lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves

stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)

croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl

the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe

rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the  sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)

donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***)
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells

tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
and that **** rabid fox
are drowning
deep in castles well

Whenever I see
Mothballs rolling over
To sublime inside
The ***** of
My closet,

I reach in
And touch its coarseness,
The roughness of size;

How come it withdrew
Itself to the world
By shrinking its
Speculations.

Strange though,
but a thought
Came to my mind:

Its state
Is similar
To a feat
Such as mine.

our coolest babysitter lit a long joint and drove us to church
in her well worn '87 oldsmobile with chipped gold paint
a drooping side mirror and a tape player
that smelled like stale london gin mothballs
and a sunset butterfly heart at the same time
it had a deep ocean green calcite mandala
dancing from the windshield mirror
and a steal-your-face tattooed on the back glass
she used to blare brit-pop trying
to make the speakers bleed

that day when they finally oozed she swerved us
left through the other lane and sunday morning fog
to cut a jagged path through thick woods and into an oak tree
with a soundtrack of slow motion oasis and screeching tires
i clammored to the backseat to block the window
glass from your beautiful angelic blonde head as
dew sprayed into the vacancy from the ditch and
when i pulled the seatbelt spiderweb out of your mouth
and lifted you out of the car i was standing
barefoot in a cluster of bright red sumac next to
an ant hill pile of twisted steaming metal
and you were dripping blood from your eye and knees
asking me if we'd be late for sunday school
but you were awake and trying to smile so
we followed the powerlines back to the main road
holding hands dizzy and sweating
worried no one would ever find us
limping while the springtime songbirds
held their tongues for us but
when the hot ringing in my ears finally stopped
the sirens grew loud and close and the
birds too began their wet lipped eulogy

sometimes i think about
missing church that day
when the weather's bad
on nights like last night
sometimes i remember
our babysitter when
the fog rolls in over
the road in the morning
i wonder if she still
gets high on the
good stuff while
she drives or
if she's just
a treehugger

As a child he remembered Cardiff as a city with red asphalt roads and yellow trolley busses. On a Saturday morning his grandfather used to take him in his black Sunbeam Talbot to the grand building of the Council of Music for Wales. There Charles Dixon presided over a large office on the third floor in which there were not one but two grand pianos. At seven a little boy finds one grand piano intimidating, two scary. He was made of fuss of by his grandfather’s colleagues and – as a Queen’s chorister – expected to sing. A very tall lady who smelt strongly of mothballs took him into what must have been a music library, and together they chose the 23rd Psalm to Brother James’ Air and Walford’s Solemn Melody. After his ‘performance’ he was given a book about Cardiff Castle, but spent an hour looking out of the windows onto the monkey-puzzle trees and watching people walking below.
 
50 years later as the taxi from the station took him to the rehearsal studios he thought of his mother shopping in this city as a young woman, probably a very slim, purposeful young woman with long auburn gold hair and a tennis player’s stride. He had just one photo of his mother as a young woman - in her nurse’s uniform, salvaged from his grandparents’ house in the Cardiff suburb of Rhiwbina. Curious how he remembered asking his grandmother about this photograph - who was this person with long hair?– he had never known his mother with anything but the shortest hair.
 
He’d visited the city regularly some ten years previously and he was glad he wasn’t driving. So much had changed, not least the area once known as Tiger Bay, a once notorious part of the city he was sure his mother had never visited. Now it was described as ‘a cultural hub’ where the grand Millennium Opera House stood, where the BBC made Doctor Who, where in the Weston Studio Theatre he’d hear for the first time his Unknown Colour.
 
Travelling down on the train he’d imagined arriving unannounced once the rehearsal had begun, the music covering his search for a strategic seat where he would sit in wonder.  It was not to be. As he opened the door to the theatre there was no music going on but a full-scale argument between the director, the conductor and three of the cast. The repetiteur was busy miming difficult passages. The two children sat demurely with respective mothers reading Harry Potters.
 
