shout out, bitch

A woman walked her dog next to me and mine. She said her dog had attitude and he made demands upon her. When he did he always ended each sentence with bitch.

Yo get me some food, bitch. Take my ass out, bitch. You best play with me, bitch.

I laughed when she told me. When I did she seemed to think we had a cool, chick bond. She seemed freed from some social expectation she held over herself when she discovered I wasn't offended by her humor.

She started making up silly sentences that her dog would say to her so she could end them with bitch. She began to frenzy like a horse rearing back, she would buck her head each time she said bitch.

I realized I became some sort of key to freedom for her and she decided to take full advantage. I continued to laugh at her dog sentences as I was fascinated as to how wacky she would get as the minutes ticked by. But alas, I was unable to take her to a full ecstasy of the freedom of social boundaries as we had reached her door too soon.

But by the time we had got there she was in full swing of 'white girl pretending to have black girl groove', struttin her stiff, narrow ass with every shout of bitch.

Good times.

My spine cannot withstand the pressure of sovereignty

I was ambushed and slayed by a horse thief named Ode, who sold me to the slave owner, Naheeb in Tehran. Naheeb's response to my capture and delivery to his door was a silent laughter that ended hoohahoo as his lungs ran out of air.

Pleased he was indeed, as I am one of those people who exist without my whole and can be parted in pieces and sold for more. Naheeb, I am sold to but not in complete. Ode has decided he will keep the key to my soul and when and if Naheeb sells all of my bits, he will come back and take 10 percent of the profit and share the life from my soul with Naheeb.
This is a dirty trick often played on slave owners but alas there is no one to complain to when dirty deals in souls and bodies are concerned.

Naheeb digs his thumbs in the soft of my shoulders, "Damnable bitch, tell me this, what part of you is ground softest to grist? What part is precious and beloved? That which is not frayed like this expression on your face, ugly and betrayed?"

I fall to the sand and dig with my hands, "A piece, soft indeed, with love to bleed. It is my heart, the stone beating in the center of me. Please take as you like. It has become my plight since she left me in that place for Ode to delight, to steal me and take flight."

Naheeb took my heart to Malaga. His plan in Spain was to sell it to the light skinned store owner Santi. But Santi, astute in crimes of the heart and the taste of it's flesh saw the discoloration, perforation, deterioration and demurred, pocketing his money with a knowing smile upon his face.

Stone mad, rough Naheeb was. Chastising the beating muscle all the way back to Tehran where he found me waiting for my thrashing which I received quicker than normal. "You slut, you daughter of a whore, you have lied to me no more! You have said your heart beat strong with the blood of a love you so ache and long. That it would quicken and thicken the closer I came to this woman in Spain who you pine for, but I acted in vain! You said, 'Go to Spain ask for Santi of Malaga, he will not disdain. He will see the warmth beating and let no opportunity slip, fleeting.' You lied, yes you lied good. You bitch, you are worthless like wood."

A beating I got and the beating felt right and after his rage I begged another chance. "Sell me again, please try if you will and pardon me still. I told not a lie, a mistake I have made. This love I have had is more middle in Spain. My heart will respond in this region, it is the season, my love will be there, and near the bruja who stares to the stars so clear. Go to Segovia, a lass named Pilar, she lives in tree branches close to the stars. The people will show you, guide you, she's not far. A bruja, majestic, strange, true and bizarre."

And out he went, towing my heart in a bag tied with twine thinking this beating rock may take to the hills if he became complacent. Into Segovia he finally arrived. It took many months, there were problems and people to pay off on the way. He was thinner and quieter by the time he set foot.

He went to the magistrate and begged an audience. Both men sat in stuffed chairs with mutual judgment and suspicion. Naheeb changed expressions and kindly patted the man's hand, "Kind sir I must ask, there is a strange woman, she has put me to task, to find her jewel she lost on her way, she sits in the trees to see stars bright as day. Can you guide me to her, this bruja I do seek? I am weary and bone tired, not a cent in my pocket. I will pay you thrice at the end of the week."

The magistrate rolls his hat and pats his pocket in indignation. What a question to ask such a man of his position. This arabic phenomenon with such absurd speculations of brujas in trees in a town like his.

but as he scoffed and cleared his throat he knew just who Naheeb spoke of, he made sure to draw a map instead of taking him to the orchard where the witch fed on small animals as she stared and ranted at the sky.

Naheeb kicked up dust as he walked the road to The Tree of Pilar. He wondered why the magistrate wrote it in capital letters as if a mad woman deserved them. The orchard came into view as he rounded the hill. Citrus and otherwise, these trees Naheeb had never seen and to the end of the road stood the most majestic and bizarre and within it's branches sat and ugly beautiful bruja named Pilar.

"Woman, I speak to you, there is a heart in this bag to atone. It is fine and right with love to spend and I have been told you will buy it, behold! It beats of a blood filled with broken love of a slave I do own, she is half yours if you take this piece, a token, a jewel, a bone."

