diamond

i don't know
i found a watch and let it go
i don't know
i found a diamond, watched it glow
but i don't know
so it slipped through
i'm high
i'm dry
and left with snow.

the snow, it's warm, it keeps me up.
with nothing else to fill my cup,
the stone beneath is enough for me
to keep on living obliviously.

i dance and kick, i stand alone,
it's something i learned long ago.
it keeps me vacant, ready to load,
revolver turns, my brain explodes.

puppet me, i relish the pain,
my painted blood, that reddish stain,
i hid from her -- her moon, her good,
but i don't know, i never could.

prayer

I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and the fire

Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars

Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares

-loreena mckennitt

respite

*
respite -- an earned relief from the stunning grind--a grind which, in itself, isn't all bad...it has its lights, its glittering sensations, a half smile in the dark.

but then, the cracks begin to show.

and when it's over, and you're holding a paper flower, you can see: it is the evening of our own day.

some seem to hold

the memory of a black market love,

remind me.






photo by nic dunn

found, cut, glittered, pasted, torn apart and sewn.

leave the past behind,
just walk away.
without a dream in her heart.
hello, is there anybody out there?
and the cracks begin to show.

shipmates

Irony is an old man with pepperoni nipples living in the passenger seat of a nameless silver sedan. This is listener-supported NPR …cautionary tales about the wrath of Mother Nature—that wicked queen and her plans to spank us all, to bake us in her vengeful oven—was muffled but distinguishable even with the windows rolled up and the engine on. Goodmorning, he thought, it’s 2:13 pm and Starbucks will be giving away yesterday’s burnt and moldy – now where is my shirt? Life: oh you jagged edge, rusty razor, when did my tipsy tip toe-ing knock me off your crooked ridge? Turbines turning, CO2 cranking out the back, sending the vipor vapor back to its mean origins – he knew he had to return the favor. Hair brush? Was it lost in the gray wizardly grizzardly beard? Had the handle broken off, had he forgotten to retrieve it from the trunk after last Saturday’s mishap? No matter, Bed Bath and Beyond was the emporium of possibility, of hygienic reminiscence.

Routine is the key to a sane and productive life, he knew that much. First, the men’s room to shine a light on the monsters and keep the haunted woods organized, patrolled— no room or time for intruders. Then on to PetsMart to inform the albino mice – eyes as poppable as pomegranate seeds —that they were on thin fucking ice, as far as he was concerned. Visiting hour with the rotten-finned betas, the overgrown and missed-his-bus ferret, the apathetic newt, the under-stimulated Rose tarantula, was just the shot of Wild Turkey he needed to wash down the day’s metaphorical peas.

Shopping for roommates (he preferred shipmates, since the living space was mobile and practically sailed when steered correctly) wasn’t easy. The others would have to approve – he knew that much. If what they said was true, and the earth really was melting—that useless shitty gumball of a planet—he might consider something a little more expedient than stuffing them in pockets and smuggling them one by one.

No one was looking, the moment was ripe. Now, which one of you brown beauties would like to trade the tank and pellet life for a cozy mobile home and all-you-can-eat Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes?

limp doll

this bright white box is like a question at the dinner table directed suddenly at you, your mouth is full of broccoli, and your table mates aren't related to you -- in fact you've just met, and you want them to like you.

writing about writing. off limits. grasping for the politically correct, throwing it out, for the birds. crumpled up answers, capping the impulse to make an unrecognizable sound and slide like a limp doll to the floor, writhe about, and eventually be excused. instead, i'll maintain composure, even if if it is if it is if it is ordinary.

lamplight. hot metal cage holds flammable bulb -- restrains it from getting any ideas, from aspirations to swallow up the entire room with its self-important glow. shake shake shake, wake, shake shake shake. we are laughing, just breaking up the waves.

turn it over, warm hay in the sand, perfect day for baking bricks. forgot that bag on the train, sent it to berlin with a note to please return. while we waited, i tried my first wienerschnitzel, and eavesdropped on an accented conversation that twisted my imagination like a plastic top from a happy meal. happy red plastic in a plastic bag, whirling wildly, what could it all mean?

then we went back to the train station...how robbed had i become? absentminded travelers, yes, we have you covered. come to our dark bunker, it doesn't even smell the way you'd expect it to. no food, no beverage, nothing to indicate the omnipresent switchboard conductors and shiny button pushers weaned from the benefits of sunlight.

we all start out speaking nonsense. we tack words together idiotically, but when you're small, toothless and bald, it's cute. so starting out, learning how (again) it is much the same. we abuse chopsticks on accident, stabbing the meat in frustration. we stack books to reach glass collectibles on high shelves, we tip toe on linoleum to swig ant killer undiscovered, we smash weenies with piggy fists and toss them to the floor -- someone is there to clean it up later. we fall asleep face down in our spaghetti...our logic is simple: i'm tired. i sleep.

dipping into memory before memory pushed record...we got away with so much more. we were small -- unpoliced -- short enough to weave through crowds unrestrained, stomp on toes, pilfer candy, and be perfectly inadequate. whatever we produced was great, perfect, we got stickers. we used to fib when convenient, truth tell when it was inappropriate, and wonder if the moon was a girl or a boy. we used to decorate our hair with chewing gum, run when we were supposed to walk, and eat fat boys by the box.

then our bodies got bigger, and our brains outgrew their bloomers.