tiny flakes, noise, echoes
you touch as if
and hymns disturb
as bells wake up gods.
it is you in you
and it walks inside and unconsciousness sticks to keep you buried
a lifetime you waste, somewhere without
an idea
that you carried the burden of nothingness in apparent objective.
it is an artistic scramble to paint an image in darkness
of vacuum
you love to cherish and so indulge in nakedness of words runny.
incessant contest somewhere
a fluky dispersal
of emotions
carries
burden of age you know not and still cry meaning
and boast of scribbling an epitaph on stones half chiseled
a great effort to see light at a burial ground
the testimonial of infinity
calling man to hug.
you are not seen here, not at this moment, and maybe it is not in future
forever it is a struggle to exist in non-entity
you sit and tell.
There’s something wretched in an office that’s deathly quiet
The only sound to be heard is the droning of many computers in a room that’s empty
My eyes are growing weary as tiredness takes hold
Struggling to stay awake, I can feel my brain crawling out of my skull
I’m all alone, solitary confinement has taken control of my thoughts
Staring at the screen, wanting to write but nothing is forthcoming
My god I’m so bored doing the same thing over and over again
Suddenly, I feel a cold draft creeping down my spine
My heart starts to pound and perspiration drips from my brow
In the corner of my eye, there’s a glimpse of a shadow dashing across the room
I can’t move as fear grips me, keeping me paralyzed in my chair
“Where the hell is everyone?” the only thought passing through my mind
The lights flicker as if a gentle breeze caresses the flame of a candle
The room starts to shake violently
I can’t breathe, the air is so thin
Everything stops, the lights go out with a BANG, but the clock keeps ticking
Tick tock tick tock tick tock
Yet, time has stopped moving, tick tock tick tock, uncertain madness takes control
My blood starts to boil, the cramps in my stomach, ooh the pain
The pain is surreal, something is taking over me.
I feel that my time has finally been called
Death has come to claim my soul
Two shadowed figures stand before me
Their eyes are raging with fire; a haunting sound fills the room as these spectral beings move rapidly towards me,
I want to run but the floor is gripping me like a child clinging to its mother.
The demons enter my body and a fire burns inside me as I slowly disintegrate in to thin air
Restless my heart goes deep down,
I search to answer the unvoiced questions,
that got my marrows trembling from within.
Out of the window was these bright light,
that I lost track of time yet the grind piece
Was running late, I don’t know who to trust
my heart or the grand piece.
I found myself talking to the voices in my head,
up to the roof my eyes caught these
Ball giving light to the whole earth,
very beautiful, It cannot be compared to anything in the night,
I sat for hours staring at it, it didn’t make a move and my grand piece is running ahead.
My eyes grow stronger in curiosity to apprehend the inevitable firmament suspension,
I glued my eyes to the ball that I could feel my unvoiced words echoed back at me,
then surprisingly another ball brighter than the lights appeared from a distance
I thought I was crazy, until I noticed lives on rooftops looking at the same thing ,
we were terrified, but yet curious.
The bright light rouse higher and higher crashing into the previous,
“THE WORLD HAS COME TO AN END”
lives screamed as it changes its color giving birth to ECLIPSE
But words are just words, and lies will always be lies.
Maybe summer will reveal the truth, and the phrases that sit beneath my scars
I bare myself before them, and welcome my feelings; they’re tougher then that, and stronger then me. So I break apart, their ignorance leaving bruises on the back of my hands; hands that I don’t even recognize anymore.
Who am I supposed to be? Because i am never enough. But I am all that I know. And if they tell me to be softer, I will remind them I am jaded, and sharp. That each piece of me has carved a hole in someone else. So if you want me to change, you mustn’t stay.
And I’ll walk the shores alone and collect shells instead of these reasons to run.
