Glee and the Worried Few

Feeling a little pistol whipped but liking the hot afterglow of the wound..one must look to the bright side of every senseless act and contusion, am I right? besides I like scars.

I'm actually quite well and feeling partial to a surge of glee forming somewhere behind my left eye but I like the drama so I say, "Start with your wound and work your way up to the glee." Always go from the ache of disembowelment right into that gathering swell of hot yellow happiness waiting right under the scab and stitch.

Oh but I feel the cynical stretch of that daddy hand reaching out to bitch slap the bright right out of my eyes. I'm like a low and dark thing that sits under the bed sucking on scary wandering thoughts, making my heart flutter, boiling me wide and far from sleep at night. I perch, stoney and grimaced like a gargoyle eating the fuss and tussle, drinking lingering night sweats.

And like the cyclical nature of a moon the color of a sun, I will rebirth, reboot, press my bruises just to make sure they hurt and roll my severed head across a dusty floor to the door that always opens to a happy, hot yellow glow of glee.

portraits of one's own making

I make up memories that never happened about deep snow, a happy us, bounding dogs and joy, so much joy. The memory causes regret irritated to life by little dreams I quietly carried in the din of your ideas. You framed us big as a portrait with only your talent to paint it from.

There was no time for romance only business and the acquiring of more of what made your shabby kingdom. I pulled my slow heart through change and never really recovered from the speed and the wind of your rush. If you would have wooed me for a while, my hand would have loved to have been held in parks and under umbrellas.

But you have moved into new and vast frames with oil colors to paint new love, old lies to cover. Brush wide strokes, the mistake of our portrait. You look so fresh and innocent of a past you are responsible for.

But be the virgin queen in this new disguise and I'm sure you will seduce new bright ones. They are always good audiences for talented, shameless minds. And your silly posse of court held vaguely near, always nods yes and pats your ruffles clean of inconsistencies of character.

You really should rule a vast and powerful painting, a kingdom of the most fascinating self denial.

a balancing act including dance and manuscripts

There was a smitten man on the crowded train, smitten with me. I would have been smitten back but I'm not inclined to the male variety. I was making eye contact with the girl six people over. The one with the straight brown gold hair, eyes perfectly green and brown. Distinctly, they were green, they were brown.

I am the courteous train passenger, melting and slinking into free spaces to avoid the jostling of ass and shoulder. I was busy, I watched the girl watch me watch her and I watched the man read and edit a manuscript while balancing his long frame lightly against a pole. The train lurched and he stepped on my foot. I was already whispering, "no worries" and shaking my head in forgiveness by the time he straightened himself and looked up to me to apologize.

His eyes widened by a fraction of a centimeter, lighting up then quickly snuffed, as to not come out of his cool. But I saw it, I was a Lego fit, at least for the rest of this ride. And from this time on he looked to me between sentences and corrections. He adjusted his position to be in front of me when I moved to sit down. I watched him watch me out of the corner of my eye as I watched the hazel eyed girl get off the train.

I kept my gaze pleasant and never quite on him as we left the train. I did that subtle dance of awareness and polite disinterest. He lingered a second or two, gentle and in step, balancing his role with mine. Then aware that the song ended he increased in speed and just before he took a flight of stairs to his next train, he looked back and smiled.

Vodka and watermelon

There was a boy, drunk and asleep on the train yesterday as I was coming home. As people were getting off, seats became available and I sat in one across from the boy. I opened up my book and settled in for the rest of the trip.

But things changed. The boy's body decided it could no longer put up with the vodka soaked watermelon he'd been eating all day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw liquid puking movement. I think I knew before the boy, he was only half aware of his own existence except for his misery.

six people and I shot up and flew to the side of the train, like mice running from water in a sinking ship. I placed myself close to the door so I could shoot out at the next stop, the boy thought this was a good idea for him as well. He lurched out of his seat and stumbled right at me. I launched myself into the crowd that had mashed themselves into a corner as he leaned over and puked in the direction of the door. I looked at all of our disgusted faces then longingly to the other side of the train where passengers sat watching, looking at us, glad they were not over here.

