Lazy Lunch Time
This soup is sweet and simple. A rich broth of brightly contrasting wombs, simmered before life could burst from them. Earthy and savory like the promise of birth and childhood should be. Their loss is my lunch. Spoon after spoon finding my greedy mouth before I bother to appreciate the one before it. A bought and paid for flavor whore I’ll forget by the next meal. I’m not hungry anyway. My mind and head, eyes and ears are fixed on a three part PBS series on Carl Jung. Ammo for the arsenal. Another pair of shoulders to trample. Standing on the shoulders of giants and all that… How else will my temple of narcissism tower above everyone else’s?
I’m bored. Blah blah healing, blah innovation blah… These problem-solving healing-helpers are clever, but missing the point. A cock of promised utopia in their mouth to distract them from the cock of reality in their ass. The “Great Minds of Our Time” still getting fucked. I smile and almost giggle as I stare at the ceiling. Must be where the term “dumb fuck” comes from.
The voices of the kids playing outside come through my window. They sound like my soup, but with a future for the moment. They’re playing in the rain and making teepee’s out of sticks that can’t even keep the rain out let alone the coming avalanche of corruption, illusion, and indentured servitude waiting around the next hedge. Waiting to simmer them with spinach and seasonings and just a dash of lemon juice. Waiting to take their smiles, then their dreams, and then their lives. And it won’t be waiting long. They’re coughing already. The rain isn’t helping. There’s medicine for that too. I’m sure I’ll kill a few of my own hopes to pay for that. Pay with a little shine. Pay with a little heart. The shirt off my back? Hell no. I love this shirt. My husband paid for it for me. A huge, bursting closet full of more too. And unlike their clothes, mine are dry and clean. And just seeing those kids shivering outside reminds me of something. I want another cup of soup.
I’m bored. Blah blah healing, blah innovation blah… These problem-solving healing-helpers are clever, but missing the point. A cock of promised utopia in their mouth to distract them from the cock of reality in their ass. The “Great Minds of Our Time” still getting fucked. I smile and almost giggle as I stare at the ceiling. Must be where the term “dumb fuck” comes from.
The voices of the kids playing outside come through my window. They sound like my soup, but with a future for the moment. They’re playing in the rain and making teepee’s out of sticks that can’t even keep the rain out let alone the coming avalanche of corruption, illusion, and indentured servitude waiting around the next hedge. Waiting to simmer them with spinach and seasonings and just a dash of lemon juice. Waiting to take their smiles, then their dreams, and then their lives. And it won’t be waiting long. They’re coughing already. The rain isn’t helping. There’s medicine for that too. I’m sure I’ll kill a few of my own hopes to pay for that. Pay with a little shine. Pay with a little heart. The shirt off my back? Hell no. I love this shirt. My husband paid for it for me. A huge, bursting closet full of more too. And unlike their clothes, mine are dry and clean. And just seeing those kids shivering outside reminds me of something. I want another cup of soup.
Ambivalanche or A Rapid Flow of Simultaneous Conflict Cascading Down A Sloped Surface
Too much is never enough. I might throw up.
The room is spinning. Spin it faster.
Till the walls are houndstooth. Till the denim is silk.
Till the RV is a limo is a sailboat is a plane, first class.
Till the water is wine and the conversation is better.
The pages are falling out of my books. Gone like me. Gone digital. There won’t be any pages soon. No library smell. No faded text or dog ears. What’s next when they’re gone? Does the spring fall out of my step? Do I fall from grace? Do I lose my hair? My sense of humor? Will my pages fall out? Not yet. Not till I check out, and I think I just checked in.
With turndown service, champagne, and chocolate coated strawberries by the window, with roses and a welcome card. I haven’t even unpacked yet. I’m just settling in. Putting my ambition on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. Hanging my killer instinct in the closet and remembering to iron it into perfect shape so I can wear it out tonight. Below on the floor, a neat row of black and blingy high horses, soapboxes, and podiums. How else does a girl rise above and get noticed? Any advantage is one worth taking. Next spreading my fog of war and arsenal of sweet little lies across the bathroom counter. I’ll be back for those after I shower.