Some never make it to see another spring! 6 Degrees with my pitching arm worn out; the man child awakes! The kid came to town on A Sunday and a week later he was dead! Give me hope, give me strength, give me peace, give me love, patience and in grace, abandonment. Give me youth, give me beauty, give me wisdom, give me enlightenment and in happiness; brief contentment in savoring those seldom small things that we all take for granted. The groans in joy and pain and the realizations of nothing being down there: The low rider running cold and high roller running hot; the creative flex away from the hustle and bustle towards peace and quiet, dry docked and contemplative, how it saves my ass. Grabbing at straws for the wind-up and the pitch in baseball. But in my business it is the Pitch that Winds-up in the pitching arm, blown out! The Art that purifies me is incidental; funny stuff trickling down underground that I wrestle with for years. Visual, picture and sound, three turning to thirty; then sixty-four frames per second! Contrast and horizontal shifts no longer exist; giving way to Density and Saturation, baffling the most delusional of directors of photography. 100 some odd years gone by with the making of an imagination that sparks others to re-imagine; and give audiences an act of organic re-invention Towards a New Amsterdam, A Holland or Hell’s Kitchen; handling all with care & cruise control, surfing the net and the planets alike, aligned within 6 degrees of separation. The shows are great in the Keystone State but the business stinks in Denmark thrown from empty cubicles all over the globe in a new age of misery and grief as wrestlers showcase it. Politicians perform and we have the right to say when it is over. The populace documented by the filmmaker as a single person, being all things to all people. So who is the real king of rank in these Williams, Hanks and Beatty? The Prime Minister of Canada or Italy decide. A rich country, promised boy to the poor; but a free-thinker and lancer, enlightened and standing at the door. So beautiful he is, careful and wishing, while society treats him like a stranger. What have you gained but for so precious little; these small truths so evident in jest! Very little has been dropped in your ear to sway the Queen’s language. Written on paper for an audience, bubbling up from the brooks, filled with energy and floating wet as dead leaves, towards stream. The Massive Oceans rise from the Picture in throng’s from the music’s child! You were a child once…now an adult; still wrestling with those feelings of being a child. It is a child that will lead them because God knows they are lost; and God so loves the children, animals and especially dogs; he has returned… but this time he is not alone refusing to sit for long periods anxious to perform feats most strenuous. He is the Overlord, the under lord, the War lord and the Landlord. He is the Real Lord and he isn’t alone this time; but is willing to speak to anyone who claims to be “The Actor”.
-Thank You Mother, for the Dream; and you Father, for being in it! The stream of Violence ever excels as I lay under this Tree…. unencumbered….! My work is done! God’s Speeds me along! My scriptures need not be repeated; but just pictures in my head that I hope will never have to be made. I have found your voice and have fulfilled all of my passions. I lived the Dream and loved the pursuit, with no impression left but calm and comely inspirations by someone or something…anything! Resentment even but not jealousy…who needs it.
Diversity must lead to tolerance, not contempt; and the fire in our bellies only lead us into vice. Dexterity gives way to these mental gymnastics leading us to wisdom and passion in the challenge of a dream, a movement from the promised boy. You will know him by his animal grace, like the June bug in summer and the bison in winter. He is not a work of fiction but is made whole. He is not a God and he is not a daemon or a hermit. He doesn’t practice resentment, jealousy or envy. He runs hot and cold under his tree; witnessing, in silence with her, the busyness and noise under this sun; the only thing that is working right. He was born from Industry in electronics and digital-pixilated posture.
Dogs and babies pray for Him from their gardens, making it seem unordinary that all anxieties have grown past regret.
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You meet your child for the first time, so much love abounds. You are so proud to be a mother now.
Next, there is:
2 am feedings
Colic is reeling
Tantrums and screaming
Patience at an ending…
Night time comes happily to say goodbye to the sun.
Tuck them in bed sweet and tight. You then pause watching them sleep.
At that moment love swells up inside you overwhelmingly. Lumping in your throat so you can’t speak.
It is then you remember why you became a Mother.
Youth was there with baby teeth
the teeth then left and left me be
I walked into this smaller place
I was so small so little much grace
And there they were
blue, red, and brightly colored walls
they want us all to feel as tall.
We shared in circles and sang in groups
Dressed in our costumes we walked in loops
The wooden playground that once stood strong
Now a distant memory
We must move on
Yet then I grew and matched the goal
I reached the top
I jumped, I rolled
All the way past Margos bench
Until there was no where left
I really wanted to go.
I left the small rooms with fake happy trees
for there were no more lies that I could not see
I was smarter, louder, and bigger now
The trees that once clouded me were shaken down.
We were the oldest ones now leading the pack
Yet embarking on a journey in which courage we could not lack.
The song we once sang when five years of age
Now helping us turn a completely new page.
For here I stand, youth tinted but clear
and seeing the things I once had feared
Exploring the art I never knew was there
witnessing the life that hadn’t been shared.
Admiring the kids I’d one day be
A day so distant back then
A day I never thought I’d see.
For here I stand, youth growing but still
Now bigger than I have ever been
yet smaller than I will ever be.
Surrounded by love and growing compassion
I begin to grow up in a fast pace fashion.
For once again we lead the pack
Still searching for courage we know not to lack.
It took thirteen years to truly know to say
The impact these walls have had on our days.
For there I stand, youth clear through memories
I walk into this bigger place
I am so big, so tall, still so much grace
and there they are
white, black, grey dull colored walls,
that I won’t let– make me feel small.
For what I know and will stay with me forever
Is that truly we are all in this together.
