Light and Darkness

Fly Paper

I wrote this on 02.08.07 and read it at Glass Eye this month. I haven't fixed grammar issues such as verb tenses so please forgive.

Fly paper hanging in the doorway of the kitchen as the dim light barely illuminates the hall leading to the bedroom. You can hear her moaning from the obvious pleasure caused by their rutting. The seediness of their impulsive decision to fuck only encourages their primal instincts.

He was ugly. An overweight drunk in his forties with a paunch that came from eating too many delicatessen sandwiches as evidenced by the grease stains on the front of his shirt. And having just met him in line while ordering take out only supported the theory that he had a fondness for deli meats and cheeses from heartland Wisconsin. And his ugliness was only exaggerated by his pocky skin and hacker's cough that expelled a stale breath reeking of ashtrays and ass.

But there she was...fucking him in his apartment. And she was more than enjoying it. He was the best lay she had had.

All 250 pounds of him pushing her against his cheap dresser. From behind nonetheless. She can see him in the mirror. Eyes closes and scrunched. His mouth hung open and spittle creeped from the corners as his face contorted from the pleasure he was feeling. She could see his chubby hands grasp her hips. He clung to her with pinching claws. And fuck! It turned her on more.

Her hands pampered from weekly visits to the Korean woman at the spa held the sides of the bureau tightly. Her knuckles strained against her skin. Any tenser and the bone may have ripped thru the surface.

Her skirt had been pulled up and out of the way so that he could access her. Dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat; and her eye make-up was bleeding down her cheeks. Despite her charm in the bourgeois social circles, she was fucking a nameless slob she had met twenty minutes before.

He was behind her in the store when she stepped backwards into him. She never apologized nor looked back. She let the push of the lunch time crowd initiate her spontaneous thought. She pressed into him until she aroused him. And she let him press back.

After she picked up her order, she followed him back to his dingy home, and she fucked him.

One can think she wanted revenge against a cheating husband who did pretty blondes who answered his phones. Or perhaps she was punishing herself with anonymous sex because she felt worthless. Maybe she was molested by a middle-aged slacker when she was a teen. Or she could be a whore.

None could be further from her truth. She had a need that this man freely fulfilled. She wanted a lunchtime quickie and he was behind her in line.

Matrix Nae

Mistaken

Seated at my desk, I wait for the words to flow as answers to my worries and questions. I hope for enlightenment and revelation that starves all my fears and doubts about my life. I pray for genius to strike my fingers like bolts of electricity. I want to hear the keyboard clatter beneath my fingertips and see the brahminic message of certainty appear on my computer screen...

I wish it were so simple. To ask for divine intervention in a life, I feel I've mis....lived? Mislived? Yes!

Mislived with acts of impulsive childishness.

Mislived with deeds left undone and promised for tomorrow.

Mislived with rash declarations and angry volitions.

Mislived with too much sadness and not enough joy.

Mislived with too many emotions and not enough logic.

To ask for divine intervention in a life....MY life....one that I've mislived and get the answers so calmly and so easily. My life decades over, I pray to an Unknown to interrupt this life of misliving; and I sit naively at my desk thinking the coherent words of what to do next will surface on my conscious and form beneath my fingertips.

For it to be so?! Mistaken, am I.

Remorse at the Red Altar

On occasions, she found the taste of blood remorseful.

Remorseful? She once asked herself. How can I find such sadness in what gives us all life? Especially me.

Her life as priestess and soothsayer for her tribe was far from the dismal world of remorse. She lived in luxury. She was carried every where and her feet touched nothing but the sacred grounds surrounding the Red Altar, which was stained red from the sacrifice of so many tribesmen and women of a century past. She was always given the most succulent fruit of the trees and the tenderest meats of the hunters' kill. A myriad of men and women of her choosing satisfied her body’s desires. And she was always respected and feared.

