more bullshit

A funny clip from The Onion News Network, sent to me by LJ.

fig tree

blood from a stone

Something happened recently which caused some concern over whether I have the propensity for brutality. LJ assured me I'm not brutal in a malicious way, just that I'm not satisfied with veneers. I want to know what's really there, what's beneath, so I apply pressure; I give people a  little squeeze and watch what comes out. Like tubes of paint. Some are yellow on the inside, some green, others you could wring until you're blue in the face and still, nothing. 

The tube metaphor is over-simplified but, right or wrong, I've noticed I can be judgmental of the ones that seem to come up empty. The colorless ones. The holes. Perhaps there's nothing wrong with being empty. It may, in fact, be part of the natural order of things, of decay. But I've had a different experience of humanity and can tell you without hesitation that most people don't have a clue what or who they are - how valuable, how utterly irreplaceable, how color-full - and I can't help but feel this a terrible waste. It's a fucking tragedy. 

I suspect some readers might balk at my description of the empty ones and my assertion that a lot of folks (not you, of course) are ignorant of some very basic things. Who the hell am I? How can I tell? Holes are often obvious. The incredible lengths people go to to cover up what they view as their deficiencies make them so. These deficiencies, real and imagined, are like landfills where people dump all kinds of shit: their shit, other people's shit, but mostly bullshit. It can be smelled for miles away in any direction.

People who are full of shit can be annoying, but there are few things I have less patience for than people who pretend or presume to have experienced something pure or sacred when truly they have not. This is evident in those of us who label ourselves artists and poets when we have nothing to say (having been present so infrequently as to be unable to bear witness even to our own lives) and no craft with which to say it other than what we graft or imitate from others (which is no craft at all, but mimicry. And toddlers do this with more zeal and accuracy than most adults). 

I include myself in this category. I have, at various points in my life, considered myself a musician when I was and am not. I may not even be a poet. But I do aspire to poetry. And to music. And to honoring those whose contributions to these arts have been real - even if the only honorable contribution I can make is silence.

Free from envy.

For a couple days at least. I am enough.

mission accomplished

.

thrift

where all lost, unwanted, ill-fitting or out-of-fashion things go. someone, someday, will pull my love for you out from under a pile of "Virginia is for Lovers" t-shirts and have found a treasure and a great bargain. 

short report

I'm going to Rome on Tuesday. I'll see beautiful things there. Maybe even be one of them.

relationships

When I was younger I fancied these hiking boots. They were suede and laced up from the toe. I found a pair on discount and bought them - despite the fact that I was broke and they were the wrong size. Sometimes I just want something, usefulness be damned. I was the proud owner of a pair of hiking boots that never took me anywhere, least of all a hike. Now I ask my self, however little I paid, was it worth it?

if you take me

for god's sake take everything. use everything. fill each corner of your room with my ornament. wrap my skin around you like a blanket. fill your stomach with my muscle. my fat. until there's nothing left to taste. until I'm empty and there's nothing left to waste. nothing to spill. I want to be part of life, damn you, not just another reckless driver's road kill.

I was a huntress.

I was an arrow. I was a deer on the floor wailing. My cries shook the walls. They cracked the ceiling. They ricocheted off buildings. All our neighbors beer in hand coughing up their addictions began weeping. The sound echoed through the streets. Through the scent of potatoes roasting in butter and laundry steaming sweetly in the dryer, the dark musky odor of marijuana and nag champa burning together, as in a chorus. I was a huntress. I was a deer. Next time you shoot, shoot to kill. Gut and eat me. Don't just leave me on the floor of your apartment bleeding. 

little assholes

The holidays made me reflect on how easily influenced we are by the messages we receive from others - coming and going. I found my self wishing I could resist making cracks at Rush Limbaugh, was more enthusiastic about pictures of eagles and hadn't rejected my mother's invitation to submerge my hands in sugar. I love my parents. It continues to strike me how they too can be child-like. Children are sensitive, vulnerable, innocent, completely self-absorbed little assholes who deserve without reserve, my unconditional love. 

caterpillars

we spin a tender wrapping around one another. a golden
chrysalis. all hearts eventually break against.

impotence

snake charmers are said to hypnotize with

song burmese pythons, carpet vipers, egyptian
cobras or some other beast captured

when I found you that's how it was hungry
and wild, writhing in your pot, your beautiful
freckled mouth already sewn shut

winter mussels

in the winter mussels build up on the boardwalk. fisherman pluck them off to use for bait. I love watching their adept fingers work. crabs scuttling in and out. the ecosystem under the pier opening and closing, forced to release its tiny treasures one by one.

these days I dream of vampires 
and hell's only son. please hide me 
in your great red womb. beelzebub

mole baby

how frustrating I must be. I must have always been. such high expectations. so uncompromising. I never seem to see people the way they want to be seen.

