Month: May 2015

Ode to Earth

Love hides in loneliness, in the hollow parts of the soul. It sits there, in the dark, waiting patiently for distant murmurs to become vivid voices.  But it does not call out, will not call out.   That is the law that governs the heart,  It is for the seeker, Alone, to find Looking or not.  Sometimes you’ll see it shining between blades of grass,   or glistening on overturned stones at the bottom of riverbeds. Sometimes, it flicks back and forth in the flame of a candle, But other times, it stays lost and forlorn.  I went away this weekend. I packed my car & hit the road at midnight. I like traveling by myself, I like the freedom of just going, without fear, without resilience. I drove through the indigo dark down desert roads, and abandoned railroad towns. I passed weigh stations, and souls slumbering in their semis, like dragons guarding their hoards. It rained off and on & I kept a watchful eye on the creatures of the night (deer, and rabbit, and …

Flies on the Window

Flies on the window Trying to get out Float to the top Die at the bottom Clean them out of the crease In the frame Wash my hands after Sometimes I feel like the fly Searching for sustenance Lured inside by cool air And pretty lights & abundance of fruit in bowls on kitchen tables But then the window shuts, And I am trapped Will you clean me out, When you find me Dead at the Bottom?

Playing with Shadows & Other Adventures

Life Update:  Yes, that’s right… I have embarked upon a new adventure! One in which I have crossed the days off of my calendar, patiently (and rather nervously) awaiting. I am spending the next six weeks within the mini town of Comstock where in which I will be doing my internship… (more on that later.) Well, anyhow, I arrived last night in hopes to get settled & acquainted with my surroundings and golly the little house that I get to spend the next couple months in couldn’t be cuter. It’s a perfectly rustic blue house with sotal sprouting up in the front yard. How exciting. It has a mudroom, and very pretty red adobe-like floors, a very lovely lovely kitchen, a wood-burning fireplace (only to be used for aesthetics, due to the Texas heat, ) and is overwhelmingly charming. Did I mention it’s blue? I have unpacked and am slowly spreading out, reclaiming the space over squatting spiders… I may be slow to post due to lack of internet (as I am currently window-side, bumming wifi…) & …

Natural Guise

What kind of value is in a sunset in a blank stare of ruby sky that lasts minutes and dies forever repeating until eyes cannot see it. What kind of meaning does a moon hold that wanes tighter and tighter into celestial discipline that breaks and bends and therefore spends eternity existing for no other purpose than mystery While the humans gleam short-lived lives capsuled by illness and delusions because one of them talked to snakes and bit into apples Isn’t it a wonder how nature spirals? that rocks cut in two could hold crystals In oysters, pearls I’m not asking what the purpose is but what is the purpose? I’ve lost my only way to see Malice once to the ears is now melody We’re living in a vaudeville thriving on the innocent kill and I’m admiring the sunsets look how much the earth endures Yet we hold no regrets.

An Ever-small Collection

I remember when love was young and I was young right with it. But the sun would rise and set and rise and I began (though ever-slowly) To forget it. I used to have this belief that one should never try to write, & so, I didn’t. I waited. I waited for the words to come naturally, to wash over me like a summer rain, but when they did come, they were nothing more but drips of scattered showers. I still, in my self-proclaimed Bukowski-esque mindset don’t try to write. But I am trying to give myself time. I’m getting older, my hands are becoming increasingly calloused. Greys are sprouting up at the top  of my head. I thoroughly enjoy the quiet. I seek it out & embrace it when it comes running to me. I savor the smallest moments, morning coffee, rainy day walks, my window rolled down in traffic. I used to believe that remaining stagnant and becoming satisfied only limited what one was capable of achieving. I don’t know if I believe …

Concentrate

Concentrate The meaning of the word To focus The chemistry of congregation Negative reflections of Snow kept gates And gangrene feet Ripped clothes And rat feasts The deprivation of my grandmother And her loved ones The near-loss of a society A culture Concentration My husband remembers the first sweet thing That caught on his tongue, One thin foil-wrapped sheet of Wrigley’s gum, That he traded For with one his father’s cigarettes The scolding Was worth it, To realize the world wasn’t All gray & is only half bitter.

On Ambivalence & The Paths In Between

A blue pair of shoes came in the mail today, though there will be no aisle to walk down. Part of me recalls sooner times. Times when the air was thicker and there weren’t so many choices to take, and mistakes were absent in my mind. It isn’t until we start growing older that we realize what a treasure time was and how tentative it remains. I’ve tight-rope walked between two paths nearly my entire life, and I never made a decision to cross over, dedicate. I remained ambivalent, as so many do, out of fear, or maybe even a bit of arrogance. There were days when I woke up, not knowing who I was, now there are days when I wake up wondering who I could have been. Yet still there will be the day that I don’t wake up at all and I look inside myself now and wonder if it all even mattered…. Wonder if my life was or will be relevant to someone in some way, or if it will just …

Of Hell & High-Rises

There are no words to explain that alone feeling I get when sitting outside on my steps looking unto the alleyways in the bleak-half darkness, the lights of the city combating that of the moon’s own glow. Stray cats run and meow, meow, in fights and dart across the landings, their shadows cast in a higher statue than they’d ever be in day. I watch the smoke rise high from my fingers, I breathe in and out the cold. An ambulance leeches by, and bums lurk seeking shelter under the rooftops that I silently watch them from, taking it all in. Rustic, pissed on grandeur. Cables cross like Hindu lines of ancient texts across the sky; old sneakers dangle from them like youthful suicide. A Ford Focus lurches in front, her headlights menacing, break my romanticized gaze, and here I am again, in nothing but my 21st century reality where everything is candy coated vomit, shined, plastered, and spun into something of ‘value.’ There is no lesson to be learned from this, there is no …

The Road

Picking gnats off my breasts Cleaning Popsicle drips from your lips The smell of burning charcoal filling The fresh mountain air, The desert creosote, Embracing our lungs, The Midwestern nothingness Laughing. Thriving in pale echoes left by sunsets We couldn’t hope to remember, Polaroid memorials litter my dash, Like the hallways of Christian families living in the realm of their God and his good graces, But I exist only within the land of those Greedy yellow lines, and they are criminals That control the trade of souls Unforgiving of homes, It isn’t where your mail comes, Or where your love is… It’s where your hat hangs… Next to the noose on the hall tree. It’s this quest for feral freedom, That the road knows, but never tells. And in that open, red dirt canyon land, I am not a wife, not a concubine, not a sinner. I conspire with Texaco maps over purple horizons, And this is not an ode to the open stretches, It is not a simple joy to love or indulge in, Concrete …