So, why did she find these sacrifices of flesh and blood sad? She never questioned the need to protect her people from the spirits' foul tempers and jealous ways. Many children had died from the hot, shaking fevers when the sacrifice was unsatisfactory. Women came home with little or no meat when the Chosen One had not been of the right season; and the warring tribes of the seas claimed the lives of many more men when the Red Altar was void of warm red liquid.

Sacrifice meant life to her tribe. And the wise woman of the tribe understood sacrifice. She had inherited her holy order at an age when most children dream with complete abandon and yet, she watched in horror, as her mother became the sacrifice at the Red Altar that initiated her as priestess and vessel of the spirits. She choked back tears as the elderly women of her tribe raised the wooden bowl filled with her mother's blood to her lips to drink. She knew sacrifice as she watched her acolytes discard her mother's lifeless body over the cliff onto the heavily forested floor below. She was orphaned and ordained in one day. She knew sacrifice.

And she knew the sadness that seemed to stir the blood she tasted on her tongue with each sacrifice. She saw eyes filled with fear and duty suddenly stop moving as the heartbeat pulsed out of the body in rivers of red into that same wooden bowl. The remorse that overpowered the thick heat and saltiness of the Chosen One's blood. How she wished she was removed from her own body then. Let the spirits use her to enjoy this sport. She longed for the blissful ignorance of trances and possession. But no, she was acutely aware at each season's gift.

And there was remorse.

Perfection

Doug had a little fun so I'm borrowing. Thank you, Disco. Make your own and tell your friends. I think the DF1LM website has gone around before but do it's a goodie so do it again.

Sharing

Scanned a photo I took with my manual during Christmas. In ode to my goofy yet sexy social studies teacher in middle school, I offer you this little pun...

All of you are the light of my world.

Yeah...I know. It's bad.

NaNo NaNo

Be kind. I just started writing last night so my word count is very, very low. I'm not sure where I'm going with it but I do have an idea in mind. Going to give you a snippet. Good God, what did I get myself into?!

I woke up craving a cigarette to both calm my nerves and as an act of defiance. I haven’t had one since leaving The Literate Joe. The new Nameless Twit insisted that I not light up in his place. "It stains the white yellow," he said. "Besides, don’t you know smoking is bad for you?"

I didn’t want to argue. Going without a cigarette was hard but screwing up my chances for a night of good sex was even harder. Unfortunately, I should have chosen the cigarette.

On top of the growing need for a stick, I have this sick sensation in the pit of my stomach. Probably the penance for taking the NT up on his offer. I know it’s not the six Red Snappers or five beers from last night. My usual tab. It is definitely the guilt from my night of debauchery I’ll have to make up for when I face the Heavenly Holy One.

"Shit! What was I think? He’s not even my type." As if some Hollywood script had been written for this morning, the NT rolls over but never wakens.

"Thank God." I stand and walk naked to the living room. I didn’t get the opportunity to see his apartment last night. Like some Architectural Digest junkie, the NT has decorated the space using some designer’s white wet dream as a model.

. . .

Emma's Contribution

Em painted this at school before the storm. I absolutely am in love with my kid!

A Pair to Share

Just wanted to post a few watercolor pencil paintings. Enjoy

The Daughter

Her mother was always very sad. Even when her laughter filled a room. Even when her voice swam in the air in song. There always seemed to be a sadness that lingered in her eyes. That darkness poured from her like sweat on a hot ninety degree day. The crinkle of her smiling eyes were always slightly moist from the deep blue that smothered her soul.

And all that the daughter could do was watch and wait. She knew it was only a matter of exhaustion before permanent sleep would overcome her mother. The tired fight thrown finally when no respite would replenish her spirit. And the girl knew it was an "eventually".

Eventually Mom would simply give up and die. Give up on trying to find her happiness. Give up on healing her wounds. Give up on wanting to rise in the morning and giving it a go. Eventually Mom would close her eyes and give up.

This sadden the daughter. She wished she could give her mom the spirit within her own body. Let her, no, make her see the light that was more intense than the darkness. She wanted her mother to know the woman she saw and loved every day.

