venice 4

she-wolf

One of these days I'll meet a little piggy whose house I can't blow down.

I'm probably not who you think I am.

But, if you think I'm someone who just kicked ass at darts,
you're a hell of a lot closer than most.

self-importance

I attended a concert the other night and found myself getting upset at the two drunk bitches behind me who wouldn't stop talking. I was afraid I might lose it and say something to them uncharacteristic of a lady so I started thinking up alternatives just in case.

If I could say anything and have them really hear me what would it be? This is what I asked my self. What began as an exercise in how to cut someone down in the most acerbic, poetic way possible ended strangely when I realized that what I really wanted to say to them was this:

"You are not nearly as important as you think you are. You're much more important than that."

darts

The hardest games, for me, are not the ones that require the greatest amount of attention, but the least.

very exciting news

For the first time in my life I can ask myself this question:

"Are you willing to live alone, without a husband or children of your own, for the rest of your life, if that guarantees your ability to continue to pursue what you value most - be that art, truth, or self-knowledge?"

and have the answer be "Yes."

the trick

to living on the cheap
is to always want
what you already have

with me

Someone left a letter for me on the course. It read,  "WE ARE ALL WITH YOU". I may try to find a more eloquent way to say this later on but please accept, for now, that I have found this to be true. And my life has been made immeasurably richer by having all of you in it.

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.