail career
as applies to uber secreted questions.
This chap challenges himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally anonymous reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely
a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.
Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss (Onassis)revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, grow
tusk long haired woolly creature
out malm mouth drool dripping
trademark characteristic viz
pencil neck geek
madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of
garden variety generic hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby frank and ernest poet;
home body (nowhere man);
beetle browed fool on the hill;
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
comes home to stir the roost.
(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential threads populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate
coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to sperm cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. Hoe
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining Motorhead
(ace of spades) tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded Leaves (of Grass)
finds me Waltzing Whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.
This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard (word) ho seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,
and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma bell heavable own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest
death be not proud
in relation to world events.
Metallic Bones
The calendar looks like a dart board, covered in holes. Empty days and meaningless numbers, circles that don't mean a thing.
I used to mark the days, be able to count the hours since my fingertips last hit the keys, last strung together a slew of words that were possibly profound but more often than not just ramblings. He's gone now, no looking back, and I'm better for it. Everything happens for a reason, or at least that's what they say.
I'm like a swimmer out of practice, nose waterlogged and I keep stopping to catch my breath. God, this used to be so easy, but we're getting back into the swing of things. You and me, old pal. This rusty old machine is still good for something. Oh, and this typewriter's still here, too. How nice.
In some ways it was bound to happen, you know a human's nature must be stronger than the delicate bond between slightly-less-than-strangers. I'd gotten caught up in a messy web of sinewy connections, and I'm sure it'll happen again. But for now, we release. We relive. We write:
He'd been not too close but not too far away either, that's how I liked them, anyway. Enough to tell me I'm pretty--with his eyes--but didn't dare say anything. Just shy enough.
His fingertips were like paper cranes, careful and artful. Swan dances across my knuckles. Something about his smile, too, you know the way they pull you in. A laugh, a look. He hadn't been my type. Until he was.
We counted the hours using each others' eyes, found some sort of constellations right behind the iris. A ticking clock back there built for us and ignorant to all others. We thought it ticked forward, at least at first. And the longer I looked the more convinced I saw that it was a countdown. More I saw that the paper cranes were unfolding, and the stars were never with us anyway.
It fell around us like wallpaper without enough glue. Strips of rolled up paper, still sticky but not quite enough, whispering at our feet. A room of destruction but not enough to hold it together. Built to fail. Perhaps.
And in that room, no words. It was the one thing I always had on me, words. And I'd lost them somewhere, shoved them deep into your chest where I couldn't find them until you tore yourself apart and left all the words in the world pulsing on the floorboards, your flesh split on either side.
I broke you, I know. But I needed those words back. They fuel my ticking clock, no matter the direction. They're my sun and moon and everything in between. I wear them like prize furs, douse them in flame and scream them from the silence of my notebook pages.
You stole everything from me, and I stole even more. So here's all of it back again, the story of us. What you always wanted, no? I never did show you my writing. I never could. But my fingers are made of ink, made of metallic bones in the shape of typewriter arms. I can press my finger to the page and make a letter. This soul is bound in ink and wrapped in leather. Words become I.
Words could never become we.
So this is it, then. And my soul can breathe.
Change, Pt 2 - A Love, Another Life
Month – May Year – 2023
Before 'Change'
She looks slightly sideways at him, a silly grin twirling off her lips, standing outside his car with the sun shining on their faces. Her stomach flips twice and then times seventeen as he looks back at her, time slowing down to second by second, and he smiles. In her head, she curses herself for ever falling for him in the first place- so stupid of her to do, so much pain and hurt and denial and insanity and anger, so much happiness and so much lightheartedness, such an oxymoron to the point that she is the moron- but it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to her anyway. But she stands there, simply smiling despite her thoughts, looking at him. Something in his expression changes, and he ducks inside the car, quickly waving goodbye for the day.
He asks her later over text why she looked at him like that. “like what? when? wdym” She replies, staring at her phone.
