Drinking From The Well
I'll be drinking from the well
Until the doors fall off the hinges...
It's a source that I depend on,
Though it's of give-and-take admittance...
There are wells that open daily
Akin to the ancient Roman Spas...
They exist just out of human reach
Until the sentiments allow...
If you think too hard upon them;
These miraculous wellsprings
Will seal themselves forever...
Hand your ass back in a sling...
I'll be drinking from the well
Until the flooding from the ice
Submerges all our cities...
Every syndicate of vice...
Whenever I have my short comings
In my hampered mental state
The well gives out in smaller rations...
It barely flakes my beggar's plate...
The fact the well exists at all
Makes me wear a three piece grin...
I giggle 'til I bust a stitch!...
Without control I'd crack my chin!...
Now sitting at the well I find
Loose figments 'mongst rare fish...
All vines that drape beyond my shape
Reflect in this mad dish...
I see a Lark soar up behind me...
The well transforms it's shiny wings...
Within a flash the words will spill,
My synapse nerves will surely sing!...
I'll be drinking from the well
Until the doors fall off the hinges...
It's a source that I depend on,
Though it's of give-and-take admittance...
There are wells that open daily
Akin to the ancient Roman Spas...
They exist just out of human reach
Until the sentiments allow...
If you think too hard upon them;
These miraculous wellsprings
Will seal themselves forever...
Hand your ass back in a sling...
9/5/24
Bunny Villaire
Edit #3
The Man in The Mirror.
His eyes are ¹ ², caliginous orbitals, celestial bodies born in a nebula, insipid of light.
His face is plump, ¹⁰ to a rotund, pit-bellied fool, black freckles speckled along his ⁵, dotting his nose.
His ³ slits follow your every move. Seeping through your skin. The smell of marijuana is fragrant. A nauseating stench tinges your nostrils.
Stygic, even — forcing a visceral reaction, snapping your neck to the side, sullying the moment in befowlment.
⁶ coerces you to writhe at the sight of the ghastly specter.
The hairs on the back of your neck ⁷.
Your heart ⁸ a beat.
Syllabic dregs escape its lips, words you could only ⁹ make out even if you acquired its rosetta stone.
And yet, you feel an insistent compulsion to place your hand on the glass frame...
So you do.
Your hands gingerly ⁷ off the circumference of the sink. Slowly, as if spacetime and gravity declared it impromptu in the ¹¹ spectrum of events spindled by destiny's hands, you pivot a hand onto the frame. Friction gives way—everything else ceases to matter. And as you collide with the tempered glass, you find yourself tumbling headfirst into the aventurine confines.
What you see… is a list:
¹ Gaping
² Apertures
³ Jagged
⁴ Coffee
⁵ Cold Visage
⁶ Dread
⁷ Rise
⁸ Skips
⁹ Partially
¹⁰ Concomitant
¹¹ Grand
The instructions on the bottom:
Read it back.
The young feller and the old man
"Well... did It work?"
The young man heard his voice close to him
He turned and saw the old man sitting next to him, drinking a cold glass of water
Young man was confused
" scuse me mister? "
Old man took a sip of his drink
" I said... did It work? "
" did what work? "
" that plan of yours."
Young man became defensive, not as defensive to pick up his revolver; but defensive enough to fix his posture for quick aim
" what are you talking about old man?! "
" You becoming lonewolf and all... leaving everyone you cared about. "
Young man was shocked
" h...how do you know this? "
Old man finished his drink and ordered another glass of water
" you feel closer to yourself now? "
" I... I don't know. Im not there yet. "
Old man smiled
" but you do miss It don't you? "
" miss what? "
" people caring about you. People knowing you."
Young man accepted that old man knew things about his life and so became more relaxed
" I never wanted to be in the center of attention. But for a long time my actions made me become that type of man. I was the villain in other people's eyes, be it friends or other folks... even family members... I thought things would become more clear If I take this road but... not yet. "
Old man left his drink half empty and got up.
He looked at the young man
" don't punish yourself oliver. What you seek doesn't come from others. It comes from your heart. Make peace with yourself first and then... you'll be at peace with others. "
Old man walked to the exit
" Im here whenever you wanna talk young feller. I haven't forgotten you. "
Oliver looked at old man speechless
He turned around and saw the bartender cleaning the table
"Do you know who that was partner? "
" Who? "
" the old man who just left."
Bartender looked at him confusingly
" there was no one in the bar except you mister."
Crave
You loved me enough to kill me. Enough to grieve me.
(heretic love / i, the slaughtered dove)
Dying stag slowly heaves in its last breath,
You and I, interconnect
Bloodbath. This is you and I. This is how we are intertwined. Skin to skin. Vein to vein.
(i know you better than anyone else / there can be nobody else)
Crucified by my own affection. Trapped by discretion and misdirection.
The steady discordant pump of my heart. I hear yours, thumping back, in the meat of your chest. Buried in the sinew of me and you.
You and I, implies that we are separate concepts. That we can exist apart. But this would be foolish.
(it is reflexive, instinctive, to crave you the way i do / it is repulsive, unnatural, and wrong)
Lumbar lordosis,
is the arch of the back.
The curving of the spine.
(Oh god, you are mine)
Twisted tight, wrapped around your jawbone. There is a word for this. There must be a proper word for this.
