Thursday, November 6, 2008
Ravens lay curled like sleeping cats in my lap
My hammock sways in snow
I moved to glass to push the possessed out
Foot prints turn to paw prints
Waistless dancers combre
Dark feathers for hair in twisted buns
Much tidier than her fur
I kneel beside my friends in R.E.M.
Who pluck my silver strands
In hopes more will come instead
To line the nest
Of those who live in murder
My hammock sways in snow
I moved to glass to push the possessed out
Foot prints turn to paw prints
Waistless dancers combre
Dark feathers for hair in twisted buns
Much tidier than her fur
I kneel beside my friends in R.E.M.
Who pluck my silver strands
In hopes more will come instead
To line the nest
Of those who live in murder
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
with out regret
Maybe I’ve been fooling myself when I say that I’ve tried to change, maybe this is the only way I know how to be.
I don’t believe in good or evil people, I don’t believe extremes exist in anything with out its opposite.
I no longer believe that anything lasts forever in this life. But it’s not the way it sounds.My mind used to push that reality away for fear of losing these things, these people around me. But I’ve come to realize everything is a cycle, so when things end it only gives them a chance to begin again.
People tell me I’ve changed, I want to believe them. I suppose in some ways I have changed, or else I would not be here today. I would not have survived on the road I was on. But yet I know at my core, those things that threatened to destroy me are not at all gone, only more balanced.
Sometimes I tire of this balancing act.
The pulls of life and death in me are not subtle, but extreme. I must work every day to keep the destruction in check, or else lose myself in the pull. Sometimes I wish I could throw myself into the violent extremes.
I attempted to once, and I know I would not survive it again.
Yet sometimes I find myself resentful of this line I must walk, that is so much thinner than most. Resentful of the calm with in me that just cannot seem to be touched.But I can no longer believe in the battle between body and soul.
Everyday I drown my self in words and pictures of pain and anger, letting my sorrow encompass me. I know exactly what my sadness smells like and I can always recall the way she turns her self round and round beneath my ribs, looking for a place to settle.And the way she never finds it.
I become so intent on identifying her that I neglect her twin.
I wonder what happiness would look like if I painted it? It would not be of cozy things, or bright and beautiful flowers.
It would not be a hallmark world with warm winter cabins, fake smiles, and cartoon tears. I am as weary of artificial peace as I am tissue paper angst.The deceptions we build, of never ending bliss, send me running again to the side of despair because some how it all seems more true. Because black seems more final and less fragile.
Because bleeding is safe.
It makes me smile when I feel joy, because it seems so strange. And it reminds me that I forgot to remember to live and maybe stop dying for a while.
It reminds me to stop thinking “if things were this way” “If I were shorter” “if my ribs protruded just a bit more…” and instead find peace in my own smallness.Maybe my happiness would glow the way snow does on its own.
Maybe it would be the color of his eyelids just before he awakes, just before dreams leave them.
The way your hand rests on my chest to make sure I am still breathing, that I am still here, that I exist.
Today my joy would be a moth, of dust and light.
Silk and porcelain.
Flashing in the moonlight, spinning in so many circles, falling towards the fire, with out fear and with out regret
I don’t believe in good or evil people, I don’t believe extremes exist in anything with out its opposite.
I no longer believe that anything lasts forever in this life. But it’s not the way it sounds.My mind used to push that reality away for fear of losing these things, these people around me. But I’ve come to realize everything is a cycle, so when things end it only gives them a chance to begin again.
People tell me I’ve changed, I want to believe them. I suppose in some ways I have changed, or else I would not be here today. I would not have survived on the road I was on. But yet I know at my core, those things that threatened to destroy me are not at all gone, only more balanced.
Sometimes I tire of this balancing act.
The pulls of life and death in me are not subtle, but extreme. I must work every day to keep the destruction in check, or else lose myself in the pull. Sometimes I wish I could throw myself into the violent extremes.
I attempted to once, and I know I would not survive it again.
Yet sometimes I find myself resentful of this line I must walk, that is so much thinner than most. Resentful of the calm with in me that just cannot seem to be touched.But I can no longer believe in the battle between body and soul.
Everyday I drown my self in words and pictures of pain and anger, letting my sorrow encompass me. I know exactly what my sadness smells like and I can always recall the way she turns her self round and round beneath my ribs, looking for a place to settle.And the way she never finds it.
I become so intent on identifying her that I neglect her twin.
I wonder what happiness would look like if I painted it? It would not be of cozy things, or bright and beautiful flowers.
