Printemps

do you hear?

the sound of old alters crumbling

is like the cracking of ice

in a spring thaw

the whispered prayers

from yesterday

have already faded from mine ears

they are now only

the breeze, and mute

the icons of history have fallen

from their lofty reaches

and lie scattered in pieces over the ground

we grind them to dust under our feet

we dance over them

we braid early flowers into our hair
and smile for the worship of things genuinely pure

Idoles Brisées/ The Truth Between Is the Same

i find your lack of remorse

frankly, appalling

your narcissism holds up the mirror

for me to see myself 

more clearly

your crocodile tears

glisten sweetly

like the gleam in your eye

i would run from you

but i know you'd give chase

brutal, wrenching chase 

you are the black cat i fought with

the stifling heat from the fire

the weariness in my bones

the wariness in my heart

you are the keen and needy distance

i put between myself

and everyone else

you are the need to hurt

and break

you are the plush extra

and the sharp lack

you are unnecessary to me now
(maybe you always were)

i can cut you out

and burn you down

but you will not be erased

no, never erased

and so you will too 

become the void

better the void

than the presence

for the ghosts you banish into a void

can never return from it to haunt you

Baptême par le feu

the home i was born in

has burned to the ground

a smoldering rubble,

the very foundation

is unfamiliar

the last tendrils of smoke

curl upward even now

past my face

a sweet incense

unto Heaven

years from now

the vines will creep toward

what is left

to cover it over

Nature's burial

to my children

it will look ancient and beautiful

the remains of a chimney

blackened

the battle with twisting ivy

so poignantly lost

no stone

left upon stone

all erased

excepting the memory

which lies in glittering shards

among the rubble

blending with the broken china

and yes, if they ask, then yes.
it was arson

it was either the memory or me

it was them or me

her, or me.

for once,

but maybe never again

i chose Me.

and so i am the daughter

of my own mind

the phoenix

rising

I Would Rather Be Out of Doors

watch the day break

determine now to fill it up

make it spill over

into the night,

the Moon's turn

i dont want there to be

any waste

i just want to go

from branch to branch

with purpose

meaning

i want to feel

every crystalline drop

cool and bracing

leaving

no chirp  unnoticed

no leap unappreaciated

no breeze unenjoyed

i remember spinning
arms out
swirling the world around me
falling to the ground
 it was prayer
though i didnt know it

lying down in the grass

warmth of earth at back

chill of spring on neck

baptism

letting it wash over

the dirt an annointing

under the nails

faire la connaissance

extend the offer

to get to know you better.

i might take you up

Strangers

you cant know me well

 for i am more than you see

you look with closed eyes

Ma famille: Deus pascit Corvos.

                                                        Corbeau.

Old French for "Little Crow," 

- - meaning "raven-haired" or dark-haired

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'


e.a.poe.

i am not

enough today

 


but maybe

i'll make better mistakes

t
 o
   m
     o
       r
         r
           o
             w

Rêve

dreamt i had the Obamas over for dinner last night.

Michelle was priggish and cold.

Barack took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves

and sat down on my couch.

He leaned in when I talked to him.

i told him that people were confused.

i said that people thought He was "the answer,"

but this was wrong.

He was only supposed to set "the answer" in motion;

he was the conduit through which "the answer" would come.
This is why the people are angry,
and feel they have been betrayed.

He agreed whole-heartedly, clapping his hands.

Kevin said I was being rude.

Michelle smoothed her skirt and looked embarrassed.

Barack made himself a turkey sandwich
and explained how this was true.

His daughters hunted Easter eggs in the backyard.

It occurred to me,
watching him make his sandwich in my kitchen,
that i couldn't remember his middle name.

i began to fret over it, in case one of the other guests should ask me.

i turned to face the guests mingling through my house.
i meant to find Kevin, to ask him if he knew Barack's middle name.

But my eyes locked with Theda Bara's.

"Hussein" she mouthed at me, from across the crowded room.