“the equivalent of ‘get someone who looks at you the way a starved man looks at food does’,” he types. “or ’get someone who looks at you the way tom looks at zendaya. ykwim, like at the car when i was about to go.
She sits there for a second, still staring, confused as to who would ever say that phrase but understanding it at the same time, and decides on mild sarcasm and joking humor (as per usual).
“i’m f*cking in love with you” she types, and then deletes it, her eyes narrowing and eyebrows furrowing, and then types it again and smacks send and sighs and throws her phone into her backpack and half-runs-half-walks across her house to get a cup of apple juice and folds exactly twenty-four articles of clothing, suddenly being productive for the next ten minutes.
When she picks up her phone, he’s apologizing for something that he couldn’t help but do and was never his fault, and she falls all over again. After all, how could she not?
She falls all over again every time she sees him in the hallways, whenever she’s walking with him alone or with friends. She falls all over again when they make eye contact, and they stare until one of them cracks a grin first, or when one of them glances away out of nervousness but looks back a second later. She falls all over again when they’re in a crowded room and somehow the first person she looks up to is him. She falls all over again when they sit far away from each other, but their eyes still find each other, somehow.
She falls all over again when she braids little strands of his hair slowly, hoping the moment will never end, never having enough time to style his curls exactly how she likes, even though she’d never change anything about him.
She falls all over again when she purposefully brushes past him in an empty hallway as an excuse to put her chin on his shoulder.
She falls all over again when she sees his expression light up, when he loses himself in his characteristic bubbly laughter or in the crushing weight of his tears and fears.
She falls all over again when - perhaps this is bad of her to fall over - it is, it is, it really, really is bad - she’s the only one who he trusts enough to comfort him during a panic attack after a competition.
She falls all over again when he calms down by arranging pieces of sequins and glitter that she found on the floor into the shape of flowers and lets her hold him. She falls all over again when he apologizes for getting her shoulder wet. She falls all over again when he manages to laugh through his tears. She falls all over again when he doesn’t want anyone else in the fluorescent, sickly bright room but her and even goes so far as to block the door with a chair. She falls all over again when he tells her, later, that she was the only one who understood what he was trying to say and what he had felt.
She fell all over again, in those moments, in the past, when they were only friends, and he had a girlfriend - not her.
She falls all over again whenever he texts back something silly and wholly unserious, when he shows he cares, when he teases her, when he teases his friends.
She wonders if he knows that he holds her heart in the palm of his hand, if he knows that sometimes, the longing for someone who is so far away and yet too close to touch is simply too much for her, for anyone at all, to bear.
She falls all over again when he looks at her - when he really, truly looks at her - and she can tell that at that moment, she’s really, truly there, and not floating somewhere in space, though her heart probably thinks otherwise.
She finds falling scary, and absolutely hates the vulnerable feeling of it, but she thinks that if it’s with someone who likes you back, it’s okay. It’s good, even.
-
Month – July Year – 2023
After 'Change'
He’s back from his month of vacation, where they disjointedly texted across half of the globe, day clashing with night.
They joke together, send photos of everyday things. He doesn't ever tell her he loves her. She did, though only three times exactly, and in short text slang.
He texts her the moment he lands. It’s two fifty-seven in the morning. She sees the text when she wakes up for water, at eight-oh-five. The numbers are engraved into her mind - she couldn’t forget them if she wished. She texts him a reply. He answers almost instantly: “can i call u” and she gets a call.
“Hhhi.” He’s audibly groggy.
“You okay?” She asks, worried. “What’s wrong? Did you need something?”
“...Nnno.” He answers slowly.
“Well, why’d you call me then?” She laughs, albeit quietly.
“Jus’ wanted ’t hear... your voice.” He says after a pause, his own voice coated with sleepiness. She knows he sounds like that every morning, anyway.
“Oh.” She mumbles, shocked but not shocked, touched to her core, and it feels like every nerve in her body is smoldering, on fire.
