End

To Violet Raine:

I have a second interview to a pretty good job lined up. Everyone wants this for me. For us. But I'm scared and not as excited as I should be. Getting this job will mean working full time...away from you. Since the moment I found out I was pregnant...it was just you, me, and God in that moment. And you were mine and we were together. And since that moment, I have never been separated from you. Not for long and not for consecutive days. I love you so tremendously. Last night, you had a fever because you just had a round of shots. And any time you aren't feeling well, all you want is your mommy. Like any child, I presume. So I held you, non stop, for 24 hours until you felt better...until now, when you are back to your normal, silly self. Taking out all your toys, your giant Tike car (it looks giant in our tiny apartment). Eating your snacks. Laughing. Refusing to go to bed. " I promised you something the day you were born and I held your tiny frame in my arms. You stared at me with those peering eyes. I promised we'd forever be going on adventures together. We will. I will always do my best by you. We will have a great life. I promise.

Wasteland

I don't write a lot these days because I just get hjhlkjhjh when I do (that isn't a word but I can't think of an adjective to accurately convey the emotion, so). Writing is cathartic, yes. But my blog is public, and I'm afraid I'll write too much. Not that I have a lot of readers, but I've found out lately that I do have a few ghost readers (people who read my blog anonymously). Not that that is a problem. I am grateful that I am not just writing to myself. But, because of the mystery behind who my few readers are, I can't just say anything. And I prefer to just feel nothing about what I want to say. Leave everything unaddressed until I actually have something to do about it. But I am always honest. Because I can always turn around an omit things or delete my post altogether. I'll do what I always do and drape my unbridled, bare thoughts in a figurative cloak. I know a lot of the writing on this blog sucks. It's unrevised. Raw. Streams of consciousness. Anyway. Do I sound like I'm on drugs? I'm not. Maybe I am being too esoteric.

Wasteland

Love is a rope. Dangling and frayed. Fashioned into a waiting noose. Or a lifeline. A fibrous knot. Or pulled taut. And nearly breaking.

You were my crush. Now you're just crushing my heart. And I crush myself. Maybe I was better off. Heart in the gutter, lips near the mic. Making music in the cafe where I was sitting uptight before you, sitting upright. Singing to faces laden with shadows. And the mint tea on your lips. Sugar? the lies. But now I'm the liar. Stirring tears in my eyes. Erase it all. With melody and songs about last fall. But you aren't there to hear.

You're gone soon after you appear. Unspoken words run in rivulets. Down my heart and into a void. Where you and I were in love. In danger of..dying together on that battlefield. Hand in hand. Afghanistan. Left you well. Time will tell.
But snipped the rope
I
f
e
l
l
Knees skirting the dirt in this familiar wasteland
Unheard song, unsung. The end, written on a leaflet wet and went with a maelstrom:
Your tea down the drain.
Walking home alone. Drizzle to hard rain.

Sojourn

It's late. My thoughts are marbled, but clear. I'm over it. Checking out. Seems these dreams were filled with psilocybin weeds. But I'm beginning to see where I really am. There are better fish in the sea. So I'll unhook this old one that's been slithering for so long in these hands, and throw you into the small tank where you belong. I can already see your nacreous scales flickering like watercolored gems in the sun and then fading to black beneath the sinking depths. Like the idea of you and me. My world is widening now. I'm smarter now. Forget the stupidity and naivety of my youth.  I go back to the things I wrote and said, and I laugh. But I've been journaling since I was 6 years old and I've been through many laughable phases. Multi-faceted laughter. Hysterical, sad, embarrassed, nostalgic, angry, humored, joyful and traumatized laughter. Which face is it wearing this time? How did I not see this before. I've stood at this embankment for so long (years). I thought this water was crystal, but it is black and seething with regret. I saw the embankment falling apart, but allowed the murky waters to spill over and push me down. And I've been lying belly down in this stagnant puddle of a sea. But my mind has been too clouded by affections and metaphors and the preternatural of the fictional worlds in my head.

But I sense a scent like honey lingering in the adjacent valley. So I will fly there. Below the clouds where you will see me and lament. Forget invisibility. I am the snow capped mountain which erases the blood horizon, no longer the pebble wedged between two concrete slabs. I am here. But I am also gone. And my laughter will echo in the valley from which I first sojourned. And you will keep running after it,  hoping to find my wings protruding from the next corner.

"By tomorrow we'll be swimming with the fishes
Leave our troubles in the sand.
And when the sun comes up,
We'll be nothing but dust,
Just the outlines of our hands."

I hate MV

I've created a new world. I've put idealism in a bubble and made that my retreat. That is the problem with being a writer and a reader; I can't find solid ground in reality. At least not recently. I go to work and drift through the hours. I watch people walking around and watch them interact with each other and realize that the city I work in is a black hole. Once you come near it, it sucks you into a dark place and won't let you go. Is everyone here a carbon copy of each other? Impolite? Hostile? Illiterate? Crazy? Uncultured? Everything bad that has ever happened to me has happened in this city. How is it that it is so hard to escape. I've taken dust from the sky and rain off the pavement and molded them into hills to hide behind.

Dead Wood in the Water

A sad sang is adrift this last wave. This ocean is a kaleidoscope no more. It is still. A picture of the beauty that once was. Framed by dead wood.

There are slits in the thinning skin of the sun as the slivered clouds pass by.

Pro[cure] Me

I watch the others
Pry open eyes
Beg for attention
Dust their eyes with
Saltless tears
I roll mine
Like dice
Vacant pupils
Hollowed fears
to determine my lot
And turn away

Lonely channel carries cure
it floats about
like a golden leaf
Glitter of sunset
Detached reef
Swept along
by sea breeze
I jump in after it
Water to my knees
Water to my chest
Water overhead
It runs deeper than I'd guessed