A woman who found joy, no matter how small or brief in the simplest things. Finding a new root in a plant cutting. Walking barefoot in the mud. Laughing at the cats staring at an untouchable lizard. Picking up a rock in the parking lot.

The daughter pushed those images from her mind forward at her mother. She willed them to enter her mom's mind. She prayed that this sad woman would only see the happiness she really, truly had.

But those images seem to always hang there in the nothingness. They never seemed to move beyond the empty space directly before her mother.

So, the daughter could only wait. Wait and watch her mother torment herself with the infinite sadness. She waited for the the end. She watched with the same sadness her mother exhaled constantly.

The daughter wanted to scream out that she loved her mother but she knew the words would only be swallowed by the black hole. So, the daughter watched and waited. Watched and waited for the sadness to silence her mother's world. And her own.

Mystery's form

Ok. I've had to modify my drawing. When I scanned it, it was entirely too light so I had to muck with the contrast and brightness in Photoshop. Bleh! Looks better in my journal.

A little about what I used and when I did it. I was bored at work one day....this is when I had my own office and a big desk with a smooth surface. We could burn candles in our space and I collected the black ash pieces from my burned candle wicks. I started drawing on the desk and writing poetry and then decided to move to my journal. So, my mystery is from simple wick ash. I sometimes use the burned ends of matchsticks as well. I have drawing charcoals but I just don't like those as much. I haven't gotten the nick of it.

And I emphatically state: I AM NOT AN ARTIST!!!!

Autonomy

She slid into the world quietly and unassuming. The tear from her warm liquid pocket was nothing short of shocking but she would adjust. With silent awe she had discovered new things over the last few months. In the short time of consciousness, she found satisfaction in suckling on the smooth softness of her own bits later to be named 'fingers.' She exploded in joy each time her chest jolted from hiccups. Her heart smiled from the deliciousness of stretching her growing form. So, being evicted from her bed of ten months was a bit overwhelming yet a delightful experience of adventure.

The air upon her damp skin was biting. The small cavern she had nested in for all that time had been a hug warmed by her own existence. The space outside was much roomier but she knew in time she would warm it with the sheer brilliance of her movement through it. How long would it take her? She cared not; she had no real concept of time. Everything was done at her leisure, for her enjoyment and discovery. Her electrified body stretched out in anticipation of touching, tasting, and hearing the much bigger womb she had just entered; and when the stunning emotion got the better of her, she inhaled.

The noise moved about her and she struggled to take everything in. Her ears strained to catch all the sounds which were much more than hub-dub hub-dub that always accompanied her. The hub-dub hub-dub that woke her from her dreams and lulled her to sleep. The hub-dub hub-dub that spoke to her in a language she would later discover was a secret that everyone forgets. But these new sounds? They were fantastic! They startled her and screamed at her from every direction but she attached to them with an emotion best described as love.

She was enjoying this new awakening. Only moments before she was snuggling into the sloshy comfort of her home to dream; and now she was too excited to sleep. The bigness overcame her so much that she barely noticed the swelling pain from her inhale. She also found that deliriously fascinating. She was swimming in pure bliss.

Until the push of largeness on her body surprised her. The jostling was joined with noise and roughness on her skin. A jet of cold invisbleness shoved itself into the holes that had before only allowed in the liquid warmth that had surrounded her in the darkness. She wanted to move from it. She tried to close herself to the intruder but found herself against a hardness she had never experienced before. She could do nothing but flail her tiny limbs in protest to it and allow it to enter and leave her frame at its will. There was a force of brightness into the tender spots on her face that had never been used. A stinging wet pain shoved into them. The excited love from moments before was quickly streaming out of her from her invaded orbits. The uncomfortable push and pull on her created a new sensation as her body shook with a desire to escape into the dark protectiveness of the pillow she had known. She feared. She wanted nothing more of this rape upon her body, her senses, her emotions. This capture of her. She only wanted to retreat back to her comfort and her anonymous identity. She sensed she lost the safety of her own time, her way of absorbing the new; and she wailed.