At this point there were ten of us crammed into a small corner in fear of this one barfing boy, 10 adults mashed together like scared prey. All because of this one slightly stupid human being who made a mistake. I felt foolish for being so grossed out.

I had the sneaking suspicion that we were behaving like we hadn't ever been stupid and drunk in our lives, like we were a separate sect of humans who could not consider taking part in such an experiment of bad manners and uncouth behavior. I was immediately embarrassed and deeply affected by this boys struggle to recover.

I'm not going to tell you that I helped him, I didn't. But I changed my position and became his equal again. I cared and felt no judgment anymore. it felt so good to remember there was no barrier other than the one I had imagined. All of us poured out and switched cars at the next stop, he got out and sat for a while.

Something Else?

A witch I knew in waking visited me in a dream. I was busy at the time she arrived, leaning over into the dirt picking up colorful, fat and fuzzy ribbons, the kind little girl's moms tied pigtails with when I was young.

I was caught up, talking to myself about the importance of being able to hold all of these ribbons at once, worried about dropping them, worried about what next.

I knew she was there in her soft and willowy way. She said nothing and watched patiently, judgeless. Her feet were clean in the dirt and her dress moved silently over them as she moved in rhythm to an evolution she was humming to.

Out from the periphery she came into full view, I looked up to her and she said, "If you worry so much about holding all of this you won't have room for anything else."

from all and various directions

At first, I carved my name into every tree you passed, on every bench you sat. Every street light blinked my favorite color, leaving you startled and alert for my madness, fearing such committed and unsettled acts could only lead to a harrowing encounter with a mad and wicked me.

You scan horizons for my shadow behind trees as my initials appear in every leaf you scatter. My memory sits tiny in the moss growing on the stone your house sits on and where the Cedars cling. You shake with the awareness of the audacity I have to keep myself ever present in the most unpleasant and indecipherable way.

You duck, hearing my fury wind rush you from all and various directions. I am the dust that sprinkled my corrosive image in your dreams that burned you awake. I am the ghost that breaks things and threatens to come close just before you touch the skin of a New Her.


But none of these wicked and immoral acts have I committed, but only for the sake of not knowing how. I awake from my sorted and true colors to see that this magic was for my own story and had little effect on you and yours. None of my fury holds to anything but my own neck, a wasted grip and with no consequence but for experience alone.

In the world of your kaleidescope, the only conclusion worth aiming for is one you haven't come to because the only moments your interest peaks in are created or corralled by you, the only person who is substantial and worth your respect, is you.

I have had the effect of the puddle you walk through. I stick to your boot for a while, dry to a dirt mark and fade.

Now nothing

I wilt into the paint of a wall that rests somewhere against my back. In the pressure of your gaze, I am becoming a wallpaper print, loud and long. Peel me, then throw me to a wooden planked or tiled forgotten room, grind me to a rust, a dust. Then wander we will in slow forgotten drafts on dirty floors finding new corners to clutter.

I remember and forget the whys we came this direction. Scuttle and cluster, we're filling drafts with words irrelevant and sorrowful. Ghostly settling, still. All that seemed solid and cared for, invested to the tops of broken hearts, we filled with vexing toasts of angst.

Meaningless silence now empties the room and finally, nothing. Words in their senseless intent, could be no better as they are as nothing. And we fill this place, this space with our old and dead misdeeds and clearly it is preferred, temporarily to another kind of love that lives in the newness of olden dead. But what I mean to say is that this sweet room belongs to the words from then. And now, the now is new and belongs elsewhere in a blue and golden view.

Again, let's love this death, empty broken bodies of so much offered into nothing. All the profound and glorious importance gathered into the folly of irrelevance makes for the most ultimate joke to tell on each other. so let's us laugh as we have equalled out to even. Turn to the right, there is blue and golden view. We are just the same and better for it.