It would not be a hallmark world with warm winter cabins, fake smiles, and cartoon tears. I am as weary of artificial peace as I am tissue paper angst.The deceptions we build, of never ending bliss, send me running again to the side of despair because some how it all seems more true. Because black seems more final and less fragile.
Because bleeding is safe.
It makes me smile when I feel joy, because it seems so strange. And it reminds me that I forgot to remember to live and maybe stop dying for a while.
It reminds me to stop thinking “if things were this way” “If I were shorter” “if my ribs protruded just a bit more…” and instead find peace in my own smallness.Maybe my happiness would glow the way snow does on its own.
Maybe it would be the color of his eyelids just before he awakes, just before dreams leave them.
The way your hand rests on my chest to make sure I am still breathing, that I am still here, that I exist.
Today my joy would be a moth, of dust and light.
Silk and porcelain.
Flashing in the moonlight, spinning in so many circles, falling towards the fire, with out fear and with out regret
apparition
Pregnant coward says you would not understand. Logic will do more good than harm down the line, even if that is false for the psyche.
Rusty beams and childhood nooses should still hold my weight
If not I’ll make them stronger
Plenty of rope to hang myself with
And an apparition of self, 100 years to the future, lounging in the icy brick corner, offering little smiles of encouragement
But whether she is advocating life or death…I do not know
Rusty beams and childhood nooses should still hold my weight
If not I’ll make them stronger
Plenty of rope to hang myself with
And an apparition of self, 100 years to the future, lounging in the icy brick corner, offering little smiles of encouragement
But whether she is advocating life or death…I do not know
The soft tap, clapping of six dollar slides against my heals is soothing to the point of making me resentful of the requirement of returning to my seat.
Her quick, bitter, over zealous anger aches dully, faintly, in my chest as I pretend not to understand that it is jealousy that drives her anger…and above all else fear.
And then we play pretend.“And what would you name it?” he asks in his acting voice. Playing out this “reality” all too close to my sitcom.
Her name would be Rain I believe.
I cannot wait to be free from here, forceful loss of control makes me hunger for the destruction of me, in effort of course, to save myself.
And the reflex in the back of my throat, now encased in glass, is the giant red button reading “DO-NOT-PUSH”
And we all know what that does to you…
Her quick, bitter, over zealous anger aches dully, faintly, in my chest as I pretend not to understand that it is jealousy that drives her anger…and above all else fear.
And then we play pretend.“And what would you name it?” he asks in his acting voice. Playing out this “reality” all too close to my sitcom.
Her name would be Rain I believe.
I cannot wait to be free from here, forceful loss of control makes me hunger for the destruction of me, in effort of course, to save myself.
And the reflex in the back of my throat, now encased in glass, is the giant red button reading “DO-NOT-PUSH”
And we all know what that does to you…
Cheshire Cat Smile
A monster is stirring, clutching at my ribs and tugging on my heart strings.
Demons from my past, staring over my shoulders, making me feel rude for ignoring them. I must remember they are trying to kill me and that I have a life to live.
These human bodies are losing they’re sustenance, they’re weight. Gravity does not let them encompass me anymore. None of it seems as solid as it should.
I trip and I stumble along this jagged way, please do not try and follow my path, for yours will always differ from mine. I will fall through mirrors you avoided and you will tumble down rabbit holes I missed.
Do not search me for direction for I am walking blindly. I have no clarifications for you, for I will pose more questions than I have answers to.
I feel detached but I don’t mind. I only want to drift in an out of conciseness for a while.
I want to collapse under this weight; I need only a little more until I accomplish that.
Demons from my past, staring over my shoulders, making me feel rude for ignoring them. I must remember they are trying to kill me and that I have a life to live.
These human bodies are losing they’re sustenance, they’re weight. Gravity does not let them encompass me anymore. None of it seems as solid as it should.
I trip and I stumble along this jagged way, please do not try and follow my path, for yours will always differ from mine. I will fall through mirrors you avoided and you will tumble down rabbit holes I missed.
Do not search me for direction for I am walking blindly. I have no clarifications for you, for I will pose more questions than I have answers to.
I feel detached but I don’t mind. I only want to drift in an out of conciseness for a while.
I want to collapse under this weight; I need only a little more until I accomplish that.
Skeletons
There is something that separates like an old woman among a play ground of children.
Deeply touched and hardened and some how envious of the mistakes innocence allows.
I want to bleed here. My own blood, but all that comes out is stolen and I find myself jealous of the classroom skeletons and the slowness of time.