I feel sorry for my parents. they didn't ask for this. blind baby. this mole baby, digging relentlessly.

people are often soft where they should be hard and hard where they should be soft. I just want to be like the cookies we baked today. it's what I've always wanted.

shortbread and molasses. three batches, one after the other. I watched my mother roll dough in the palm of her hand. the years, all the history held in

didn't matter. they came out fine. better than fine. you could say they were just right. and everyone enjoyed them.

the truth

the girl in that room never stopped undressing

venice 3

If I could be half as brave as I was as a child,
that would be really something.

men are dogs

People are boring.

Men especially. 

You think you can 

Make me happy? 

Go ahead. 

Grow a tail and 

Wag it for me.

And don't worry,

I'm used to picking 

Up your shit.

You think I'm angry?

Fine then, go lie in it.

wildlife

My little pelican friend had trouble steadying himself in the wind. His left foot kept slipping until he finally had enough and leapt off. It was gorgeous. His wingspan was larger than I imagined it would be. He flew in a circle around the pier and came to perch on the rail opposite me - only to be greeted by an even larger group of cell phone photographers. Oh, well.

not everything is willful

I can see into my bathroom. My contact case and solution are where I left them. My toothpaste and toothbrush too. I forgot to turn the light off. From here my bathroom looks friendly. It looks as loyal as a golden retriever. Today I'm thankful for these. I'm relieved.

charades

If I hadn't seen it my self I wouldn't believe it. And if I tried to tell you my words would be lost. They would be empty. They might not even sound. A silent film. As bad as charades. Or my best impression of a mime. The one where he's trapped in a box and can't get out.

There are no shortcuts here. And it's an uphill climb. But maybe the distance is made bearable if you're holding the hand of someone you love. Everyone else just wonders what the fuck is a mountain or are smart enough to have gone around it in the first place.

coffee house musings

A man standing in line across from me has a leaf stuck to his butt. Should I tell him? Hell no. Cause then he'll think I was LOOKING.

And would someone please explain to me why coffee house proprietors are so head-over-heels in love with huge abstract paintings of faceless, nude females of mangled proportions? I think they're hideous.

I was in Equator Books today. I have a growing affection for one of their employees - he might actually be the owner, I don't know. Flannel-clad and unapologetically surly he paced the floor, smoked and paced some more. My belief is that this individual's pet peeve is people sitting around writing in the cafe section of his bookstore (which I was attempting, of course). How could they introduce/advertise awesome coffee and cafe-style seating and not expect people to want to come in and work. I also fail to understand why someone who supposedly loves books would have such tangible disdain for writers. I wasn't comfortable staying long lest his policing gaze fix upon me. It was like that eye in Lord of the Rings. I actually caved and bought a book as if to say, "look asshole not all writers sit around, taking up space, without buying anything." I'm sure that showed him.

vignettes

I

A woman sits at a wobbly table in an urban cafe. The top of it is covered with post cards from foreign countries. She's waiting for someone. A man on a bicycle rides past wearing a woman's straw hat. It has a large plastic daisy on it which makes her think of Sundays in East Atlanta; black ladies climbing out of shiny Cadillacs on their way to church, everything matching - purple with purple, pink with pink, heels, belts, purses.

She is joined by a quiet companion. Will he remark on his bloody mary, her mimosa? Keys are exchanged. The scene ends simply. Everything left unsaid passes between them in silence, spilling out from their eyes. No one notices. A man at the table beside theirs continues to work on his crossword. Sips his coffee. It's only a moment. She pays the bill, gets up and walks out. There is no bell on the door to mark her exit.

II

Years earlier the same woman, a girl then with shorter hair, undresses hesitantly in an all-but-bare room. There's a mattress on the floor and a man on it in fetal position, wailing. She doesn't know why. Somewhere in her child-head she imagines her sacrifice can relieve his pain. She exists in a world of raw potential - vague notions and possibilities, magic and love. She still believes she can change things; she just doesn't know how.

from the North country

My husband's birthday is tomorrow.
I had a husband. He used to sing to me. I don't understand time. I don't understand time or love. But tomorrow I hope the sun shines in Atlanta or wherever he may be.

the sun

is coming up
everything
washed in
blue in
quiet

who
could have
suspected
in their beds
this much
light?