In my journal

I am

Lonely
in the house, I wander;
touching pieces that were bought
to fill the space within me that is...
Hollow
frame my body has become,
after years of longing for
someone to see beyond my thin...
Shell
of emotions covers my guarded heart,
that cries and shies away from touches,
that flow freely out of relationships so...
Fragile.

(031204)

home

Intertwined legs sliding between each other
beneath enveloping sheets.
The press of her back against his nude chest
sealing the closeness of skin upon skin.
His body's soft S-curve naturally fitting against hers
like the last piece of a puzzle.
An arm draped protectively over her waist
with following hand cupping a breast.
Lazily nibbling lips resting on the nape of exposed neck.
The stray strands of her hair tickling his lashes
as his face buries in her tresses.
Passionate smell of her skin reminding him he's home.

(031104)

Hughes and Naomi

A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

...

Hughes is one of my favorite writers. And his poem seems to fit the mood that keeps me company tonight.

...

Dream by Naomi

Reality can be a brutal bitch
-when you live haphadardly in your dreams.
You fear hoping that your dreams will sneak out
from the secret pockets of your soul,
and burst open like a New Year's Eve popper.
You hold that nagging bit of pessimism a little too tightly,
refusing to let your imagination run.
But your hope and giddy, swooning heart talk
those loud...screaming...negative thoughts
down to a dull whisper.
Your body and mind become comfortable,
with the thought of successful dream achievement.
And when you are too drunk
from the delight
of the possibility,
the probability,
of your dreams living true in technicolor brightness;
the cruel, cold, apathetic, stark truth smacks you
until your face swells and your nose bleeds.
After several ass-kickings, you realize the torture of dreaming
...and stop.

(031104)

Ode to the flag

I wrote this in response to our involvement in overseas events and the sense of "nationality" rabid in so many people here. But considering the outrage of our "patriotic" citizens against people who have the same rights and are due the same benefits of freedom to love whoever the hell they want and to make a movie about God, I think the poem is quite apropros. If you can't respect my friend Tim's choice to love his boyfriend or my friend Adam's right to be atheist, then you need to go the fuck back to where you came from.

My nation's colors bleed
like a poison coursing thru angry veins.
A foundation of freedom cracks
beneath the weight of fear.
Trepidation and sensibility disappear
as the mob of bigotry initiates loud voices.
"American" pushes "human" down
like a bully on the playground.
How such hate shames me-
Citizen of this world.
One of the brethern "under God."
To weep for man - black, white, yellow, red, brown -
means treason for the "land of liberty and justice for all."
To extend my hand to my foreign kin
invites cold shoulders and shunned silence.
I must forget OUR God to be true
to "red, white, and blue."

(from 100703)

Face

frustration at my unsurmountables
aggravation at my misdirection
palpitations at my stresses
lack of motivation at my dilemmas

(from 082103)

Peel away my fat.
Tear down my walls.
Rinse off the blahness.
Dig away the layers.
Uncover the mounds.
…And I am nothing.

(from 091503)

Upon waking from my cruel slumber, I discovered the world had not changed.
My self-induced coma had not erased the injustices among men.
I had done more harm to my psyche by withdrawing from the physical realm.
Dreams of perfection had clouded my mind’s eye and had only produced disappointment.
The inner sanctum of my self commanded me to attention.
Realize the world is not fair, it shouted. And make order of its chaos.
And who was I to argue?

(from 103003)

Shoes on the glossy floor click slowly and thoughtfully, her steps meaningful and worried. She regrets this walk with self-loathing. Yesterday was tiring from the celebration. But today…

The news of his happiness weighed her down. Her body was heavy with sorrow.
How did I manipulate myself? click click How did I weaken? click…click Was I deaf to my own shouting?

