A Rondeau For The Wild Rose
The briars grew as kingdoms slept
While widows spun and deftly crept
Amidst the silent-slumb’ring rows
Of frozen faces; dancing toes
In places even gods have wept.
None ’fore or since have e’er swept
Amidst this living tomb unkept.
Within the palace of the crows
The briars grew
Perhaps a hapless prince hath wept
O’er sweet princess shoes unstepped?
Forever longing? He ’lone knows.
Throughout this place no tread now goes,
Where would-be lovers might’ve leapt,
The briars grew.
the worse place i have ever lived
the worst place i ever lived, i can not help but revisit
it is hard to get away from our old haunts
no matter how miserable isn’t it?
each time i show back up, everything is different
the rooms are uncomfortable
and when there, i never feel quite with it
i hate when i find myself in that awful place
the way it feels, the grief the loss, the blankness
in every familiar and yet unfamiliar face
the idea of being there brings me such anxiety
i hate it
especially the time
it seems to be an hour a second-
in that place in my mind
most times, someone invites me there
unknowingly and on purpose
i hate the way the foundation feels
and the texture of every surface
i could be so happy
if i never had to visit
what is the key to just moving far away
to go as far away as possible- is that it?
there is just one small space
that feels comfortable in those Halls,
a tiny area, all my own
in that awful, draining place
i don’t want to feel this way
about where i should be at least somewhat safe
but no one there remembers me
even less when I beg to be seen in haste
it is my childhood, my adolescence, and adulthood
once for a short time it was not all bad-
there used to be so much good
my past, present.... and future
now i realize
where i fall everytime i stop feeling
present, wanted, safe, or alive
it’s in that place now,
the only time i wish i could be dead
the place i hate to be the most-
my own rotting head
In His Arms
I lived half my life there
So close inside them
That I nearly disappeared
There’s almost no place
I’d rather not be
I need his kind of sanctuary
Like I need a sugar coated cyanide tab
It was killing me anyway
Perhaps that poison
would have been kinder
looking for an apartment eh?
..here we have a closed balcony, you’ll share the flat with another three guys , but this “room” is all yours. spacious, enough for a queen size bed.
you have a closet and one power outlet. but dont go past 60watts or the fuse jumps.
you get plenty of sunshine. we put on curtains, just for you. they only cover half the line but light is a good thing. think of the savings you’ll make with electricity. no seriously, think about it. remember those 60watts i was talking about.
and the view outside! look at that empty lot! just beautiful. no cars park here, well at least until 4:30, then it turns to an all-night parking lot. but you might consider that a benefit. there are flood lights outside, so you really can enjoy things. people often spend time here, enjoying the clear, undesturbed night view.
oh, you play the saxophone? well no problem with anyone. no worries. i’ll tell you what, you can practice here all night to the rythem of the car alarms down in the lot. no one will complain, i promise. it drowns out...the alarms i mean...oh lets move on to the kitchen...what’s that? you won’t take it? listen buddy, im doing you a favor for even talking to you. i have another three guys to show them this mess. here, look at my schedule all of them by noon.
oh, why not do tbe showing in the afternoon? what, around three? no, i cant come here again, i have another fire tra..i mean apartment to show.
take it or leave it...but you’ll take it. i can see the desperation in your eyes. the hunger for an experience. the visceral need to live through something. well here you’ll have it all;
just remember three months upfront, deposit on the bed and a five year contract.
why five years?
Since it has been so long ago- I am not sure I would be able to describe how I wish it had been; except it would be written as being something I gave, not something that was taken.
I go for just a quick look. Yet I find myself in a pile of puppies. 15 puppies jumping, climbing and lickingg me. I can't help but smile and laugh.
Perhaps, at this moment, as I sit and ponder
Future me somewhere will look back and wonder
And smile, and think, as her arms nimbly cross,
“How can one lose again what never was lost?”
That future me maybe could answer your question.
Who knows? Maybe not. It was just a suggestion.
For now, though, I’ll say (not entirely sure)
I’d probably lose it the same way as before.
If before was a bed with the man of my dreams
Or a couch, or table? You know what I mean.
After wedding, of course, before that, wouldn’t dare.
On our honeymoon night; a romantic affair.
Or maybe it’s morning or mid-afternoon.
Whenever, wherever he’ll cause me to swoon.
Whoever he is, however it goes,
In that very moment, I’ll recall this prose.
And smile, and think, as my arms nimbly cross,
“If something is given, it’s not truly lost.”
in my old school
we didn't have
time off to roll in
the sweet corruption of
i celebrated christmas,
but i had friends who didn't.
my jewish friend had to go to school
on her holiday.
my muslim friend had to
to participate in her holiday.
got their time off.
no matter what branch
of christianity you
are part of
you always get
christmas day off.
because it's not winter break.
it's not designed
to accommodate everyone.
it's just another priviledge
of the majority.
the day my friend was absent
in gym class
i realized just how privileged we are.
even if i'm not a christian,
i celebrate christian holidays,
we've been taught, however subtly
that christianity is right.
it is embedded in our very culture,
in our very world.
persecution is having to skip school because
your holiday is not
listening to someone say
when you don't even
going on christmas break
you don't get
a break of your own.
A combination of sloth and traffic has made me late for work so I'm in hot water with the boss. Empty. Her parking spot is empty, she's out today. Sweet.
The Unsung Sustentacular
There once was a limerick oracular
With passingly striking vernacular.
It tried to be swank
As a minted lamb shank,
But sadly fell short of spectacular.