Stripping naked, leaving a trail of 5-minutes-ago across the floor of the room to the bathroom. My secret waterfall. A place to come clean or get dirty as occasion may require. Dangerous or sweet. Siren or mermaid. Either way, I’m Queen of the water. Lady of the Lake. It rolls down my arms and shoots off my fingers and I wield it like a sea witch, like I did when I was 6 years old, like I did last night before bed, like I always have, like I never did, like it never mattered and when the drops hung heavy like words in the air. Falling and shattering like glass. Tearing time. Ripping the curtain between worlds before setting it on fire. I may wield water, but I’m that blaze. That flare. The spark. I’m that heat. And I’m the ashes that wash down the drain.
The room is spinning. Spin it faster.
Till the walls are houndstooth. Till the denim is silk.
Till the RV is a limo is a sailboat is a plane, first class.
Till the water is wine and the conversation is better.
The pages are falling out of my books. Gone like me. Gone digital. There won’t be any pages soon. No library smell. No faded text or dog ears. What’s next when they’re gone? Does the spring fall out of my step? Do I fall from grace? Do I lose my hair? My sense of humor? Will my pages fall out? Not yet. Not till I check out, and I think I just checked in.
With turndown service, champagne, and chocolate coated strawberries by the window, with roses and a welcome card. I haven’t even unpacked yet. I’m just settling in. Putting my ambition on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. Hanging my killer instinct in the closet and remembering to iron it into perfect shape so I can wear it out tonight. Below on the floor, a neat row of black and blingy high horses, soapboxes, and podiums. How else does a girl rise above and get noticed? Any advantage is one worth taking. Next spreading my fog of war and arsenal of sweet little lies across the bathroom counter. I’ll be back for those after I shower.
Stripping naked, leaving a trail of 5-minutes-ago across the floor of the room to the bathroom. My secret waterfall. A place to come clean or get dirty as occasion may require. Dangerous or sweet. Siren or mermaid. Either way, I’m Queen of the water. Lady of the Lake. It rolls down my arms and shoots off my fingers and I wield it like a sea witch, like I did when I was 6 years old, like I did last night before bed, like I always have, like I never did, like it never mattered and when the drops hung heavy like words in the air. Falling and shattering like glass. Tearing time. Ripping the curtain between worlds before setting it on fire. I may wield water, but I’m that blaze. That flare. The spark. I’m that heat. And I’m the ashes that wash down the drain.
Rock Poem
I fucked up. So what? Everyone does.
We all make mistakes. The only real shame is not to try.
Days and nights worshipping in the dark. Wrong god, bitch.
Right time, wrong cult. So what? I don’t recall his name.
I’m not looking back. I’m not looking back.
My eyes are on the horizon where the rain is.
Where the birds are flying. Where the seeds are growing.
It’s a mountain. So what? Hike it till I make it.
Dress for the job you want, not the one you’ve got right?
My eye’s on the prize. My eye’s on the prize.
The small voices run circles around my mind.
Whose thoughts are these? They don’t sound like mine ever did.
Love it, hug it, shoot it, smoke it, taste it, fuck it,
stab it, tease it, haunt it, taunt it, hoop it, stupid.
I’m dusting the lens. I’m dusting the lens.
Because Pele is in my heart. She’s so hot right now.
And who the hell knew? Not me. I had no idea.
I stood at the cliffs edge and found truth in my lies.
Meditating over the Peahi ocean.
I watched myself fall. I watched myself fall.
Now there’s a hurricane of fire beneath my breasts.
My breath rises and falls as I drive, eat, dance, sleep,
but this storm has no tides, only nuclear fission.
Now it burns beyond control and won’t rest with me.
I’m searching my soul. I’m searching my soul.
What other bombs bide inside me? Tick tock. Tick tock.
I don’t give a fuck. Not really. Not anymore.
So what? The loves I could lose, I’d lose anyway.
Flowers die whether I water them or not.
I’m facing the flame. I’m facing the flame.
There’s shit and diamonds. There are brigands and buddhas.
There are paladins of love with swords that are real.
There’s piss and vinegar, and blood and wine that stain,
and saints in black trash bags and wolves in Armani.
I see you fucker. I see you fucker.
So, what? I’m not my worst enemy anymore.
All that energy is free. Lightning in my veins.
All instruments fine tuned, assets action ready.
My keys are in my hand. I’m walking to the door.
I’m rolling out, bitches. I’m rolling out.
We all make mistakes. The only real shame is not to try.
Days and nights worshipping in the dark. Wrong god, bitch.
Right time, wrong cult. So what? I don’t recall his name.
I’m not looking back. I’m not looking back.
My eyes are on the horizon where the rain is.
Where the birds are flying. Where the seeds are growing.