They both sit in silence for five minutes, before she gathers the courage to say something, anything. “Did you want me to talk, then?”
“S’okay. You don’ hafta.”
She smiles into the phone speaker, exhaling softly- like he can see her face.
She swears he’s smiling into the speaker, too.
They meet up for sushi with friends and get bubble tea a day later. It’s everyone in their friend group, but just them at the same time.
But he sits on the other side of the booth.
But he doesn’t rest his head on her shoulder.
But he smiles less. At her.
But he meets eyes with her hesitantly, and instead of holding the contact like they usually do, he breaks it. A record of (based on average) twenty seconds earlier than usual.
But who’s keeping count?
She leaves a week later for her vacation, having only seen him once; leaves halfway across the globe, too.
-
Month – August Year – 2023
She’s back from her month of vacation, a strictly minimal tech affair as mandated by her parents, and he’s still at home, doing who knows what. They texted once the entire month.
They don’t meet up.
Practice for their sport starts soon, two weeks before another semester of college begins, only she’s quitting that coming year, and he’s not.
It’ll be hot out there, on the concrete and the grass, under the shade of the trees and under the burning sun.
Their: because they are a duet, one half of the other: she only feels fully complete doing this, that, anything, if it is with him. Always: when it comes time to compete, when it comes time to pack up, when it comes time to practice a specific skill, when it comes time to walk down to the lockers, when it comes time to walk to class, to lunch, to the buses that take them back "home", but they are each other’s home.
Are. Were.
It’ll be cool inside, on the yoga mat and the white leather couch, under the teal covers of her bed and in her books and novels.
She hasn’t texted him. She texted him when she landed, and didn’t get the urge to call. He responded, but she didn’t. Oddly enough, it was freeing, not having to. She liked the feeling of being free- it was addicting, and quickly became something she craved- and decided to hold on to it for just a little longer. A little longer. Every single day. Just a little longer.
He hasn’t texted her. At all.
She hasn’t cried. At all.
She cried back in May, when he told her he liked her back after breaking up with his girlfriend- that was a reason why he broke up with his girlfriend- and she was scared and uncertain and it felt like the world was breaking when in reality it was her heart that was breaking, because she knew deep inside that it wasn’t real and it would never, ever be something real.
So she doesn’t cry anymore, not now; no, not now, no, not ever, not over this.
She’s glad, in a way, that she doesn’t cry. It isn’t worth it, in some respects. In others, it is. But she’s mostly glad.
She doesn’t know if he ever loved her, so she simply gives him closure. A last text, a last everything, a last whatever.
He gives her nothing in return; nothing for her last act of love, if it can be called that now, towards him.
It’s closure enough for her to move on, move on faster than she thought was possible. She doesn’t really talk about it with friends, nor does she have the chance to see him often - it’s mostly forgotten, until she sees him randomly in the hallways or on the sidewalks, and has to blink back a flinch. Because seeing him - a part of herself, something that was once so vital and instrumental in her life - and having no reaction - is hard. Something that was a love, another life.
It was a love she could never forget, though, so she immortalizes it in words. In the form of eternal emotion, eternal feeling, that she lives and breathes, that shines in her eyes and flows through her voice, that sparks in her bones and sings in her blood.
Sunshine…
on my shoulders makes me happy.
…
You and I are camping with Jenny, camping like we did on the island, when you called me and said you were lonely. We paddled to the shore and hung a hammock and I started biting your lip and pulling at your collar. We had nowhere to be, and that’s why we stayed like that ’til the afternoon sun filtered through the low branches and the brush. And we have nowhere to be now, except around Jenny‘s table. She listens to music by searching songs on Facebook, though she says she only checks it for family news.