“Alice?” I questioned the
petite, brown haired woman. She walked towards me, stomach
bumped an early pregnancy. I led her to the back room while she blabbed blabbed blabbed
about the usual chit-chat the baby kicked the baby made her pee the baby made her tired.
Again I wondered why she was pregnant. The radio in the corner of the exam room
whispered, “the vote for Prop 4 goes up in a week.” “What’s that?” I asked eyes tearing
away from notes. “I said I wished the father had come today,” eyes narrowed, Alice gazed at
the sun. “Minors need consent,” the radio hissed. I nodded, “How old
are you Alice?” “I’ll be 18 in two weeks,” her teeth glowed at me.
She wasn’t even an adult. “BLASPHEMY!”
I jumped eyes jumped between Radio and Alice. “What can I help you with today?”
“I need my options for abortion.” “Women can’t choose to kill, what about the baby?” I
smiled kindly and explained it depended. She wrapped shiny pink hands around biceps
and rolled a shoulder, “I’m 14 weeks.” I sighed. “Women are irresponsible, they can’t be
trusted with-” I moved my hand to turn off the radio. “Fathers are arguing that
only they can be trusted with matters of this caliber.” I flicked the switch and turned
back to little Alice. “I can do a dilatation and evacuation procedure, where we put you to sleep and
vacuum out the child.” Alice’s mouth shrunk she nodded, “how soon?”
“Today if you like.” “I can vacuum it out and choose what to do with you.” Then I gave
her an injection to put her out.
A single medical light set up the stage.
I shrug on my white coat, run a hand
through my moussed, brown hair, and shift to wash my hands in the stainless steel sink.
“You women,” I say, rolling my neck giving a sidelong glance to the wiggling woman
fighting against the ties on the surgery table. Hannah. A chooser.
“Chooser,” I chuckle and stalk over to the table.
I glide my hands from Hannah’s small ankles up to her thighs, and relish in the feel
of her, soft, supple, meat. She shakes under my hands, bleating
softly to me.
I glance back to Alice and her child propped against the
white wall, one eye open and lifeless, baby curled on the second exam table- skin marbled.
Alice had tried to choose.
I exhale; the time for choice was over.
“Today I give birth,” I proclaim.
I look the woman under my hands in the face. Her head violently shakes left to right, spittle
dragging down her chin. My eyes slide down to her ripe belly
I smile, and let her go. I turn instead to the surgical
table and the industrial bottle of Surgi-lube. I slather the stuff on
like butter, my arms gleam under the fluorescent light.
I was told he was the best prenatal doctor
DON’T TOUCHI
slide a finger into her, sighing.
And then two And then my fist I pump in ‘n out to loosen
the muscles before pushing against the cervix, the child’s prison gates.
“This,” I grunt, punching through, “is mine”. Amniotic fluid dribbles
down my arm in a steady yellow flow. The woman’s muffled screams bounce
around the operating room like a cheap bouncy ball. I feel the baby’s neck —
HA! – a hand hold that I grab tight and pull. It’s a wet,
one way tug-of-war. “This will always be mine,” I exhale loudly, sweat
oozing down my face and neck I can see the things head now peeking out
between Hannah’s Refined Ruby lips.
Tt the things free, I hold it up like a successfully killed rabbit.
Hannah has passed out, probably from relief that I took this from her.
“I choose the life,” I drop the baby to the linoleum floor with a splat, cord
still attached, and pick up the marble baby from the table.
“And I choose when the life,” Alice’s child is ripe, it had been sitting out for nights,
rising, now it was time to bake. I place the child’s head against those
red, red lips and push. Little bits burst with dark liquid
adding to the red as I pressed. The berry syrup made things very messy.
It would have been better to chop this into smaller pieces before shoving it up
the woman. I push and shove until it’s finally in. I take my pitcher
the front was bright, spic ‘n span, freshly
built, tan and white, sliding glass doorsmy
choicemy
bodyof
water from the surgical table and pour it over the lips washing them clean.
Then pick up my needle and thread to sew them up. “And I choose how the life,”
Bake for 30 minutes. The woman’s stomach bubbles and ripples.
Her horse screams alert me that it was almost done.
A faint whistling came from under the woman. The ripples spreading out,
Bloating her body. And then she popped.
“A life all my own,” I whispered, wiping the carmine stew from my face
to see the result. All that remained was the stomach, the protrusion
pealing open like a corpse flower and out came muscle slick skin yellow buttercream
covered face crawling like a silent movie. A small thin figure, naked with slit eyes
wiggled around. Its eyes eyed me as it slid to the
sticky, red floor and dragged itself, leaving a trail of slime
and cloud of lactose gas behind,
out the door.
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