It’s a mountain. So what? Hike it till I make it.
Dress for the job you want, not the one you’ve got right?
My eye’s on the prize. My eye’s on the prize.
The small voices run circles around my mind.
Whose thoughts are these? They don’t sound like mine ever did.
Love it, hug it, shoot it, smoke it, taste it, fuck it,
stab it, tease it, haunt it, taunt it, hoop it, stupid.
I’m dusting the lens. I’m dusting the lens.
Because Pele is in my heart. She’s so hot right now.
And who the hell knew? Not me. I had no idea.
I stood at the cliffs edge and found truth in my lies.
Meditating over the Peahi ocean.
I watched myself fall. I watched myself fall.
Now there’s a hurricane of fire beneath my breasts.
My breath rises and falls as I drive, eat, dance, sleep,
but this storm has no tides, only nuclear fission.
Now it burns beyond control and won’t rest with me.
I’m searching my soul. I’m searching my soul.
What other bombs bide inside me? Tick tock. Tick tock.
I don’t give a fuck. Not really. Not anymore.
So what? The loves I could lose, I’d lose anyway.
Flowers die whether I water them or not.
I’m facing the flame. I’m facing the flame.
There’s shit and diamonds. There are brigands and buddhas.
There are paladins of love with swords that are real.
There’s piss and vinegar, and blood and wine that stain,
and saints in black trash bags and wolves in Armani.
I see you fucker. I see you fucker.
So, what? I’m not my worst enemy anymore.
All that energy is free. Lightning in my veins.
All instruments fine tuned, assets action ready.
My keys are in my hand. I’m walking to the door.
I’m rolling out, bitches. I’m rolling out.
Lost In Found
I don’t know how to do anything anymore. Anything I think about. I’m lost. Right now, lost. Making toast, lost. Painting my nails, lost. Writing, lost. When I was hiking yesterday I was lost too but that was ok. I lust for that kind of lost. In the branches and mosquitos, down cliffs and over soggy trickling river beds. Lost in smooth rocks. I wanted to take one. I used to paint rocks and keep them. Eventually I stole rocks from urban Silicon Valley apartment rock gardens, painted them, sealed them, and then put them back where they started. My rebel graffiti.
I used to like rebelling but I seem to have lost that too. Like a penny under a car. I want to crawl under there after it as it rolls out of reach. Not because of the money, but because it got away from me before I said it could. But that’s just not done. Being myself is just not done, but if I paid attention to that at all, I’d never do anything. So many options would be off the table. Showing up as me. Showing up in love. Showing up wearing a pink hippopotamus onesie. But I show up. Maybe fuzzy, maybe dripping in gold, maybe bitchy or sunburnt or smelling like dirt and lavender, but I show up. I haven’t lost that yet. And I won’t.
Fur coats and fascinators over sandwiches and board games, topless and dusty in the shade of land yachts while bicycles take naps, snorkeling fully clothed, or dancing in the midwestern rain after a summer wedding to the horror of the terribly civilized family standing by worrying. What will people say? What if I ruin my royal blue satin gown? What kind of example am I? Dancing to the beat of my own heart. Sober, while all my more civilized cousins are high, drunk or both, mostly underage, but humming along to a much more predictable song. Nothing to bring about such a gasp like me. “God bless her heart” like me. “God forbid” like me. “What in God’s name” like me. “God only knows” like me! Say a prayer for me Auntie. I’m sure she did. Maybe it worked. I found myself losing my way. Found myself straying from the flock. Lost my ability to give two shits or a single fuck, and one thing I’m not going to lose is a wink of sleep over it. I found myself.
I used to like rebelling but I seem to have lost that too. Like a penny under a car. I want to crawl under there after it as it rolls out of reach. Not because of the money, but because it got away from me before I said it could. But that’s just not done. Being myself is just not done, but if I paid attention to that at all, I’d never do anything. So many options would be off the table. Showing up as me. Showing up in love. Showing up wearing a pink hippopotamus onesie. But I show up. Maybe fuzzy, maybe dripping in gold, maybe bitchy or sunburnt or smelling like dirt and lavender, but I show up. I haven’t lost that yet. And I won’t.