She stops before the guilt-laden door. Behind the smooth wood and shiny brass knobs, he sits. She feels the heated smile that fills his face, and she moans.

“I’m going to release this,” she whispers cowardly.

“It will end,” she encourages herself.

Her shaking hand stretches out; and with forced determination, she opens the door.

(from 103003)

My heart, full of fire,
charged forward upset with desire
to know a difference;
to see a change;
from this misery and path of pain.

I left unknowingly
this old worn path,
to follow blindly
this strange wrath.

So wrought with happiness and loving peace,
how quickly my footsteps felt at ease.
I hurried onward towards my call
every moment tearing down my wall,
that I had built to protect my soul;
but now felt like a heavy woe.

Instinctively I knew I'd reach
my goal, my life, my eternal me.
The bridge between the end and here
was rough and long but I knew no fear.

It was fear that had kept me from this
straight and simple path.
And that had led me down
a self destructive track.

But with every solid footstep
that drew me near and near,
I gladly forgot the hate that
every day I'd hear.

No more screaming lies
thrown happily at my face.
No more wounding pain
to eagerly embrace.

At the end was true love
that I no longer deny.
At the end, my soul renewed is
my savior, God on High.

(from 012101)

Rowing against the winds,
my boat of emotions are heavy to manuever.

My arms struggle with the oars of logic and reason;
pushing the waters of intuition away.

My speed, though cumbersome to maintain,
is constant as I break through the currents of life.

Always upstream I seem to be moving,
never considering the downward flow easier.

I know that if my small craft I call my body, my boat,
should venture the easy stream down then
I shall find myself falling fast over thunderous falls.

So push and pull I go,
moving upstream towards safety and solidness
...and God.

(from 041601)

My mind drifts to the day when easy emotions flowed.
Days when children spun in circles in green fields and played king of the mountain.
I weep for un-adult duties like homework and chores.
How dreadfully mean those were!
Classes full of friends whispering secrets about crushes and superheroes.

Your slow voice continues to snake through my mind, redoubling as it echoes.
The light touch of your tones have me heavy like an addict on opiates.
My eyelids weigh like stones and my head sways to your enchanting timbre.
The tease of your vocal rumblings have charmed me.

(from 111503)

For you - My Stolen Moment

Carefully I remove myself from the groove of your arm. I unwillingly give up my warm space in the spoon of your body, and the shock of leaving that comfort wakens me quickly.

Quietly I sit beside you on the bed to watch the rhythmic up and down of your chest. The even flow of your breath in and out hypnotizes me and my eyes glaze over. Automatic and deliberately my heart beats in unison with your animated spirit.

The whispered sighs of your sleeping self catch me by surprise resulting in the swell of emotions rising from the depths of soul in tornado-like swiftness. My body sways to and fro like the faithful praying at temple.

The casual calm of your form stirs a wanton desire within me. The bacchanal impulse to drag you from your slumber builds and tests my ever-weakening restraint. But I let you sleep savoring this pregnant moment in the dark, which has tattooed itself on my skin..on my mind..on my heart.

With the faith of an aerial acrobat falling into the safety net below, I lay down in the crevices of your body. And I sleep.

(from 102703)

Wavering fingers

View image

Declaration

I have the freedom to be me-
to fly a course not dictated by longitude and latitude
but by courage and fear....
to scream when frightened or angry
instead of mournfully staying silent.

I choose to be me-
during the ease of depression...
and the burdens of joy.

I can be noone but me-
for my self is drawn upward...
and my soul's release can only be honest.

I challenge the grime building on my heart.
Tearfully I wipe at the mildewed corners.
Angrily I scour at its toxic residue.
I cannot clean away the pain that has yellowed my soul.
Bleaching away the memories has failed.
I've lost my luster. The virgin white of my once porcelain spirit is soiled.
My dank interior decays beneath my insistent scrubbing
The wretched smells of my history always remain.
My smile masks that pungent smell that consistently remains.
-I have been pissed on!

(from 100703)