Trembling demographics

Stretched out fuzzy landscapes

Distorted mountains clench

Sounds desensitized and flutter

A mangled government howls

Ministers pleading with statues

Arguments swing from branch

to branch like a diabolical monkey

Sentiments sealed in a box

Hungover debates swallowing

OxyContin and sleeping pills

Insomniacs chatting with graffiti

between Sinister Lane and 5th Street

Cigarette smoke flies like a bird

and shadows dance with loneliness

Laughter turns stale like a cracker

Cynics and pessimists fall in love

Innocence is submerged in flames

A place of cracks and haze

Wanderers and drifters circle

Under her breath she uttered “Life is as beautiful as a forehead kiss”
Joy dances like a ballerina on her spellbinding tongue
She squeezed tea parties with her doll Delilah with her artistry
Quietly adoring her childhood books on the shelf from the tallest to the shortest
She painted love with the ocean with her steady hand on her prized canvas
Gazing at her innocent imagination
Memorized the pattern and pastel colors of her quilt
In a whisper she mumbled “Beauty is inside, not in the eye of the beholder”
Climbing inside her mellow perception
She glided across the beige carpet with an ornament of a smile
A sphere filled with crayons, lite bright, easy bake oven, and ballroom dresses
Cherishing the extraordinary recollection,
Embracing the collage of photographs in her heart
Drops fall to the floor as she glances at a hollow room on Wildfire Lane

She slips on theological rhetoric
She hides behind the voodoo stuck to her silent tongue
Wearing her vixen like dress
She acquired accolades and accommodations from the saliva of the burnt orange wolf
She spoke the language of love in riddles and teenage rhymes
Wearing her Madusa like pearls
She mishandled truth and washed down a liter of half bitten lies
She threw away fortunes and laughed at others misfortunes
Wearing her witchcraft perfume
She roared liked the bitch she was and ignored the crowd who carried her on a Persian rug
Wearing her battle ax over her shoulder

I found you…

Unraveled and detoxing from the vibrations. I saw lies injected into your shriveled up sun. I saw you nauseas from the sight of the blood dripping from the roses. I saw a self indulging massacre spin. I walked away from your propellers. I saw the crash from a distance in slow motion. Fixated and obsessed with the numbness. I witnessed you crawling through the trenches. I saw you fight with your own scars. I saw you plead with your skeptic past. I saw you disappear into the white light.

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea’s side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water’s speeches.

Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour’s word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow’s signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven’s sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea’s side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

Instantly my judgements were casted. I sat at a table for three. I sat between a pessimistic dreamer and a carefree non stop smoker. I digested painted ideologies and exhaled nostalgia from my vibrating lungs. I scoffed at the handwritten kindhearted gestures. It was as if I had read them on a greeting card as a child. I tried to be engaging but was caught off guard by the long winded interrogation. Sidewinding questions, sarcastic remarks and complex theories were thrown at me like punches. I took a beating like a boxer.

Inside my head all I could hear was the regurgitating water downed clouds of systems.
The formulas, schemes, and strategies plotted by short sighted leaders of this self centered generation.

I nodded my head as the clarity dispersed. I was not treated like an equal. I sat between arrogance and a rattling jaw. I barely touched my grilled California chicken. I only took a few sips of joy. I was tired of the pointing fingers and criticism of my status. I was ridiculed by plastic snakes with their golden ideals in a frame.

Inside my mind all I could do was to assess the situation. I could sense I was a pawn in their chess game. I couldn’t shake off the smirk. I coughed up their sour and misplaced words.

I sneered at their ancient glossy wisdom. I could feel the itchy tickle in my throat. I hacked up a two hour disgusting stomach aching conversation after walking away from the table.

I am only home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I moved away for a job and it’s been a journey since then. When I met my family my brother pointed something out that made him teary eyed. There were names of deceased family members on the tables. I saw my aunts name, my mothers, grandfathers, grandmothers, and my cousin. I looked around the room as tears fell from my eyes. My brother saw me and hugged me. Although we are very different in many aspects we are the same. We moved over to the corner of the room and told me how our mom would be so proud of me. In his own words he actually expressed how much he loved me and missed me. This is something he would do when he was drunk. He didn’t have an ounce of alcohol in him. Naturally I cried as he spoke. I saw my brother in a different light. A part of me moved away for a job and part of me moved away from my family. In my eyes, growing up and still today I feel misunderstood. I want to unravel all the feelings we all feel in my writing. I want to write from different perspectives. I told my brother the other day I have three published books. In my head I spend my time writing wanting to leave something behind, my legacy. Perhaps on the blog this is where I am understood. But my brother for once understood me. He could see parts of me that are broken. He could see why I write from other perspectives. It’s easier for me to write from other points of view because I have some pieces I don’t want to look at. He could clearly see I just didn’t move away for a job.

A classic vantage

Perceptions gauzed in antiques

Edges of photographs crinkle

Rustic but euphoric

Art history in sight

Words written from thick blood

Deep appreciation of jazz

Grasping the top notch pen

Refined and elegant

Dressed in sophistication

Adoring her exquisite tongue

Artistic in the hurricane soul

Tasting the vintage ink


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