Fur coats and fascinators over sandwiches and board games, topless and dusty in the shade of land yachts while bicycles take naps, snorkeling fully clothed, or dancing in the midwestern rain after a summer wedding to the horror of the terribly civilized family standing by worrying. What will people say? What if I ruin my royal blue satin gown? What kind of example am I? Dancing to the beat of my own heart. Sober, while all my more civilized cousins are high, drunk or both, mostly underage, but humming along to a much more predictable song. Nothing to bring about such a gasp like me. “God bless her heart” like me. “God forbid” like me. “What in God’s name” like me. “God only knows” like me! Say a prayer for me Auntie. I’m sure she did. Maybe it worked. I found myself losing my way. Found myself straying from the flock. Lost my ability to give two shits or a single fuck, and one thing I’m not going to lose is a wink of sleep over it. I found myself.
Down the Drain
My head is pounding in the back on the right side. Read me a story. Rub my back. I don’t have anyone for that. Ariston and I work at our computers side by side. The dark chestnut table that was for a dining room is a craft table, is a computer lab table, is a sewing table, is a wooden surface blessed with play and food and strange conversation. I need my space, but I always squeeze myself out of it.
My thin thread bracelet fell off yesterday. The blue embroidery floss that lived out a surprisingly rich lifecycle since April. Always April. The ghost ship of a month that makes me walk the plank and stare down at my reflection in the smooth navy tide of life and do something. I fucking hate April, but this thread tied me to the best April in memory. Where fear melted away on grass and goblins came out of the shadows to join the party, stop hating, do some dance, do some yoga, play with glowing hoops in the dark and howl at the moon. At the feet of the mossy thai buddha where I found my father’s love and the truth of our story. Lava gravel, ginger, and tree ferns. Lilac and jasmine on the breeze.
I haven’t told my family about the bracelet but I will. So much to say. How do I find the words when my vocabulary is exclusively comprised of acronyms? lol. gtg afk. brb. ttys. omfg. wtf. idk.
Letters, words, noises. I can’t think. Not with my head pounding like this. I want to sleep. Climb into my ocean bed, burrow beneath the leafy pillows and hibernate for a century or two.
No such luck. My son is clanging on pans building a wonderland of sound that cracks my skull. I can’t think! The vacuums is sucking me into it’s dark dusty bag. The sink is washing me down the drain with rotten food and bubbles of slippery soap. The fan is blowing air on me colder than I can warm. It’s all too much. Too much when the ones I love are away down windy roads, deep under leafy jungle canopies where I can’t find them. Too much when I’m out in the sun, blinded by light and can’t see what’s around. What’s holding me? I’m floating in dark space without the benefit of it’s silence. I’m tired.
But my bracelet fell off. The one to remind me not to be afraid.
And that’s gotta be good for something right?
My thin thread bracelet fell off yesterday. The blue embroidery floss that lived out a surprisingly rich lifecycle since April. Always April. The ghost ship of a month that makes me walk the plank and stare down at my reflection in the smooth navy tide of life and do something. I fucking hate April, but this thread tied me to the best April in memory. Where fear melted away on grass and goblins came out of the shadows to join the party, stop hating, do some dance, do some yoga, play with glowing hoops in the dark and howl at the moon. At the feet of the mossy thai buddha where I found my father’s love and the truth of our story. Lava gravel, ginger, and tree ferns. Lilac and jasmine on the breeze.
I haven’t told my family about the bracelet but I will. So much to say. How do I find the words when my vocabulary is exclusively comprised of acronyms? lol. gtg afk. brb. ttys. omfg. wtf. idk.
Letters, words, noises. I can’t think. Not with my head pounding like this. I want to sleep. Climb into my ocean bed, burrow beneath the leafy pillows and hibernate for a century or two.
No such luck. My son is clanging on pans building a wonderland of sound that cracks my skull. I can’t think! The vacuums is sucking me into it’s dark dusty bag. The sink is washing me down the drain with rotten food and bubbles of slippery soap. The fan is blowing air on me colder than I can warm. It’s all too much. Too much when the ones I love are away down windy roads, deep under leafy jungle canopies where I can’t find them. Too much when I’m out in the sun, blinded by light and can’t see what’s around. What’s holding me? I’m floating in dark space without the benefit of it’s silence. I’m tired.
But my bracelet fell off. The one to remind me not to be afraid.
And that’s gotta be good for something right?
Calling the Spade
I’ve had too much caffeine. I can’t tell if the Christmas lights are twinkling double time or if it’s just me. The colors pulse and chase while the white lights stay constant. I know people of both sorts too. The ones who follow the closest shiny thing and the steady ones who just glow no matter what is happening around them. I don’t know which kind I am because I’ve had too much caffeine. My boys are yelling at each other in the other room. I’m grateful they aren’t punching. My dog is sleeping on her big squishy cushion. I’m jealous. I’ve had too much caffeine.