You, you my dear are my fattening ecstasy, my impish grin, my light rice paper sheet that I must tread softly on.
For you, you give me my weight.
But he, he takes it away to the soft smothering slow downfall of himself. I am the ice cube needing to loose just a bit and he is my willing titanic.
But I know that you think we are not fated things and your fear of uncontrolled hope…
One day you will be brave enough to not only look…But see
Deeply touched and hardened and some how envious of the mistakes innocence allows.
I want to bleed here. My own blood, but all that comes out is stolen and I find myself jealous of the classroom skeletons and the slowness of time.
You, you my dear are my fattening ecstasy, my impish grin, my light rice paper sheet that I must tread softly on.
For you, you give me my weight.
But he, he takes it away to the soft smothering slow downfall of himself. I am the ice cube needing to loose just a bit and he is my willing titanic.
But I know that you think we are not fated things and your fear of uncontrolled hope…
One day you will be brave enough to not only look…But see
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
take heed
The Spider And The Fly
Mary Howitt
“Will you walk into my parlor?”
Said a spider to a fly;
“’Tis the prettiest little parlor
That ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor
Is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things
To show you when you’re there.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
“To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair
Can ne’er come down again.”
“I’m sure you must be weary
With soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?”
Said the spider to the fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around;
The sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile,
I’ll snugly tuck you in.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
“For I’ve often heard it said
They never, never wake again,
Who sleep upon your bed.”
Said the cunning spider to the fly,
“Dear friend, what shall I do
To prove the warm affection
I’ve always felt for you?
I have, within my pantry,
Good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome—
Will you please to take a slice?”
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
“Kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry,
And I do not wish to see.”
“Sweet creature,” said the spider,
“You’re witty and you’re wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings,
How brilliant are your eyes.
I have a little looking-glass
Upon my parlor shelf;
If you’ll step in one moment, dear,
You shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said,
“For what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now,
I’ll call another day.”
The spider turned him round about,
And went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly
Would soon be back again;
So he wove a subtle web
In a little corner sly,
And set his table ready
To dine upon the fly.
He went out to his door again,
And merrily did sing,
“Come hither, hither, pretty fly,
With pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple,
There’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright,
But mine are dull as lead.”
Alas, alas! how very soon
This silly little fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words,
Came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft,
Then near and nearer drew—
Thought only of her brilliant eyes,
And green and purple hue;
Thought only of her crested head—
Poor foolish thing! At last
Up jumped the cunning spider,
And fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair,
Into his dismal den
Within his little parlor—but
She ne’er came out again!
And now, dear little children
Who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words,
I pray you, ne’er give heed.
Unto an evil counselor
Close heart and ear and eye;
And take a lesson from this tale
Of the spider and the fly.
Mary Howitt
“Will you walk into my parlor?”
Said a spider to a fly;
“’Tis the prettiest little parlor
That ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor
Is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things
To show you when you’re there.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
“To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair
Can ne’er come down again.”
“I’m sure you must be weary
With soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?”
Said the spider to the fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around;
The sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile,
I’ll snugly tuck you in.”
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
“For I’ve often heard it said
They never, never wake again,
Who sleep upon your bed.”
Said the cunning spider to the fly,
“Dear friend, what shall I do
To prove the warm affection
I’ve always felt for you?
I have, within my pantry,
Good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome—
Will you please to take a slice?”
“O no, no,” said the little fly,
“Kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry,
And I do not wish to see.”
“Sweet creature,” said the spider,
“You’re witty and you’re wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings,
How brilliant are your eyes.
I have a little looking-glass
Upon my parlor shelf;
If you’ll step in one moment, dear,
You shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said,
“For what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now,
I’ll call another day.”
The spider turned him round about,
And went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly
Would soon be back again;
So he wove a subtle web
In a little corner sly,
And set his table ready
To dine upon the fly.
He went out to his door again,
And merrily did sing,
“Come hither, hither, pretty fly,
With pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple,
There’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright,
But mine are dull as lead.”
Alas, alas! how very soon
This silly little fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words,
Came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft,
Then near and nearer drew—
Thought only of her brilliant eyes,
And green and purple hue;
Thought only of her crested head—
Poor foolish thing! At last
Up jumped the cunning spider,
And fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair,
Into his dismal den
Within his little parlor—but
She ne’er came out again!
And now, dear little children
Who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words,
I pray you, ne’er give heed.
Unto an evil counselor
Close heart and ear and eye;
And take a lesson from this tale
Of the spider and the fly.
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