i was a daughter once, i know,
not so long ago, when i
had a mother
with all the answers
and skin that never bruised.
we were close; her
branches around mine,
we’d unravel stories,
in winter’s light, and lay,
in those old mornings
where i felt safe
but branches break.
i was a sister too, a child,
with siblings sleeping, side
by side, in a rose-wine
sea, me – so small, we –
daughters lost and losing
something, someone, sooner
than we thought.
these days, that girl
is gone: sometimes i find
the ghost of her in
photo albums, teddy
bears, bob dylan songs.
i’ve yet to ask my sisters
if they’ve seen her.
Momento Mori encourages you to paint your own story
Listening to that broken record mind is painful and boring.
Silence the chatter and climb the chakra ladder to yourself for real glory.
"Remember that you have to die" was planted with Latin roots.
If only you could let go of your leaves, you wouldn't torment yourself with monotonous abuse.
It seems we were trained to forget how to breathe.
Switchboard recalibrated to go on autopilot against the breeze.
Instead of asking why, we look to the neon lights for relief.
Out of single file one man screamed with grief, " End the misery pretty please! The doctor says I gotta up the dosage unless I wanna be deceased. Oh master, do I not give you what you claim you need? I have kids to feed with no more means to deplete. You can take my seat, I'll work on my feet forever... Damn you for shaping my life - No more, my ties to you I sever. Remember that you are going to die. Yes, even you, the self-proclaimed 'most high'. Go hide when you cry, in that same pit of hell where you forge all your lies. Get ready to fry, unless you face yourself long enough to stop opposing the divine."
Momento Mori, my life I stopped forcing. Spine aligned, no longer contorting. Inhale as I stretch at my own leisure while I jot down my own story. The words come, only in the moment. I read the lines at the time you do, with our collective pages eternally unfolding.
Sing me a thrush, bone.
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle.
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather.
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love.
Oh sing, bone bag man, sing.
Your head is what I remember that Augusty
you were in love with another woman but
taht didn't matter. I was the gury of your
bones, your fingers long and nubby, your
forehead a beacon, bare as marble and I worried
you like an odor because you had not quite forgotten,
bone bag man, garlic in the North End,
the book you dedicated, naked as a fish,
naked as someone drowning into his own mouth.
I wonder, Mr. Bone man, what you're thinking
of your fury now, gone sour as a sinking whale,
crawling up the alphabet on her own bones.
Am I in your ear still singing songs in the rain,
me of the death rattle, me of the magnolias,
me of the sawdust tavern at the city's edge.
Women have lovely bones, arms, neck, thigh
and I admire them also, but your bones
supersede loveliness. They are the tough
ones that get broken and reset. I just can't
answer for you, only for your bones,
round rulers, round nudgers, round poles,
numb nubkins, the sword of sugar.
I feel the skull, Mr. Skeleton, living its
own life in its own skin.
i thought i was dead when i woke up in my own vomit
and my head ached with pains of you; leaving me unable to remember what day it was
it's been sixteen months since i've tasted you
but your flavor still staggers over my tongue
and leaves a stale and unpleasant numbness in my mouth
i've crashed my car too many times
on nights when i was heading straight toward your headlights
and waiting for that sound
to let me know it was true
we were a disastrous and destructive stampede of animal feet
plowing through the only things that should have mattered
and leaving them in the dust
i've killed you too much and too often
and without you breathing by my side
how am i supposed to know that i'm still alive?
this fragrant eclipse
of pulsing strings
bares a quiet cloud shore
singing in the tempest
calligraphy of sailing
along the delicate sky
the wind wanders
like a moon's echo
of hypnotic glow
on late april snow
as night murmurs a reverie
to the castle of sandy satellites
the rippled melody
of gentle eyes
weaves a whisper
to warm somber sea
..arms sink to layers
of soft darkness
..candles heave the scent
of humming waves
and in the lighthouse
are like staring
into brand new millenniums
where not one
infinity is impossible
and she does this,
with just a simple flicker
of every blink she takes
to an array of force fields,
and battles long lost
I hope one day