The next half hour was difficult as he realised that his carefully imagined stage directions were dead meat. They were going to do things differently and he had that sinking feeling that he was going to have to rewrite or at the very least reorganise a lot of music. He was then ‘noticed’ and introduced to the company – warm handshakes – and then plunged into a lengthy discussion about how the ensemble sequence towards the end of Act 1 could be managed. The mezzo playing Winifred was, he was forced to admit, as physically far from the photos of this artist in the 1930s as he could imagine. The tenor playing Ben was a little better, but taller than W – again a mismatch with reality. And the hair . . . well make up could do something with that he supposed. The baritone he thought was exactly right, non-descript enough to assume any one of the ten roles he had to play. He liked the actress playing Cissy the nurse from Cumbria. The soprano playing Kathleen and Barbara H was missing.
 
He was asked to set the scene, not ‘set the scene’ in a theatrical sense, but say a little about the background. Who were these people he and they were bringing to the stage? He told them he’d immersed himself in the period, visited the locations, spoken to people who had known them (all except Cissy and the many Parisienne artists who would ‘appear’). He saw the opera as a way of revealing how the intimacy and friendship of two artists had sustained each of them through a lifetime chasing the modernist ideal of abstraction. He was careful here not to say too much. He needed time with these singers on their own. He needed time with the director, who he knew was distracted by another production and had not, he reckoned, done his homework. He stressed this was a workshop session – he would rewrite as necessary. It was their production, but from the outset he felt they had to be in character and feel the location – the large ‘painters’ atelier at 48 Quai d’Auteuil.  He described the apartment by walking around the stage space. Here was Winifred’s studio area (and bedroom) divided by a white screen. Here was the living area, the common table, Winifred’s indoor garden of plants, and where Cissy and the children slept. As arranged (with some difficulty earlier in the week) he asked for the lights to be dimmed and showed slides of three paintings – Cissy and Kate, Flowers from Malmaison, and the wonderful Jake’s Bird and White Relief. He said nothing. He then asked for three more, this time abstracts –* Quarante-Huit Quai d’Auteuil, Blue Purpose, and ending with *Moons Turning.
 
He said nothing for at least a minute, but let Moons Turning hang in space in the dark. He wanted these experimental works in which colour begets form to have something of the impact he knew them to be capable of. They were interior, contemplative paintings. He was showing them four times their actual size, and they looked incredible and gloriously vibrant. These were the images Winifred had come to Paris to learn how to paint: to learn how to paint from the new masters of abstraction. She had then hidden them from public view for nearly 30 years. These were just some of the images that would surround the singers, would be in counterpoint with the music.
 
With the image of Moons Turning still on the screen he motioned to the repetiteur to play the opening music. It is night, and the studio is bathed in moonlight. It could be a scene from La Bohème, but the music is cool, meditative, moving slowly and deliberately through a maze of divergent harmonies towards a music of blueness.
 
He tells the cast that the music is anchored to Winifred’s colour chart, that during her long life she constantly and persistently researched colour. She sought the Unknown Colour. He suggests they might ‘get to know the musical colours’. He has written a book of short keyboard pieces that sound out her colour palette. There is a CD, but he’d prefer them to touch the music a little, these enigmatic chords that are, like paint, mixed in the course of the music to form new and different colours. He asks the mezzo to sing the opening soliloquy:
 
My inspiration comes in the form of colour,
of colour alone, no reference to the object or the object’s sense,
Colour needn’t be tagged to form to give it being.
Colour must have area and space,
be directed by the needs of the colour itself
not by some consideration of form.
A large blue square is bluer than a small blue square.
A blue pentagon is a different blue from a triangle of the same blue.
Let the blueness itself evolve the form which gives its fullest expression.
This is the starting-point of my secret artistic creation.
 
And so, with his presentation at a close, he thanks singer and pianist and retreats to his strategically safe seat. This is what he came for, pour l’encouragement des autres by puttin.g himself on the line, that tightrope the composer walks when presenting a new work. They will have to trust him, and he has to trust them, and that, he knows, is some way away. This is not a dramatic work. Its drama is an interior one. It is a love story. It is about the friendship of artists and about their world. It is a tableau that represents a time in European culture that we are possibly only now beginning to understand as we crowd out Tate Modern to view Picasso, Mondrian, Braque and Brancusi.