My stomach is in knots and my heart feels stressed. My body is tired but my mind feels settled. Comfortable with the tides of thoughts surging through its caves. Deep and warm and peaceful. I’d like to fold into myself, toes first. Toes always go first, they lead the way. I prefer that these days. My mouth used to go first, but that got me into trouble. Like I’d had too much caffeine.
Sunlight breaching the leaves of the tree above shining on my lips as I’d call a spade a spade. Spades are for digging and sometimes people don’t want to be unearthed. I’d stare blankly at the fallout. A furrowed brow forging young wrinkles. The lines on my forehead prove years of confusion, lowered with frustration and raised in the shock at what people do. Lowered at stubbornness. Raised at selfishness. Lowered at cruelty. Raised at disrespect. My eyebrows can do gymnastics across my face from all this practice. Both up both down, one up alone, then the other side. I can do the wave. I can’t understand people sometimes but that doesn’t surprise me anymore. Not much does.
Gay parents coming out of the closet after 30 years. Wives or husbands that cheat. Murder suicides committed by strangers… when people I know do it, that one still moves my eyebrows. What amazes me now is love. Fires that climb so high in the sky that they make the stars nervous. The power of a waterfall. The courage of an open heart. The vulnerability of a dream laid bare. The blood and sweat and tears of the same dream made matter.
My stomach is in knots and my heart feels stressed. My body is tired but my mind feels settled. Comfortable with the tides of thoughts surging through its caves. Deep and warm and peaceful. I’d like to fold into myself, toes first. Toes always go first, they lead the way. I prefer that these days. My mouth used to go first, but that got me into trouble. Like I’d had too much caffeine.
Sunlight breaching the leaves of the tree above shining on my lips as I’d call a spade a spade. Spades are for digging and sometimes people don’t want to be unearthed. I’d stare blankly at the fallout. A furrowed brow forging young wrinkles. The lines on my forehead prove years of confusion, lowered with frustration and raised in the shock at what people do. Lowered at stubbornness. Raised at selfishness. Lowered at cruelty. Raised at disrespect. My eyebrows can do gymnastics across my face from all this practice. Both up both down, one up alone, then the other side. I can do the wave. I can’t understand people sometimes but that doesn’t surprise me anymore. Not much does.
Gay parents coming out of the closet after 30 years. Wives or husbands that cheat. Murder suicides committed by strangers… when people I know do it, that one still moves my eyebrows. What amazes me now is love. Fires that climb so high in the sky that they make the stars nervous. The power of a waterfall. The courage of an open heart. The vulnerability of a dream laid bare. The blood and sweat and tears of the same dream made matter.
Post Request
We’re a couple of characters. Put together the right way, we spell disaster in our own tongue. Warm to our ways that wander foreign spines with a chill. The stars above us are dead, but their light is relevant, reflecting in our eyes, connecting us to our ancestors by experience. We wander the darkness in search of each other. Waves hurried on with power through conduits like veins, pumping our sound, pumping our transmission, pumping messages like one heart to another. Pumping. Rhythmic. Humming. Like the air. We’re in between. Not quite there. Clouded in smoke, sipping drinks too fast, swimming among fish and foes, hushing our conversation to a quiet yell. Anyone could be listening. The other characters can kiss my ASCII and I’m sure more of them have than I’d like to know about. No, tell me please. I lean forward. I hang on his words. Input validation. I’m happy here. Snug and secure near the razor’s edge of sharp eyes and sharper tongues. My best friends are worth knowing. The creature of definition connects with me. Like an orchid petal of fascinating shape and unpredictable contour when traced, delicate in his own way but strong and resilient. Brilliance and sincerity are my drugs of choice. Exclusivity and secrecy. Strengths and weaknesses. I slip into the information like a warm pool, drinking the undercurrent. The choices and words not spoken. This is love. I bait with a cutting joke and smile. Have another drink. Don’t spill the glass. Confusion is an opportunity for clarification, to push back, to gain ground. Two characters. One victorious and one glowing. I prod and play but I’m protective like cerberus, like death. Gentle sparring keeps us alive. Keeps us burning like celestial giants, the center of our systems, the hero in our stories… the centers, yes, but not isolated, connected. Unable to rest without connection. Tirelessly seeking the something. The someone. Ping. Ping. Ping darkness. Ping for a smile. Ping to see if something is there beyond what we dare to request. Ask. Dare. This life is finite. I’m here. The packet awaits. Request. Request. Life is finite.
