marching bands and supposies

 

when the grand moment comes, will it be trite, with confetti flowers and cliche after cliche raining down on my awestruck face, as I look around for some skinny Pepsi models to tell me, darling, you made it, you're it, woo hoooo!

perhaps it will be beautiful and brilliant, with an alien landscape airbrushed with bursting colors and forms of impossible beauties, sweeping cities with outstanding originality of theme and towering musical scores

perhaps it will be so heartbreakingly ordinary that I will pick up a cup of tea and a book, and ignore it, as I move forward with my life sunken comfortably in my oasis

perhaps it will be a party of all the people I want beside me, plucked away from their whirlygig lives all around the world, laughing in my tiny abode and peeking into the refrigerator, going "ya ya thats awesome, is there something to eat?"

perhaps it will be poised on my last straw with weeping violins, as my life is about to disintegrate, my last hope sliced in two and fed to the cat next door, and I am waiting for one last kind word to pull me out of the brink of eternal self pity, when the jackpot hits

perhaps it will be a dream, a recurring dream, of a treasure hunt that ends well, a dream that comes true and takes my breath away, a dream to end all dreams

 

sense and sensibility

 

some times have no barriers of sense, they blow up without kindling and the doppelgangers crouch quiet unquiet, reciting rules and regulating thought, freewheeling unrestrained morphing motion channeled back into the pool, its called recycling, sometime in history it was cycled, wasn't anyone watching?

where did we go with this formula, a spade for a spade, a rose is a rose, did we eat dinner off this thought, was pleasure foretold and felt rushing by it, did it shed as pupae, showing off golden naked skin, sloughing off like industrial disease, what was it the fatal attraction to malformed motive and misinformed histories, the stubborn blindness to what the eyes receive

I am an angry woman, that's the legacy of birth, but more mystified stymied, where is this face living from, where are these wheels turning from, why the random puppetry of breaths, impromptu theaters of caricatured dreams, has nothing difficult ever been simply asked and answered. don't tell me to go or stay, or sit or turn, just say what the hell you want and its a simple yes or no from there, why the stark terror anyway

this is a swinging illusion that lives just behind our blind sides, between mind and heart, feeding off both, denying both, this is a freedom from thought, freedom from action, suspended carefully in winged strings and shook trembling from four winds, I believe they call it life

 

seeker seeker

 

Is it possible to love so much, with prayers and tears, a hopeless love for strangers, a bane for familiars. I wonder if any love other than the hopeless kind burns bright over any moment longer than a flap of butterflies and a whiff of marjoram, greed flows like a single tear lashing across the morning grass, slithers like a silver tongued snake within, magnificent from the sky, unseen, coiling a trail of deceit, but a verdict, in the verdant gold, from the sky, from the wind, from the morning creeping in faster than the snake, from the mourning creeping in faster than the wake, a verdict is so hard to reach when it has already been and left

 

I won't run away

 

you can line my arms with stones, fill my heart with pain, I will still look at the skyline, think how beautiful

you can show me reflections of one misery on another, call me an angel, the devil,
nothing, nobody, I will still smile with a stray tune that wafts across by mistake,

you can turn me upside down, tie me up shake my head, until all my blood falls away,
I will still listen to raindrops ebbing gently down my soul

you can burn my dreams, torch the circle of decadence around my skin, fill lies into every crevice of my conscious mind, I will still feed random pups because I can

you can blind me with what you think I should see, deaden my tongue with your words,
clean my touch of all innocence, I will still find hurt and rage and fight, inside my hollow shell

you can go away, I will still draw pictures of a curly haired prince-woman-man, fill them with colors that belong to me

 

incendium

 

what is this unease without a tongue trickling down like summer heat before a storm, waiting waiting, to break, and be appeased, waiting waiting, to grow and snake out long like a dragon tongue inside a cotton mouth, incendium, quick dry and final - finally

where did we go inside this city so looming, ducked into the first alley of leaves we saw and felt so proud, the steel shone all around. why did we meet when all I ever wanted from you was nothing, why did we change, to ask each other of food and knives, to chase around the sunlit roads as one shadow, searching for a single heaven

I'm running madly yet but I know, the sweat's different, I want, I want, I don't know what. so I rolled up the dragon into a neat blue carpet, I knitted baubles from each laugh, each misery, each betrayal, each loss, each step beyond my red torn elastic line that must not be crossed, and the studded slingshot became longer, longer, longer

there is a moaning wind tonight and it mocks me, even as I enjoy the sound, I hate how well I know this storm, hate the destruction it will leave behind, hate how mere mortal I am, living storm to storm, instead of sunrise to doom

 

amnesiac

 

I forget these walls exist, even when I'm not walking through them, I forget I'm a ghost sometimes. I forget all these systems I'm dependant on, life support leaves me so cold. I forget the objects in my rear view mirror, they are farther than they appear, I forget that a hundred green sparkly hats do not a revolution make, takes one

I forget how long revolutions are, should they not have been round? I only remember some nights when I slept, others blur into negatives, stiff and dark and transparent, I forget the right filters between light and darkness. I only remember moments that demanded both and froze forever. I forget what I must remember, what I want, what I'm doing, I forget flowers that wilt away

I forget the differences between making love to a man and making love to a room, I forget that I am not free, never was, always will be, I forget that I have a date with destiny, that my hand writes only what my mind does not recall. I forget that I'm ill, old, dying, sad, happy, angry, ecstatic, undaunted and very very mad. I forget that my mirror is lying as I speak, and if I lean over, it will start speaking with me

I forget this heaven is temporary as is the next, I forget if now is to be seized or ignored or written about or forgotten. I forget where all the rulebooks are kept, are they stored together or broken into Fraunhofer lines. I forget how much I know, how little I know, I only remember how little I mean

I forget the distance between dream and reality, how small it can be, how long it takes to cross, I forget how far I walked away, before my soul elected to reveal itself

 

white chalk outline

 

Of a man in two dimensions on a rough stone ground, did he sit in it because he saw it, lived it, or did they nudge until he was interred. He isn't dead. Yet. The circle of voices around, they are his direction, they feel his ground. But inside the white chalk outline, his the only sound. Should they have drawn after he had ceased?

But he has beautiful food and silks of the pagan gods inside, to soften the rough stone. It is no cage, just a few sketchy lines on the ground, why did he not move? There is conversation, to while the life away, a small price to pay. There is hope and shards of melting silence, the air around chalk is never still. There is motion, the earth below moves around and round.

There are answers here, never any unsettling questions. The chalk outline makes for certainty but the drawer did not wait for death inside. The outline is decided and the finale... a matter of time

Did he protest when the outline became a wall, why were his hands white with shale, why were the walls scored with helpless fingernails? There is still conversation warm and sweet, impeccable food and silken treats. The walls grow higher, he needs them now, to climb on, to see over. He'll escape any day now ...

 

travel scrabble

 

Like the sounds of past generations with a variety of unpleasant alternatives, or wonderful, a primary path, also unpleasant, or wonderful, sharp, the search continues. Truth is worth searching for and tame, if understood at the first shot, at the first target. Deep within our bodies, where truth is made, like energy, and funnelled out and about into the world of endless impossibilities, a few shells curl and are tossed out into the ground to make a number. Proves we know exactly what we're doing, how and why. The big dam floods under the surface for no particular reason, or maybe it has no relationship with emergent truth. It is the construct of common sense over fever, proud and plastic. Pointless, you may see, build and break and build and change and break and build and break, but together they grow a truth so powerful, so loud angry and calm, like an abstract painting with whooshes of empty space, rainbows and roadkill in between, but the effect, the effect, is so happy