Not prepared for the movements of a 1000 year old bruja, Naheeb was startled by the woman turned snake who slithered off her branch and onto his shoulder to see what fool would offer the stone of a heart of lost soul he'd enslaved. She eyed his intentions and saw the lies and greed. She realized his slave had brought this fool to her coven of trees so she may lay him out and eviscerate his existence, smiting his life. In doing so this slave would forever lose her heart as the bruja would surely devour it for dessert. A sacrifice only the truly brokenhearted would commit.

And for a moment Pilar remembered her life as a mortal so many years before. She saw what this love could have been like and the slave who lived it, became a part of her. And with the evil of her prey she grew strong and deadly around the neck of Naheed and took his life for her own and fed upon the grizzled heart in his chest and relished his squeaks of distress. She uncoiled and like the sands of time she blew to Madrid to a building filled with the smell of the love in the stone heart of the slave and there she found it's intended.

Amada, a woman so slight yet huge with a beauty above many. She sat in a fear hid well by her courage as she had seen death stare her to the soul before. This witch she trembled silently in front of was of the kind she had never known before. In awe, she felt a strange privilege to be accosted by such an majestic entity.

Pilar reached out and took Amada's throat neatly in hand and whispered this missive, "Behold beloved of a dead and broken heart. It is here with me, in this bag, a muscle from which you chose to part. In fact it has always been from the start, here with YOU as you have a part in it's discovery, in it's private hell, so dark. But alas my beauty! This heart does start as it nears you, it still loves you, a decision again, so dark so dark."

Pilar grew from the strength of Amada's defiance that pulsed through the veins in her soft, lovely neck, "I would cast a spell upon the heart and heal it whole if I knew that the slave's goal, wanted freedom from you, you warrior, little wolf, proud soul. Even now, still at night you creep slowly to the window and wonder what light does she have left to shine and where will she be in fortnight? Filled with a spite not even you know why, you wish her a blight. And unbeknownst to you she feels it with fright and loves you despite."

Pilar bent down low with eyes of a snake and kissed the lips of Amada and told her the reason for her loathing of the one who loves her, "No more rhymes because desperate is the fear of your experience of nothingness." Coming closer, Pilar whispered, "She vexed you raw with the good and bad of emotions you can never have. And in the lacking you feel, your fear turned on the delicate love of a hard to reach possibility and killed it. She is a reminder of that which you will not let yourself be." And as Amada grasped at the hands that refused to let her breath, Pilar relinquished her power over her and slithered out into the night to Tehran.

And as I lay waiting endlessly for nothing but Naheeb and his beatings to remind me I am alive, the bruja of The Trees of Pilar can upon my bits and pieced me together again. She grabbed me up with a witches force and threw me across the room, landing me with a thud. "Stupid mortal, love as you may but do not let this moment of oppurtunity wander stray. You must find this Ode, and take back your soul. Truly, look at this odd love you grasp and hold, for it's broken and old. Oh it is sweet and fine, but DO NOT to cling or try to malign, fierce fight is only for the divine. Do not go astray in depths of decay, one day there will be and you will see that it is possible to live with no one, but thee."

And as the years pass, and I have my soul at last, I sometimes sit in The Tree of Pilar, me at her knee, I never go far. She graces me with her presence you see, because there is no strife in the loyalty of the dead, free of life.

Little Human

Paula (Powla) sits in my lap shaking her arms, legs splayed out staring at the picture in my hand. She grabs my fingers in order to make my hand move the picture. The movement excites her mind, stimulates some distant connection she once had to her frontal lobe. She is a delayed child. She has a damaged brain with such an amazing ability to be in the moment, every second. She is my teacher.

I sit staring and kissing her sweet face for hours. She is beautiful and recognizes me. She reaches out to me, grabs and pulls herself up onto me for the 23rd time in two wonderful days. I can't get enough of her. Her only desire is my lap and this picture. My only desire is to hold her tightly, kiss her cheek a million times and hold her picture just as she likes.

Now I've left, she is in Philly, I am in NY. All I want to imagine is her face, eye lashes and creamy brown eyes. She smells like a little human and I want her cheek right here. I want to maul her and squeeze her.

I am blessed to have had her in my lap and will be blessed when it happens again.

one sided phone call to 'the pound of flesh' collector

What do you want me to say?
....I HAVE asked for it back, she won't give it!

..How shall I hand you this thing you want when it's not in my hand to give?

..Yes I know but there is nothing to do. She is lost to another land. I'm not traveling oceans to retrieve it.

..But why do you want it? It's useless rot.

It has no color left! I'm telling you, it's not worth your effort. Look I'll give you the other one. It's a fine piece of fleshy, pulsing goo. It will please you...

..Now wait a fucking minute! I'm NOT trying to trick you into anything
...NO, this isn't a game. I'm just not walking across oceans of time to retrieve the dead weight of a thing that no longer exists because you think it's something you want.