You and I are a family now, but I still came from her first. Still, nothing makes more sense than bringing you here to the beach to meet Jenny. The cell that became me was, before Jenny’s daughter was even born, when her womb developed within Jenny’s womb. She carried me before I was my father’s child. I was a part of her when she was a long-haired, barefoot little thing, running on the white sugar sand riverbank, the Jungle Trail. And I was a part of her mother’s mother, who came over in the cargo hold of Turnbull’s slave ships.
How different you and I are. Your fathers came over from Scotland, on the decks of the ships, but not in much better condition than my indentured Spanish mothers. Your Caledonian fathers reached the shore and soon found Indian women in the hills of western Virginia, who became your mothers. They had black hair like Jenny.
…
in my eyes can make me cry.
…
I am Jenny’s granddaughter and I can’t believe I am. She has raven hair, like you do— like I always wished I did, like I still sometimes imagine would grow on our babies’ soft heads. I think the 1/4th of me that is Jenny is recessive, because it sure skipped a few generations. I’ll never be half of the mother she is.
When I was a girl, and too difficult for my momma, I was sent to live down by the water with Jenny. I beat the wall with my fists and yelled obscenities and, on the really bad days, I would dig holes and sit in them. Since she was too afraid to stop me, she didn’t. She shouted at me from the screen room. The hot tears poured down my face and I couldn’t why I didn’t feel a thing, so I stayed quiet. She slammed the screen door, leaving me alone.
She wouldn’t sit with me in my mud puddle; she was strong and thought she could pull me out from the edge of the thing. She couldn’t. I blared my angry music and wallowed.
Her daughter would come get me the next day. I don’t blame Jenny for not being able to fix me, though. She couldn’t have known she had to get down in the mud with me in order to help me out. That’s alright. Jenny is tall, and she is kind, but her emotions steer her vessel. This is why we used to fight so much, before I grew into a woman; I was a woman the day I learned to hold my tongue.
…
on the water is so lovely.
…
Jenny spends every day she can on the gulf, now that she’s at least semi-retired. We kids sit around Jenny’s table on the screen porch, eating the good things she fixed, while she and her middle-aged daughter sit to the side in Adirondack chairs. Her daughter lives in the mountains with her 5 children, far away, but we are visiting for the week. Jenny starts cooking 3 days before the grands arrive, and she is a fine cook. She fried the fish the boys caught last weekend— she used to love being on the water, she says, but so many Yankees have come into town with their big boats and RVs, the fish don‘t bite often enough to suit her anymore. Jenny lets the boys go, staying home with a bit of a headache and with the grandbabies, and with you and me. She says doesn’t need anything more.
…
almost always makes me high.
…
John Denver garbles through her cell phone’s external speaker. She and her daughter laugh loudly, like how you and I laughed last spring in the Subaru with the windows down on that first warm night of the year. The year I found you.
The year you came and sat with me in my mud puddle, then gently asked me if I’d like to try getting up and coming in the house. Once inside, I refused to wipe off my feet and arms, but you made me a sandwich and told me about when you were a child and your mother made you feel so cold that you punched a fence post and broke your hand. I almost didn’t believe you. You are so gentle now.
You told me I could be gentle, too, but I was sure I never could be. You were gentle like a good father, even as a young man. I was a disturbed young woman and a monster and Jenny and her daughter had both given up on me. I told you I was no mother, that I couldn’t carry the 3 babies you always dreamed of, and that you should give up, too.You said I was in no shape be a mother, because who could bring up children in that kind of environment? But you would dig through the mud with me for as long as it took. You told me you believed I could dig, too, and what’s more: you believed I would. You knew that’s what I really wanted. More than to sit and wallow, I wanted to dig and get out.
Jenny and her daughter may have made me, but didn’t know me as well as you did. They didn’t trust me, either. It’s not their fault. They each had to dig through their own mud and learn to laugh in their own sweet time. I hope I have time enough to become their daughter and their granddaughter again, now that I have grown into a woman. The first step is listening to music with them on the screen porch whose door used to slam.
