Roses on Sunday

She said I was "difficult".
Am I ?
Yes. She said.
I thought a moment.
Okay, I'm difficult. But I'm not...
"Yes", she said.

Coarse

With rough tongue
the wound was met
And salt mixed with saliva
iron of blood
and she pushed
further.

Today's horoscope

We feel what we feel in our own time.
We make our parts from these...
We make our moves under the stars from these...
We navigate the chambers with our ghosts.
We grow at our own pace.

We aren't looking for that hardened muscle.
We reassemble the lost parts of ourselves along the path.

We are looking for that love, without strings attached.
One that challenges us to grow. ..With ourselves.

Returned Postage. Wrong address.

I.

My night-watch

Peering into the dark,

over the walls,

watching the steel gray fog settle into the valley.

The tones of our voices start to fall low,

into indecipherable murmurs

of what we once meant them to be. Heavy. Hallow. Sacred in nature.

Held onto like that pulse we can't control. Woven into the cloth of desire.

Off in the distance is the River Styx. The boatman slowly rows downstream.

The steam of our breaths and steady, beat, steady, moans, drum,

keeping us in the land of the living. They … the They... Sheltered from the heavy, sheltered from the cold.

Her Santa Muerte nature is holding too tight to the shadow.

And They stand on these banks in limbo. Too rigid to let go of their coins.

It was the coins she pulled. But it was really the cups.

If They embrace all the shadow, we have no room for light.

I want that light.

The Southern Gothic, relying on the harm of strangers, hitting the swinging light bulb,

suspended

from the falling ceiling,

it crumbles, as the bed hits the wall, as the fist hits the wall.

Fade into the unhappy ending.

I want feel good.

Good that my heart can heal.

Good so I can fall in love with myself in every pour,

and then seep into an another like a wound filling.

Good with all my being.

Good so that I can heal.

Good does. Good does not ... hit the wall.

Stuck in a room of walls.

But the want to swing a sledge hammer at the stucco does not harbor the stagnate shadow self.

Hammer reveals the cinder blocks that have taken over my space. My healing.

My fucking god. Get me out of this room.

I want to let that light in.

It comes over the valley. It shows us the way.

Sparkling on the dew of the fields. Away it sails again.

She is healed.

II.

Sobriety

Sour-punch

suck

satisfied

sulk

sound-off

succubus

sanctuary

sure

said she

sorrow

satisfied

smug

sorry.

Ash

She swept through the land
as a volcano disrupts
a sleeping village.

How calm and quaint we were,
with our tiny boats on the calm sea,
gazing through      murky waters,
shimmering lights of the silver fishes.

And one day she spoke,
clouds blocked out our sun,
and the mighty Kali Ma
brought on a storm
and ripped through our hut made of sticks.

When the ash blew away,
        and the tide waters cleared,
that, that the sulfur had claimed,
gave life to a new flower.
And it stood erect against the wind.
              It stood alone on the bank,
taller than anything that ever came.

And she sang to the sea,
She sang of the day,
that the mountain gave way,
and the storm that blew,
and the volcano that changed, all
that she knew.

Salted

My heart was not a place to rest your weary head.
My arms do not wish to bear the burden of your regrets.
Go ahead and continue walking past,
This being is not the place for you to regain your breath.

Mushrooms growing on dead cherry

When all the usual things don't work
It's time to do unusual things.

Cryptic Concretions

Today the light is soft with the snow blanket. The sounds are muffled, caught in the chambers of ice that cover our sidewalks and dirty streets. We are wrapped in fleece and taking an extra cup of coffee and time to relax. I picked up my drawing pencil to capture the allusive Jackalope.

My work meeting was canceled. I'm listening to music. Last night some wild creature looked into my bedroom window at me. He was cold. On the front porch there are footprints from a bird trailing over the smoking chair. My housemate stood in the doorway and we exchanged pleasantries as I put out an overdue piece of post. December is unwinding our tethers to this year. This very tough year. I write and consult the tarot. I've been struck dumb with the prospect of new relations. The Chariot, The Stars, Strength, 3 of Cups, warn, wax, wane. Cryptic concretions.

It is a reminder that life springs from the decay.

Winter is the time where we restock our energies.

The sprig that swells and reemerges in the melt.

For now the snow gives me brief pause so that I might feel, create . . . .

Undo the needless wisdom that is bound to mistakes.

I'm happy this solstice turn has left me suspended in balance.   

Fall

Most people think that life begins in the spring, but it starts in autumn. As decay gives life to the forest floor, as the spores feed, new life grows and we only recognize the flowers, but we neglect the growth, we forget the beginnings... the sacrifices. Life springs from death. New beginnings start will the fall.

snowflake

Your slow simple nature

Like a snow flake drifting towards the sidewalk

You keep getting caught up

In the updraft

And the whispers from across town

How special for you

A small delicate thing

Waiting to join your brethren on the ground

Melting upon impact

Into one solid white

7-23-13

Sometimes...

American Spirit Blues,

Nine days without you,

You were a welcome visitor to my lips,

Your smoke filled my empty cavities,

You were a dangerous lover,

An ember, a friend, on cold lonely nights,

Without you,

I can breathe easy again.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, The courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference.

The 11th century Jewish philosopher Solomon ibn Gabirol wrote "And they said: At the head of all understanding – is realizing what is and what cannot be, and the consoling of what is not in our power to change."[14]

"One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night." -Margaret Mead, anthropologist (1901-1978)

Vessel

Consent

Your eyes widened
The vastness in the blue of your waters,
like a ship fighting a storm.
I stared at them,
Finally I knew
where I was-
On land
and needed to send you the signal,
to bring you back.

12/3/13

Night Still Comes

"My brain makes drugs to keep me slow,
A hilarious joke for some dead pharaoh.
But now, not even the masons know
What drug will keep night from coming." -Neko Case