It’s always been enough to wear the same cardigan for comfort,
This old red chenille one I bought at the wholesale store when I was 15.
It’s funny—it never came with memories, but it has them with me.
I ripped a little hole in the crochet links more than once, bumping into corners and getting it caught on chairs;
I think I’ve always been getting caught on chairs. Snagging my best laid plans on what it means to be a person, wearing a cardigan, but,
It still sits in the back of my closet, in one piece.

I remember wearing it when I needed comfort. When comfort wouldn’t come. When comfort was a love letter delivered to the wrong address. When I read something that wasn’t mine, and became mine nonetheless, in worn out crochet. I should have thrown it out years ago, but it’s mine,
Tattered and torn and sitting in the back of my closet because I’m too afraid the next time I wear it will be the last before it rips completely.

I, on the other hand, have already ripped completely.
Because I could only stay in the closet for 19 years.
I miss that red chenille cardigan. It was there when I was there, in the closet, being me when I shouldn’t have been me,
And it stayed at home when I left for somewhere I thought was better.

I visit my parents. I suppose I still live there, in part, with that red cardigan.
Stuffed into a space that’s small but safe,
The way plants grow withered but tall without sunlight
Or the way I ended up so independent I became lonely.

I define loneliness by how well it wears a red cardigan.
I judge it by how much the snags and small unravelings stick out;
I love it for that. For the sticking out. For the unravelled yarn in place of my tangled emotions,
For the staples that I put in it because I didn’t know how to sew.
My mother could have taught me how to sew, but I exist in a whirlwind of quick fingers and dropped stitches,
And my woman’s place is not the same as hers.

I wish she’d taught me how to make flapjacks, how to repair cardigans, how to love a man;
I wish she hadn’t taught me that my father loved me.
I wish my father had seen an old cardigan and thought of repairs, instead of the old donation box it could be thrown into,
But he was never the type to try and fix things anyway.

I’ll fix his mistakes. I will keep that cardigan, that old thing,
And I will not repair the imperfections that have given it character.
What am I but a red chenille cardigan? Held onto but never worn?
What am I if not something to be contained at the broken seams in hopes that I can preserve myself longer?

So, I am preserved. A fossil. An old relic of Pompeii, frozen in ash, wearing a cardigan that I don’t really fit into anymore,
A wash of red amongst the black and grey wreckage;
Oh, how I have a home in the wreckage. How I am a cardigan atop the ashes.
It doesn’t flutter. There’s no wind to carry it.

In another life, I’d be the wind. But we’ve already established the story, haven’t we? I’m the cardigan.
I’m nothing but thread that’s woven itself into something of minor importance at best.
So, here I am. Minor importance. Worn cardigan. Here I am, wearing it all. Can you see it yet?
It’s riddled with holes, but still in one piece.

I smash open my skull and pry apart my frontal lobe ,
so I could forget how your smile made me felt.

I pull my teeth out with a pair of rusty pliers,
to make me forget the taste your tongue left me.

I tear my fingernails off and replace them with sharpened glass between the ripped flesh,
to forget the tender sweet touch from your hands.

I gorge my eyes out,
so I can forget how you used to look as you slept.

I stab my ear canals with scissors,
to forget the sound of you laughing.

I plug my nose up with mothballs,
so I forget how your clothes smelt when I wore them.

I peel off my skin piece by piece
to forget how soft your skin was.

I can’t forget.

What a shame
When someone loses fame
For doing nothing
Because of a shortcoming

For days, he was liked
Taken care of and prized
But once he had to be away
Got forgotten and castaway

He was called a liar
To be put on fire
He was blamed
Accused and defamed

For, frankly speaking, no reason
Yet he was charged with treason
Days ago was a family member
Now he's put at stake of timber

Indeed, very odd is man
When he is subject to ban
When jealousy driven
And heart-striken

Lucky is a freeman
Who refuses to live in a can
Lucky is the man
Who is not fried on a pan.

Sam Burton(C)







Today is Friday, Oct. 11, the 284 day of 2014 with 81 to follow.

The moon is waning. Morning stars are Jupiter and Venus. Evening stars are Mars, Mercury, Neptune, Uranus and Saturn.
In 1845, the U.S. Naval Academy was formally opened at Fort Severn, Annapolis, Md., with 50 midshipmen in the first class.

In 1886, Griswold Lorillard of Tuxedo Park, N.Y., fashioned the first tuxedo for men.