I pray to God I have time. Jenny slaps her knees and my mother spills her iced tea. ”Sunshine almost all the time makes me high,” Denver’s clear tenor croons from the grave.
I am still one of five siblings, and still a child at that. I feel distant from these two women who have grown to rise above the din. I am still very much in it. I still care what others think about me.
And though Jenny and her daughter both love you, getting up to add another helping to your plate, refill your glass, and pat your back, they think me naïve. To be so in love with man seems foolish to them. They have both seen enough bad men to believe that a man’s heart is an amusing and silly thing at best.
The song is over and they head to the kitchen to clean up the supper dishes, cackling happily all the way. I don’t often laugh around them, and I don’t laugh now. But you know and I know that on good days, I have the same huge, boisterous laugh as those two great women. That much doesn’t skip a generation.
…
8
may your days
be filled with fresh grapefruit juice
and sweating hot tub laughs
gravel dives for an escaped dog
bunny coffee runs
and a cigarette in the outdoor shower.
may your days
be an early spring marsh sunburn
ignored outlook notifications
and white bean salad stirred with shared hands.
tears in a nail salon
over a friend’s forgotten book
and a screen door scaring all in the night.
just scooping salsa like soup
in a familiar silence.
acceptance
It's starting to really get to me-
the way you said you loved me and then moved on.
I pretend to be okay,
but my heart can't be tricked, it knows you're gone.
And as I lie in bed remembering the good times,
your words float around in my mind.
You told me we'd do everything together,
that you'd be my partner in crime.
You said you wanted the world with me,
you said you wanted to see the world- with me.
But you left,
and in your place, the sunset is all I see.
I see the beach we always talked about,
the sand, the waves; I smell the ocean breeze.
But thinking about you brings back the pain of it all,
and I cry until I wheeze.
You really are the one my heart will never forget,
you make me glad to be alive.
But you're also the one who makes a crying session
out of every late night drive.
I might never tell you how I feel again,
but as long as I have the memories of us,
I will never stop thinking of you and me and all we used to be,
because nothing and no one else will ever be enough.
affair with words
A prelude to the ghosts of word
I'm an ocean oscillating
sitting in a Thai take out place
Spice infused the big FEELING rippling through my veins, explode out my chest with cumin
All the waters of me in attempts to confine press wicked against their own death, flooding to turn a void into an occupied deluge.
Some have a fling with words sporadic out of lust...
inflamed in temporary heat until the sweet and self serving release undoes them-
Mine's a love affair ethereal and engulfing...
indugled in privatized entanglement complete with rawness, newness, numbness and endless seas on fire …across all time and galaxies hung silent in my eyes.
Wore my comfy clothes to sit and wait for sustenance, so please do not disturb.
I am an event in process
in constance… situated between a pick up counter and someones loud breathing...and they have no idea about this wild ride I'm on.
My words are finite just as each letter begins and ends with the mouth of a pen- gives life to a word and ends its purpose with a graceful but heinous withdrawal from the page.
I will end not the words but the fiber that breathed life into them.
As I nauseously sit in my waters.
Holding an Ocean within my small frame is imploding...
Each drop on fire.
It's thunder in my throat.
It's lightening in my teeth
Walls around me closing in
I'm crumbling.
I am not made for love stories
Twice-Cursed Apprentice (A Vaguely Epic Fantasy Poem)
I. Once there was a blithering fool
(A pawn, a cat’s-paw, a Wizard’s tool)
Who spent too long breathing Wizard fumes
And knew too many Wizard Dooms.
The Doom of Demons, breathing through,
The Doom of Dragons, taking you,
The Doom of everlasting night,
The Doom of the ravenous, hungry Blight.
(The Doom of knowing many dooms!
So that the mind is ceaseless rooms
Each one a dead-end Labyrinthine
[And each, for no known reason, green.])
From massive volcanoes to deadly Microbia,
Everything triggered his thanatophobia.
Everything he thought or saw
Looked like the entrance to the Grave’s ugly maw.