Funny, 

that i should remember thinking in my dream 

that i didn't know, 

then supplying myself with the answer after all.

Edges of Lonely ~ Day Two

Work again. 

Too much work.

Ate shitty fast food. 

Felt miserable.

Fell asleep on couch.

Meh.

It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't "seizing the opportunity

of solitude," and all that rot...

Tomorrow will be better.

The Edges of Lonely - Day One

Five days to myself
to think and breathe and stretch and purr

I have glibly encouraged singleton friends and my sister to enjoy being alone. I have been jealous over the luxury of solitude for a little while now. So I am determined to relish this time apart from him. I am determined to take my own glib advice and embrace this time to myself.

Day one was not tough, really. I was at work for 13 hours of the day, so I forgot that I was alone. But the sun was late to bed this evening when I got off work (spring around the corner!), so I had a few minutes of sunshine to revel in.
I rolled my window down and stuck my elbow on the door frame.
I went to the market and bought some seed packets of chard and sweet peas.

Roaming around the store, I was trying to decide between frozen burrito or ice cream for dinner when it hit me... This is wrong. I'm a grown-ass adult woman. I want good food. Food lovingly prepared just for me. Okay, so I'm going to have a date with myself.

I bought things to make a spicy penne pasta with bison (just to try something new!). And I didn't scrimp on the ingredients.

Once home, I put the water on to boil, then walked the dogs around the neighborhood.
When I got back in, my first thought was to put on the television, so I would have some noise/company.
But instead, I put on some jazz music, which is much more date-like.

I sauteed and simmered, and chopped, and crushed, and baked a loaf of garlic bread.
Then I broke out the antique china and opened a bottle of Cab Sauv.
On a whim I lit a candle and stuck that on the table, too.
I turned down most of the lights, and Really enjoyed my food, my wine and my own company.

The pasta was delicious, the wine was perfect and the company...well...it wasn't half bad either.

The worst part of my date...?
Going to bed alone.
(At least there are the doggies!)

Le Silence est D'or

last night i dreamt 

of Theda Bara

but she wouldn't speak to me

so i made us both a coffee

(hers with two cremes)

and told her all of my secrets



she said nothing.
only watched me over the rim of her cup

EnterView

if you could whisper in my ear
so that i were bound by a secret, 
what would you say?


what words would fly readily to your lips?

if i had the power
to grant you just one wish,
what object would your arms instinctively reach for?

if vision were yours, and you could see anything
and everything

what is the first sight your eyes would seek?

if you could go back into sleep
to finish that dream
would you?


if everyone were frozen 
for one second in time,
what caper would you cut?

if there were no boundaries
how far would you go?

Bibliophilia

(sitting watching wind blow

sipping mint tea

thinking...)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

it is no easy thing

to write entity into Being

no one told me about the responsibility

of birthing vicarious

fictive characters

I mean, 

do you really want that character hanging around,

laughing through your dreams

standing next to you in the shower

watching you make love

whispering in your ear

snuggling down beside you
as you watch t.v.

humming along with you to the song on the radio?

well do you?

even the ones you kill off

don't really ever go away

they linger in the part of your brain

that conceived them in the first place

the part that labored

all of those long, sweating hours

to deliver them safely to the outstretched arms of the blank page

all of my characters are me

I do not know how

just that they are

yes, i am the hero
and the lover and the saint and the villain

and the nemesis and the witch and the maid

and the crone and the Father

and the fallen leaves that she watches

as they swirl over the ground at her feet

poison

the more i write this one to existence

the less i find appealing 

the more sunlight i spin and weave

the more he is eclipsed

to write myself to my fictive world

i would

the brighter the days there

the greyer the rain here

i close my eyes and see it clearly

i write myself in

and stop my ears

i settle in
i write myself down and high
snuggle up with the languid waste of wanting
that which i have created


pygmalion, you elegant bastard
you knew too well

the more he isn't him

the more impatient i grow

even as the tale is spinning

a web to catch me in

i brew the poison

to pour in mine own ear