A thought for the day:

We all should rise above the clouds of ignorance, narrowness and selfishness. -- Booker T. Washington


Quotes for the day:

A good traveller is one who does not know where he is going to, and a perfect traveller does not know where he came from.

------------------------

All women's dresses are merely variations on the eternal struggle between admitted desire to dress and the unadmitted desire to undress.

Lin Yutang

"What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise."

Oscar Wilde

"It takes but one positive thought when given a chance to survive and thrive to overpower an entire army of negative thoughts."

Robert H. Schuller

My boyfriend and I broke up. He wanted to get married and I didn't want him to.

Rita Rudner

It is only by following your deepest instinct that you can lead a rich life, and if you let your fear of consequence prevent you from following your deepest instinct, then your life will be safe, expedient and thin.

Katharine Butler Hathaway


TIVIA


What made Lucky Lindy so special?

Charles Lindbergh was not the first man to fly the Atlantic. He was the sixty-seventh. The first sixty-six made the crossing in dirigibles and twin-engine mail planes. Lindbergh was the first to make the dangerous flight alone.

Can your brain hurt?

Only figuratively -- Pain from any injury or illness is always registered by the brain. Yet, curiously, the brain tissue itself is immune to pain; it contains none of the specialized receptor cells that sense pain in other parts of the body. The pain associated with brain tumors does not arise from brain cells but from the pressure created by a growing tumor or tissues outside the brain.


Where can you see a lot of magnets?

More than 7,000 magnets are on display at the Guinness World of Records Museum and Gift Shop, located on the Las Vegas Strip. The exhibit is a portion of the more than 26,000-magnet collection of Louise J. Greenfarb, dubbed "The Magnet Lady," whose accumulation was designated by the Guinness Book of World Records as the world's "Largest Refrigerator Magnet" collection.



Poetry

Evening Star

Edgar Allan Poe

'Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold- too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.


Vocabulary

Strudel

noun

: a pastry made from a thin sheet of dough rolled up with filling and baked

Example:

Strudels are usually made with high-gluten flour to increase the malleability of the dough.

"The Supremes belted out a song on the radio, their voices as smooth and flawless as the ribbon of cream Kirsten poured from the pitcher onto her father's strudel, and the whole house smelled cheerfully of pork and spiced apples, laced with a note of butter. — From Rebecca Coleman’s 2011 novel The Kingdom of Childhood



Health and Beauty Tip

Mineral Water for greasy hair

If you have oily hair, use a shampoo that contains zinc. It's okay to condition if you feel you need it -- just don't use it on your roots and scalp.


JOKES

Funny News

From the Churchdown Parish Magazine:
"Would the Congregation please note that the bowl at the back of the Church, labelled 'For The Sick,' is for monetary donations only."

-o-

From The Guardian concerning a sign seen in a Police canteen in Christchurch, New Zealand:
'Will the person who took a slice of cake from the Commissioner's Office return it immediately. It is needed as evidence in a poisoning case."

-o-

From The Times:

A young girl, who was blown out to sea on a set of inflatable teeth, was rescued by a man on an inflatable lobster. A coast-guard spokesman commented: 'This sort of thing is all too common these days.'

-o-

From The Gloucester Citizen:

A *** line caller complained to Trading Standards. After dialling an 0891 number from an advertisement entitled 'Hear Me Moan' the caller was played a tape of a woman nagging her husband for failing to do jobs around the house! . Consumer Watchdogs in Dorset refused to look into the complaint, saying, 'He got what he deserved.'

-o-

From The Barnsley Chronicle:

Police arrived quickly, to find Mr Melchett hanging by his fingertips from the back wall. He had run out of the house when the owner, Paul Finch, returned home unexpectedly, and, spotting an intruder in the garden, had visiting Mrs Finch and, hearing the front door open, had climbed out of the rear window. But the back wall was 8 feet high and Mr Melchett had been unable to get his leg over.

