I live a poet’s life in an anonymous plane
Unseen by those considered normal,
Unheard by those deemed sane.
The only proof of my existence
Dangerous knives of poetry in lines on paper
An alias moves the pen in my hand
That scribbles stinging, bitter words
About love, death and the atrocities of man

I am anonymous
Even my name is not my own
My thoughts are scrawled wickedly with intent on paper
For the masses to observe
At a distance my carnivorous demanding audience must remain
From physical contact with these dull creatures
I gladly refrain
Retreating behind a mask of stone
Beneath it a face that bears lines of great sadness
A frozen sculpture of a heart for many years entombed

So it is and shall always be
Truly my words are all you will ever see
Closing off the door to reality
With the stroke of a pen
To my invisible life I hastily return
I am anonymous

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

While I myself do live myself simply,
I am not simply living for myself.




Living is my most ambitious art-piece to date;
to be the author of my life's story
takes a tedious amount of charging
buffalo stamina & alligator patience.
I'm making sure you've not heard a story like mine
because
countless friends, family, misfits and strangers
have lost the passion for their stories,  
instead turning over
their heartbeat
blood spilled pens
& mind jazz
slamdance typewriters
to some schmuck to write their story
in a vacuumed & pristine chronologically ordered
paint-by-numbers cookie-cutter drivel.  


I live
because
my mother ended
the chapter of her burgeoning artistic career prematurely
thanks to her parents telling her
what can you do with art therapy?

I live
because
there's something about that jazz,
& a candlelight bath.

I live
because
far as I know, my father is learning
lasting relationships of which his charming self
struggled to maintain with an in-absentia momma
that moved around to a new school each year
and father who vamoosed shortly after birth.

I live
because
when the mouth of my love
splits into a smile, her eyes
flash pink lemonade and rosemary bebop
in a way which synchronizes to my heartbeat.

I live
because
clouds, especially at dawn,
soothe and dissolve any anxieties
of the day or weeks or months or whatever.

I live
because
I didn't know the smell of cypress,
let alone cassia or frankincense
until I arrived in Toronto which has me curious
as to what other scents I have yet to experience.

I live
because
I'm not yet finished
laughing.

I live
because
words won't stop wafting and wading
around my being until I swallow then sing
their messages aloud,
on paper,  
on a park bench,
in someone's eyes.

I live
because
I live.

I live because,
I live.

Despite being alive 26 years--
I didn't start dancing until last year.

Sure, I'd been to my fair share
of blackout tequila & whisky parties at university
or went on many an adventure
sneaking into movie theaters
with a fellow once considered a Friend,
but part of me knew the truth--
these were not my dances.

The endless whisky bottle songs
first sang to me by dear 'ol pops
would serenade my subconscious,
a kind of absurd fuel pushing me
through a place where something felt like a picture in frame
just slightly askew.

Even the *** felt white-toast bland.
Might as well of crammed McDonalds into my mouth
saving much emotional confusion, & a little cash.

I lived vicariously through this Friend;
a maudlin flame who kept drowning
in his own sticky tar lovesick abyss
anytime he met a woman.
He was a writer,
he stopped going to university.
I  was too terrified to do so,
but subconsciously that is what I craved,
hence the thirsty Thursdays and wine down Wednesdays.

I didn't start living until last year
because the thought of financial security
was installed into my self by the parents.
Figured I was doing this advertising thing
as a way to write so I could write what I want as a part-time hobby,
like stamps.  

But my artist's heart kept beating
a 5/4 jazz rhythm in my body.
With the help of a wondrous doe-eyed pixie gypsy,
I learned to dance with it.
Had to empty my pockets
of friends and flasks
& open my mind to the time
of the cosmos
& dance.

what was it that the wind said?
what was it that the wind said when it
ran itself through your hair and
pressed its face against yours;
a foreground to the watercoloured sunset?

was it the poetry whispered by
lovestruck boys and girls
who kissed, forbidden,
in the clearings of enchanted forests?

or was it the hissing of embers
setting eachother's souls alight
in an **** of crackling fire wood?

was it the ***** chiming amongst
divine silence; only broken by
the tears of joy in a stained glass cathedral,
as she walked towards you in her wedding gown?

or was it the morning rain
as you woke up to an empty bed
with the lingering scent
she left the night before?

She bohemian art shaman,
         a cosmic clown tribe,
         a Voodoo Chile; Hendrix-haired.

Sometimes I think the Wankerverse*
is the best description
of where  I like to make pancakes for her....

A kiss from her lips feels like a sunrise
after a midnight Shpongle dance party.

Last night
starseeds planted electric grids
dancing faye and other spectres glided
alongside
dancing dusk painters. poets. speakers. seekers.
lovers. sages. mage. warrior. shamans. stories.

I witnessed miracles most ignore.
Two shimmering light birds ignited the midnight--
new moon skies.
Inner Outer space beings danced with the stars.

Those at the labyrinth table return.
We seven beings weave light.
We close spaces.
We honor One Tree Nation &/of Mother Earth.
We honor Sky Spirit Clouds &/of Father Sky.
We open our hearts & third-eyes simultaneously.
Our spirit guides dance together,
totem animals play.

I am in awe.
Warm gratitude tears trickle down
my face.
Here, with these beings,
I am safe.
We are safe.

We are love.

You fell in love with me.

I just hope you jumped.
Not slipped.