Well fine then...I can't seem to convince..
..well then, I don't know what else to say
...fine, goodbye.

yearning for spring

A sense of timing
eyes in low hue
there is an ice forming
a flower once grew

into my highlands
and down into low
the cats they lay spying,
my love as she grows

towards the hills
the orchards do cling
I remember the pictures
A town aged
a land forever yearning for spring

to my heart you lie facing
a tower that fell
covered your head
and mouth full with hell

and this you say changed you
and with this you now face
and this that you want
there is no trace

It is a sin
a sin to behold
the lack, the beginning
it never unfolds

you may cast as you like
there is no end
till you turn and face
the clinging within.

a sky, dark and gloaming
a hunger that calls
your flight to a land that lies yearning for spring,
forever in fall

This is my power to believe in

When did you leave me? It happened as I woke. The dawn flickered in my eyes and you were gone. I left the keys in the tin tray on the table with the change. The change we emptied from our pockets last night. After the wet streets, filled with our laughter, our pants wet almost to the knees from jumping into puddles. Into the wet grass we slipped and fell and laid and kissed.

This is a story that never happened. This random, ephemeral she...unless. Unless I see her out of the corner of my eye, dawn flickering, just to the side of nowhere.

It doesn't really matter, where she is, where I am. This is what time follows, these little thoughts, real and not. They are beautiful, all of them. And time humors me with it's gentle tick.

In the end do our connections add to my value? Am I better for knowing you? Will you even look to the stone marking my grave as years pass? There is nothing left of any of this and now it's smarter to believe only in mountains as they mark their own graves for ever. Or as forever as we'll know.

You may read a gloom in me, you may like to feel a pity. 'Sorry you're sad and trapped and wicked'. But you just don't know what strength pushes the power, the quake that draws me, that explodes and blows through my mind and words. You just don't know.

I am a dark mutha who sees so much joy in this wicked, violently beautiful world. I am the black, the grey, the vibrant too. There is too much joy even in the dark to fade. Never, I will never be what you think even when you know what that is.

Dirty Socks

There is a wedding shop across the street. There is a man and woman, wooden, standing in the window looking blankly out, displaying their marriage gear. Sullen and dead as mannequins are I can't help but feel they represent a large population of the living.

Why do we stand in front of someone who tells us we are bound? I panic at the hopes and dreams of those who see 'forever' in their bouquets, tux and tails.

He stands, staring at his reflection in his shoes as she clutches her flowers. They fight back the tears of expectations of what this moment means and will eventually splinter into.

Two kids, the TV running, dirty socks and resentment brings out the bags you pack that take you back to that part of you you forgot to take with you.

a frail pull, a fragile glow

Sister says she wants to read me.
Sister says she wants to know.
Sister wants to believe me,
and I must make it so.

I cannot give her a piece of me.
This would be a death you see.
A given token of blood and gore.
I am not a tool to dig with,
to find hidden metaphor.

Collapse upon me broken sea,
Wash and deliver the mystery,
Bring it warm and still aglow,
to the hands of my sister,
a gift to sow.

Reap me now before the tide draws back
Twisted fins and souls bare in lack
Begging time,
begging a release from woe
Into the moons fading, forever glorious glow.

Today, Tuesday, vote. Please vote.

Go read my dad.

a rot begins

I'm searching for a silence I can sit in. But I behave like a wild, cornered animal when the opportunity comes. It flings my body aside and stares me into a terror I can not face. I am not that brave.

I have too much inside that I don't want to hear. I fear all the little truths that attempt to address me just as I sleep, just as I wake. They may contain the recipe of my death.

In response to my denial of my Self my mind has decided I will die a slow rotting death of the flesh. It is it's way of calling attention to my lack of inner fortitude. I have depended on this outside and I am being presented with the possibility of it's waste.

It conjures that one day I may lay in an immovable, stricken body, alive as I ever could be. Looking out into a world I could never be a part of again. Burning alive. With no ability to live. And this is the only true terror I have.

I can lay safe and comfortable in warm soothing baths and in a second the thought of immobility and sickness creep into my mind, creating a body made to be my souls cell and I gasp and stiffen. holding my hands to my face, wiping, wiping the thought away. I sweat, even in water.

I am avoiding the inner truths and now they have come to trick or treat me, to fuck me until I listen as a child would to the Self truth, one in which I fear I will die.

But this is my cowardice baying at it's own superstitious moon. It's not a question of if, it is definite, I will die. But as with everything, within my death is my rebirth.

I am intent on this suicide but I would rather have the sword of an executioner on my neck.

I am a lazy killer.

A coward of sorts. Hari-Kari this ultimate silence is, brutal.

And I'm avoiding the cut, to which my inner response will be another sickness dining on my body tonight. I am a great horror show. I invite you to watch the story that plays on my minds screen.

searching database

Words escape. they have flown my mental coop, on to bigger and better brains.
I'm left with images that won't graduate into sentences, verbs, not even sounds.
All that I've mustered is this cardboard version of a post. A set of words made in cut out, pasted and carried to your eyes, absent of movement. For now, my dollar store gift till a colorful thought arrives.