-o-

From The Scottish Big Issue:

In Sydney, 120 men named Henry attacked each other during a 'My Name is Henry' convention. Henry ****** of Canberra accused Henry Pap of Sydney of not being a Henry at all, but in fact an Angus. 'It was a lie', explained Mr Pap, 'I'm a Henry and always will be,' whereupon Henry Pap attacked Henry ******, whilst two other Henrys - Jones and Dyer - attempted ! to pull them apart. Several more Henrys - Smith, Calderwood an! d Andrew s - became involved and soon the entire convention descended into a giant fist fight. The brawl was eventually broken up by riot police, led by a man named Shane.

-o-

From The Daily Telegraph:

In a piece headed "Brussels Pays 200,000 Pounds to Save Prostitutes": "[T]he money will not be going directly into the prostitutes' pocket, but will be used to encourage them to lead a better life. We will be training them for new positions in hotels."

-o-

From The Derby Abbey Community News:

We apologise for the error in the last edition, in which we stated that 'Mr Fred Nicolme is a defective in the police force.' This was a typographical error. We meant of course that Mr Nicolme is a detective in the police farce.

-o-
From The Guardian:

After being charged 20 pounds for a 10 pounds overdraft, 30 year old Michael Howard of Leeds changed his name by deed poll to 'Yorkshire Bank Plc are Fascist! *s.' The Bank has now asked him to close his account, and Mr *s has asked them to repay the 69p balance by cheque, made out in his new name.

-o-

From The Manchester Evening News:

Police called to arrest a naked man on the platform at Piccadilly Station released their suspect after he produced a valid rail ticket.

-o-

An Austrian circus dwarf died recently when he bounced sideways from a trampoline and was swallowed by a hippopotamus. Seven thousand people watched as little Franz Dasch popped into the mouth of Hilda the Hippo and the animal's gag reflex forced it to swallow. The crowd applauded wildly before other circus people realized what had happened.

-o-

An elderly woman at a unit for sufferers of senile dementia passed round a box of mothballs thinking that they were mints. Eleven people were taken to hospital for treatment.

Confessional Etiquette


The new priest is nervous about hearing confessions, so he asks an older priest to sit in on his sessions. The new priest hears a couple confessions, then the old priest asks him to step out of the confessional for a few suggestions.
The old priest says, "Cross your arms over your chest and rub your chin with one hand."

The new priest tries this. The old priest suggests, "Try saying things like, 'I see,' 'yes,' 'go on,' 'I understand,' and 'how did you feel about that?'"

The new priest says those things, trying them out. The old priest says, "Now, don't you think that's a little better than saying, 'Whoa... What happened next?'"

So Funny

A guy purchased Willie Nelson's hair for $37,000. ***** removed his braids and the guy bought them for $37,000. This is the kind of decision you make after spending the day on Willie's tour bus.

David Litterman

Did you hear what happened to Willie Nelson's hair? They sold it. There was an auction this week and a pair of Willie Nelson's braids sold for $37,000. It's a good deal because each braid has a street value of $80,000.

Jimmy Kimmel

Quick Blonde Jokes

Q: Why did the blonde keep putting quarters in the soda vending machine?

A: Because she thought she was winning.

Q: Why did the blonde take 16 friends to the movies?

A: Under 17 not admitted!

Q: Why did the blonde bake a chicken for 3 and a half days?

A: It said cook it for half an hour per pound, and she weighed 125.


Have a very nice Saturday!

Drifting off in mid-day
She is there in my parent's house
Where she should not be
She's never met them
been inside their home

...and besides
She's dead...

Don't know where I drop my brains off
or my heart
when sleeping
I so clearly know this
but I dismiss it
for the moment--
go along with joy
to have her with me once again

She looks so well!
Her pale skin flushed
below her ragged, reddish hair
Wearing peacock blue sateen
as always
dressed to ****
to go somewhere
anywhere
away
from loneliness
from cancer

...and she had included me
on her glorious outing
without title
without honor
I had been her teacher-friend
like an elder wedding guest
she had grown
beyond ...

She helps me dump my canvas bag of poems
on my parent's bed
Where I conceived them
or they conceived me

“What about this one?
Or this is a good one too!
I know you can do this!
You read so well!”
she says
I'm thinking, “This is not like Jenn,
so reversed
for her to give a thought...
and besides, it is not even my event!"