I want you, is different
from
I need you
Absolution tastes like your blood between my teeth. Condemnation tastes like you. I’ll wear your bones like a crucifix. Slip inside your skin and never let go.
insatiable over the bridge
I have this old bridge that I draw. It’s broken, there are cracks in the bricks, but the water underneath is undisturbed. There are shrubs on both sides, but there’s never anyone at the bridge. However, there’s always some reminder that a human was once here. It comes in the form of a bouquet in the water below, or a lingering umbrella. It’s too bad that old bridge only comes out as a sketch. Messy, like it follows the uneven pattern of the wind that blows under the bridge, but decisive, like the planes of the bridge have been memorized and my pen knows where to go.
I drew it in a crowded bus, when I thought everyone was asleep, the same song played on repeat in my ears. But it seems you woke up, and took a glance at the bridge that was only meant for my worst fears and quietest moments. Then, as we walked into the hotel lobby, I mentioned that I had been drawing and you told me you liked my sketch, of a place that only exists within my dreams. I brushed it off, but in that moment, I wanted to look into your eyes and pull the color out to paint the waters below my bridge. I wanted to draw you into my world.
Then, a while later, I sat at a Parisian cafe, when a horrible realization fell at my feet. What if that piece becomes my favorite? What if every painting that I paint, every masterpiece that I tie my soul into, isn’t enough? What if I grab every single color of the earth and it still doesn’t capture the color I saw in your eyes? Yes, Van Gogh painted Starry Night, but what if Garden of Courting Couples was his favorite, because someone whom he loved saw it? Maybe his favorite pieces are his sketches of Sien. I think about it, because I could have painted every bridge on the Seine, every brick in Paris, and every flower that grew from cracks in the cobblestone, and it might not be enough. I could hang in the Louvre, and millions could see my finished works, the ones that took time and solitude.
Yet, I will always think to myself, what if the colors and subjects cease to matter? Just because it was seen by you, what if the best thing I ever did was an old sketch in the back of the bus?
im sorry
Dear Mom,
I am sorry I'm not more like Mollie. And I know you love me for who I am but I don't. I wish I was her too. I'm sorry for my attitude and my need for perfection but no motivation because I know Mollie has the motivation. I'm sorry I don't make you laugh more and I'm sorry we have stopped spending time together. I miss you. The truth is I am scared for us to be close again. Ever since I got over my separation anxiety I have been worried if we get close again it will come back. I'm sorry I compare myself to others, and I'm sorry I hate the body and person that against all odds you made. I'm sorry I have let you down because I know I have let myself down. I only hope when I am a mother, I have half the women you are. I hope I have half the love you gave me, Mollie, and Steve. I hope I have even half the drive to help others. And half the compassion and love for raising us as you had. I wish I could be better and I swear I am trying and I will make you proud, whether in this life or the next. I love you.
Dear Mom,
All the Month of May, and March, your birth month, are to me Mementos in our family calendar. Ever since your passing, not a day goes by that I do not think of you, but in these the Moments are that much more with Emphasis.
Mom you were my best friend. In ways, you will always remain as such. After all, I still talk to you as if you were right here.
In your Homemade pink floured apron, and the kerchief you wore over your silken hair, I can picture you advising me as you juggled things on the Stove, in the Oven and tended the Store front, and us three children. Mom, I've no idea how you did it. You would remind me to look at the simple things for Inspiration.
Nobody bakes and cooked like you did. I have the Recipes!! and neither I nor my wife (God Bless the Angel for trying!) can replicate. I know it was something to do with the Exactness of how things were done, not the pinch of this or that but How. Whether sprinkled in or rolled or in one clump or over Time. Or how Hot or Cold. You knew. And I'm sure you told me too. I forget. I have learned that Lesson though.
I'm trying to pass that on to the Grandchildren. That Thoughtfulness. That Thoroughness. And that Toughness.
Thank you Mom. It's that No Fail pie crust I'm craving now. No matter what you put in there is was always Right. Perfect. Comfort and Conversation. Just add You and Me, and a pot of Tea, with its yellow cozy.
To you Mom.
All our Love,
Keith
Dear Stepmother
Dear Stepmother,
When you first came into my life, I'll be honest I did not want to give you a chance because I wished my parents would have been together. I soon realized that life was not going to go the way I wanted it to but yet I still did not want to even give you a chance. When I went to dads for spring break every morning, I would look out the window to see if your car was there and I would be sad if it was and happy if it wasn't. Over the year I slowly started to realize that I needed to give you a chance, so I did. I thought you were too strict and mean so I really did not look at you as a mom until the day you and dad said that I could live with you all. The day you both said I could move in with you I began to realize you cared because you knew I did not like living with my birth mom, I saw that you loved me like I was your own. After I moved in you were still strict, but I soon realized that it was because you wanted me to succeed in life. I started calling you mom because you showed me and treated me like your daughter. when I had my seizers, I called for you after because as my mom I knew you would take care of me. You made sure I took my medicine and that I was taking care of myself. You refused to give up on me when I wanted to give up on myself. I would not be where I am today if it was not for you mom. You are my mother, and I would not have it any other way. Happy Mother's Day and thank you for loving me like your own.
Love,
Your Daughter.