Life Without Penises and Vaginas
A penis and a vagina walk into a bar. A successful collaboration of genital interaction depends entirely on two things.
1. The penis pretending to be civilized, patient, and selfless; everything he is not.
2. The vagina pretending to be independent, confident, and unemotional; everything she’s not.
If they play their cards right and no one flinches or cracks, they get to collide for a while. The length of time they are permitted to do so is dictated by their ability to maintain being everything they are not.
I don’t want to pretend anymore. Not anything. I suspect that resolve will leave me all alone in life soon. Which I guess is ok because I don’t want pretenders around either… which I think should cover most of the pesky human populace of penises and vaginas. Excellent. What will I do with all my time? What will I be?
A dove farmer!
I'll pick up my big silver bucket and walk over to my large silver trash can of chicken feed. I'll carry it, full of scratch grains and corn, to my ducks and chickens. Never mind the duck and chicken part, in moments hundreds of doves descend on the food and the ducks and chickens get almost nothing. Which from now on will be just fine because I’m a dove farmer.
I could be a professional typist!
I type things. Stories never read. Collective Underground writer’s studio pieces never posted. Movie and TV scripts written and rewritten. My fingers clack on keys by day, by night, candle light, sunlight, moonlight, or sometimes just the light of the glowing screen. I type on my phone and iPad and laptop. If I had a dollar for every first chapter of a book I’ve typed, I’d have a hundred dollars. Sometimes I type on a table with bored fingers seeing if my hands will stick to the invisible keys they’re so used to. I type all over the place! I wonder what typing pays.
I’ll sleep my way to the top!
I like sleeping. Maybe I can join some sort of sleep experiment where I can be studied with electrodes and monitors gathering data. I’m going to go practice right now!
1. The penis pretending to be civilized, patient, and selfless; everything he is not.
2. The vagina pretending to be independent, confident, and unemotional; everything she’s not.
If they play their cards right and no one flinches or cracks, they get to collide for a while. The length of time they are permitted to do so is dictated by their ability to maintain being everything they are not.
I don’t want to pretend anymore. Not anything. I suspect that resolve will leave me all alone in life soon. Which I guess is ok because I don’t want pretenders around either… which I think should cover most of the pesky human populace of penises and vaginas. Excellent. What will I do with all my time? What will I be?
A dove farmer!
I'll pick up my big silver bucket and walk over to my large silver trash can of chicken feed. I'll carry it, full of scratch grains and corn, to my ducks and chickens. Never mind the duck and chicken part, in moments hundreds of doves descend on the food and the ducks and chickens get almost nothing. Which from now on will be just fine because I’m a dove farmer.
I could be a professional typist!
I type things. Stories never read. Collective Underground writer’s studio pieces never posted. Movie and TV scripts written and rewritten. My fingers clack on keys by day, by night, candle light, sunlight, moonlight, or sometimes just the light of the glowing screen. I type on my phone and iPad and laptop. If I had a dollar for every first chapter of a book I’ve typed, I’d have a hundred dollars. Sometimes I type on a table with bored fingers seeing if my hands will stick to the invisible keys they’re so used to. I type all over the place! I wonder what typing pays.
I’ll sleep my way to the top!
I like sleeping. Maybe I can join some sort of sleep experiment where I can be studied with electrodes and monitors gathering data. I’m going to go practice right now!
Should Not Should
I’m seeing myself creating myself in my own image and it has me high on life. I’ve been getting the crowbar out and cranking off those boards and beams. That outer hull facade I built so long ago. Some gangly young blonde girl who thought she knew what she was doing, down in her dank, musty, but expansive bedroom. Cavernous as it was I managed to fill it with ideas. How I should be. Lit in red and laced with Smashing Pumpkins. I should be pop and funny. I should be witty and entertaining. I should wear plaid and chokers. I should be pretty and skinny and just intimidating enough to keep the flies off.
I shouldn’t cry, but I did.