Now, the Wizard that he happened to work for
Was cracked by Magic, and at Death’s door
And on the coming Equinox Vernal,
She was planning the spell of Life Eternal.
This the fool could not abide
He’d die? While she, from Death, could hide?
His own plot, then, he began to hatch
His overreach; his overmatch…
(Those of you who study plot
Know already what he does not:
If there’s a story told herein,
This poor schnook just cannot win.
Take her power? May it not be!
He’d surely find Eternity
Is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Try and fail? That’s even worse
He’d please for death; he’d wish for a hearse
And that would make for depressing verse.)
Ahem.
II.
I hate to destroy dramatic tension,
(Broken fourth walls cause poetic declension)
But though it makes less exciting narration,
He eventually decided on conversation.
“Master,” he said, “I find it unpleasant,”
That you’re a free spirit, and I’m a stuffed pheasant.
Why must I soon meet cessation
Whilst you’re on the cusp of the Great Liberation?”
The Wizard laughed; the Wizard smiled,
“Oh, you’re a most amusing child!”
(“I’m twenty-eight,” the apprentice whined;
but the Wizard paid him absolutely no mind.)
“You silly thing,” she did continue,
“To harbor such resentment in you!
You speak to me—in a manner short!
When you’ve completely mistook this spell’s import.”
The Apprentice replied, with trembling tongue,
“Forgive me, Master! I’m terribly young!”
(“You’re twenty-eight,” she did remind,
But it did no good, and on he whined):
“Life Eternal! What a boon!
To have life go on from Noon to Noon!
I see it now. You are bestowing
The Stream of Life, ever-flowing.
“You Queen of Kindness! Magician clever!
Because of you, we’ll live forever!
We’ll all toast you, with flagons lifted,
She whom to us Life Eternal’s gifted.”
The Wizard’s face held a smile’s ghost,
“Oh, no, dear,” she said, “It’s YOU they’ll toast.”
The Apprentice’s eyes did quick expand.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
A crack of thunder. A second crack.
In blew a wind of ominous tack.
The room did coldly then endarken.
The Wizard gestured to him: “Harken!”
“Oh yes. You’ll all forever exist.
But I’ll be away, carried on mist,
To places where humans cannot follow,
To atom’s core, and dark woods’ hollow.
I will be on another plane,
Spinning spells like a weathervane,
Making a world more to my suiting,
With cogitation and blasphemous computing.
And you, dear boy, will the Hero be!
And won’t it just be loverly?
They’ll chant your name ’til they’re out of breath,
The sorcerer who conquered Death!
I’ve cast a spell from Stonehenge’s peak,
And thence I’ll all revenges wreak:
For Life Eternal is no blessing.
(It’s a dirty trick that I’m confessing.)
A life forever? Check the Law
Dictated by The Monkey’s Paw.
Limitations aren’t always joys,
But ‘limitless’ is just a ploy.
“Never dying” is a limit
Which contains many problems within it.
Why could possibly be sweeter
Than stuffing with infinite sweets,
’til the sweets own the eater?
How hard to appreciate the Sun,
When a million days, swallowed one by one
Each see that same Sun rise and set?
Endless time begets regret
For motivation’s difficult,
Productivity suffers, in a world wherein
’Waiting ’til tomorrow’s never a sin;
If a thousand thousand nextdays await,
Why bother, today, to concentrate?”
The Wizard smiled. “Now, you’ve been taught
To understand both ‘some’ and ‘naught’,
And you should see (at least, I hope)
That I’m giving humanity all the rope
They’ll ever need for self-hanging.”
And with the windows shaking, the rafters banging,
She disappeared into the stormy eve,
And what a troubled apprentice she did leave…
______
(author's note: Is there a call for fantasy poetry here? There's a second half to this piece, but I wasn't sure how long a poem you'd want to see. I do consider this to be a complete poem in itself, although I don't envy that poor apprentice...)