I should protect those weaker than me even if I came back around to prey on them later. Oh, just a little bit. And I should guard my mom and draw my dad’s aggression. Better the target weigh on my back than hers. Especially those rough days when he’d pick the stupidest arguments like the best way to load a dishwasher or if rape is better dealt with legally or through vigilante justice. And after airing a few of his strong opinions, he’d meet some innocent resistance. Someone with another thought on it, a minor difference in opinion, and he’d go absolutely apeshit. Slowly at first, but you could set your watch to when he’d land at thundering, red eyed, spitting aggression. He’d back us into corners. We’d be pinned down for hours under the fire of unrelenting shouting either to demonstrate his original opinion SHOULD be adopted as fact by definition or prove a related point, that we should understand why we were so stupid and why was so much better. My mom could never handle it. She was too sweet and gentle a creature for it. So I took it on. That’s how good daughters should spend their weekends. Offering themselves as body shields. And like an uncomplicated beast, my dad always took the bait. So at least once a week, he’d get to that limit just a milimark below putting a fist through a wall or my face like his father had done to him, and done that and so much worse to his mother. He never crossed that line though. I should be grateful. Maybe I am, but not for those reasons. I’m grateful for every part of my story that made me who I am now, the person tearing down the mask. So I should be grateful for those times too. But should is a dangerous word. Maybe the MOST dangerous word. At the very beginning of exfoliating that hard juvenile crust of palatability and letting me be myself, it’s funny, “should” and milk were the first things to go.
I shouldn’t cry, but I did.
I should protect those weaker than me even if I came back around to prey on them later. Oh, just a little bit. And I should guard my mom and draw my dad’s aggression. Better the target weigh on my back than hers. Especially those rough days when he’d pick the stupidest arguments like the best way to load a dishwasher or if rape is better dealt with legally or through vigilante justice. And after airing a few of his strong opinions, he’d meet some innocent resistance. Someone with another thought on it, a minor difference in opinion, and he’d go absolutely apeshit. Slowly at first, but you could set your watch to when he’d land at thundering, red eyed, spitting aggression. He’d back us into corners. We’d be pinned down for hours under the fire of unrelenting shouting either to demonstrate his original opinion SHOULD be adopted as fact by definition or prove a related point, that we should understand why we were so stupid and why was so much better. My mom could never handle it. She was too sweet and gentle a creature for it. So I took it on. That’s how good daughters should spend their weekends. Offering themselves as body shields. And like an uncomplicated beast, my dad always took the bait. So at least once a week, he’d get to that limit just a milimark below putting a fist through a wall or my face like his father had done to him, and done that and so much worse to his mother. He never crossed that line though. I should be grateful. Maybe I am, but not for those reasons. I’m grateful for every part of my story that made me who I am now, the person tearing down the mask. So I should be grateful for those times too. But should is a dangerous word. Maybe the MOST dangerous word. At the very beginning of exfoliating that hard juvenile crust of palatability and letting me be myself, it’s funny, “should” and milk were the first things to go.
Melusine
I’m so many things. Whatever is needed of me most. What’s the emergency? I’ll be what it takes to make things right. Except for on Saturday. Saturday a serpent curse releases itself upon me. My legs twist into a single appendage, bones to spine, all the way to my waist. My skin quakes and shudders releasing scales that feel like soft armor. When I lived in the city it was a major damper on my weekend. Thank goodness I live on an island again, making curse or blessing more a matter of logistics. My daughter is absolutely convinced that when I lose my temper, I turn into a dragon, but that’s any day of the week. I try to keep it down. Be good. Don’t lose my shit. But it’s so difficult to not to breathe fire sometimes.
I’m in my office rapping away on my keyboard at a feverish tempo. Lost in my world, lost in my words. Those etchings of black crossing the screen, creating something from nothing, containing meaning because we say so. I get so deep in them. So deep in myself. Giving dire meaning to something that doesn’t really matter at all … not to time or the universe. But goddess, it’s so important to me. And when an interruption trips me it’s like my very own creatively spinning planet experienced a violent collision with another astral body bringing it to a sharp stop. It’s jarring! Concepts fly off it’s surface, inspiration jettisons into space. Like when a dog shakes water from it’s coat. I’ll never catch all of those drops. They’re gone. The moment is never the same. I wonder how many civilizations that could have been were lost due to interruption of their creation process. My response is more sadness than anger, but my kids would never vouch for me on that one. It is though! The five stages of grief…
But most often I quit, and leave the carnage and go back to being whatever is needed, shifter that I am, doing my real job. Even I can’t predict what I’ll be moment to moment. I try to go along with it and make it the best I can. Except on Saturdays… and that’s the closest I’ll ever come to being a mermaid.
I’m in my office rapping away on my keyboard at a feverish tempo. Lost in my world, lost in my words. Those etchings of black crossing the screen, creating something from nothing, containing meaning because we say so. I get so deep in them. So deep in myself. Giving dire meaning to something that doesn’t really matter at all … not to time or the universe. But goddess, it’s so important to me. And when an interruption trips me it’s like my very own creatively spinning planet experienced a violent collision with another astral body bringing it to a sharp stop. It’s jarring! Concepts fly off it’s surface, inspiration jettisons into space. Like when a dog shakes water from it’s coat. I’ll never catch all of those drops. They’re gone. The moment is never the same. I wonder how many civilizations that could have been were lost due to interruption of their creation process. My response is more sadness than anger, but my kids would never vouch for me on that one. It is though! The five stages of grief…
- Denial - Really? Right now?!
- Anger - …the fire breathing…
- Bargaining - Can you give me 10 more minutes? 5?
- Depression - Nevermind. It’s all ruined.
- Acceptance - I’ll be right there….as I say goodbye to the unique creations lost from that moment.
But most often I quit, and leave the carnage and go back to being whatever is needed, shifter that I am, doing my real job. Even I can’t predict what I’ll be moment to moment. I try to go along with it and make it the best I can. Except on Saturdays… and that’s the closest I’ll ever come to being a mermaid.
Formal Faces
I want to capture empty words and torture them. Really put their feet to the fire. They deserve it. Don’t cry for them. Emissaries of formality or convenience, they fill space in the air where love or hate or instruction or forgiveness could have been.
I want to set traps for hollow greetings and small talk. Chain them in dark catacombs where all hope of seeing the light of day will drain right out of them. Slow. Painful. They deserve it. Don’t feel guilty. They’re thick and coincidental like an unseen quicksand I rarely notice myself suffocating in. It happens so slow. I know how low I’ve sunk in it by how low I feel.
What I want is light. What I want is thin.
What I want is conveyances of thoughts that spread me wide open like a projector screen. Painted with colorful concepts that light me up. I deserve it. Feel it with me. Contagious awakenings of creativity, hope and optimism. A lens with an auto focus on what is useful.
What I want is connection, port to port, like man into woman, like merchant ships into harbors, like a network that makes the world smaller. I want to feel my lovers, my friends, even strangers with me in moments. Their breath and heartbeats, dreams and fears, brightest and darkest times. We deserve it. Are you feeling me? Answer! I need to know I’m not so different. I need to feel my reach into others to let them know they’re ok. So that you can stop hurting and so can I.
I want to be the destroyer of barriers. Tearing away manner and pretense whether the souls hanging on to them like it or not. But I don’t.
I want to scream when I hear insincerity. Grab the offender by the collar, cover his mouth with my hand and brush his forehead with a kiss of light lips. But I won’t.
Because I’m in the quicksand here.
And because I’m a good girl.
And because I’m heavy with rules, and an “excellent communicator.”
And because I am the quicksand.
I want to set traps for hollow greetings and small talk. Chain them in dark catacombs where all hope of seeing the light of day will drain right out of them. Slow. Painful. They deserve it. Don’t feel guilty. They’re thick and coincidental like an unseen quicksand I rarely notice myself suffocating in. It happens so slow. I know how low I’ve sunk in it by how low I feel.
What I want is light. What I want is thin.
What I want is conveyances of thoughts that spread me wide open like a projector screen. Painted with colorful concepts that light me up. I deserve it. Feel it with me. Contagious awakenings of creativity, hope and optimism. A lens with an auto focus on what is useful.
What I want is connection, port to port, like man into woman, like merchant ships into harbors, like a network that makes the world smaller. I want to feel my lovers, my friends, even strangers with me in moments. Their breath and heartbeats, dreams and fears, brightest and darkest times. We deserve it. Are you feeling me? Answer! I need to know I’m not so different. I need to feel my reach into others to let them know they’re ok. So that you can stop hurting and so can I.
I want to be the destroyer of barriers. Tearing away manner and pretense whether the souls hanging on to them like it or not. But I don’t.
I want to scream when I hear insincerity. Grab the offender by the collar, cover his mouth with my hand and brush his forehead with a kiss of light lips. But I won’t.
Because I’m in the quicksand here.
And because I’m a good girl.
And because I’m heavy with rules, and an “excellent communicator.”
And because I am the quicksand.