Now she's in my mother's place
in her 1950's closet
pushing hangers across the rail
She would find it--
something
I could wear

I am so transported by the smell
of memories
that I don't care
mothballs, lavender, perfume
I get distracted deep within
almost losing track in the euphoria
to have found my friend again
I lose a moment in the soft fur of mom's mink
clipped together mouth to tail
to form the stole
an ouroboros
With its beady eyes
on me
like death
would drape across my shoulders
given half a chance

When from its mouth of glamorous lies....
Jenn shoves me through life's opened door
She has found that dress!
I wore...

the one with hope, and future's
purple flowers
dropped waist and scalloped neck
Yes, It would do, “Yes!"

But now,
she makes excuse to leave
...of meeting Joe
...of going on ahead...

I know
she must

as this is all some clabbered past
a gift of dreams
Still, I want to hug her
just one last....

but she feels empty...

In embrace
she turns to ash

It was a Saturday night  in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned

Logan Robertson

10/18/2018

Leaving well enough alone
I go home
where only your words serve to burn me
remind me to learn that to be free
is to be one with
oneself
And alone very selfishly I turn over another leaf.

Oh thief, come then and take me
and let us not tarry
marry me into your night.

Out of sight out of mind
the wallpaper lines the drawers in the wardrobe
and mothballs like meteors
flash warnings to creatures
do not enter
and the scent of her lingers
I lick my fingers as if I could taste her
as if I could paste her to the walls.

On the inside of life where I fall into tomorrow
where yesterday lives in the crook of the hollow
below my cheeks and today sneaks a peek but decides to return
to a place I would spurn
Oh if only I could.

She is still here or there
somewhere in the recess wearing that Westwood creation
I station and anchor myself to this point
and at the point of a pin
where the needle grows thin
I jab it into and under my skin and I blunder
along wildly
in panic, but that's nothing new
to a fool who would do such strange things.

Eventually relenting
and I on repenting she brings me to her
here or somewhere each place names the same as the last
and each one disappears as fast as it came.

This is a round about big dipper,dip for a duck
childhood fair ground game that we play
we all want a coconut
but some don't want to pay.

She comes to me to say
'it's okay it'll be fine'
and each time I believe
until the mothballs remind me she leaves and I grieve
And the drawers remain shut
the wardrobe is but another reminder
a laughter at me
one day I will find her
again.

It's a Thursday evening
and over par for the course I'm sitting
in a sandtrap.
The lie is bad,
I'm  buried next to a watering hole
in the wall.
I can't get out.
The half truth is I'm a drunk
a sea of sorrows.
Even the dolphins, I shed no mercy.
The real truth is I'm ***
anchored to a barstool,
barnacles from the dead sea
hanging on the four legs.
If this bar stool ever came to life
the voice would bubble to the surface,
get me to dry dock.
How fortuitous the wind in my sails,
finding every sandtrap
and waving at the mothballs.
Blind to letting the barnacles take it's course.
Corrosion creeping up on me, like its
relative.
Who cares about the long lost voice
or the red ants at his picnic.
Or if Uncle lost his strokes he never had.
Did someone say shipwreck?
I order another double,
with fire in my eyes,
adding another burn to my stomach.
I look at the bartenderess
and my eyes don't lie.
She's my type.
My head tilts this way and that.
I see people starring back at me.
If only they knew how the ball bounces.

Logan Robertson

12/21/2018

i live with Moths in my Head.  
they flutter around on dusty wings,
coating my Brain with dirt until that’s
all i see:
a world covered in grime.
nothing’s clean -
especially me.

i want to shove mothballs
in my Ears,
i want to unleash a colony of bats
in my Skull
until every Moth is reduced
to a bad moment
instead of a bad life.  

alas!  these Hands of mine are human -
they are useless.
they cannot breach my Bones
to extract wild, immovable pests
so untamed they grow into ravenous beasts;
beasts that consume my:
Words, Will, Esteem, Ego -
until i am left bereft
of who i hoped to be.  

but as i lay in stillness
side by side with you,
our bodies mixed up spider webs,
i take note of my Hands
holding you -
and i think perhaps
they are not as useless
as i’d first thought.

Father Joseph sat in the dark confessional in stunned silence. Either the young girl had told him a pack of lies or she was a budding Lucrezia Borgia. He fiddled with his thumbs; threw the sins she’d confessed around in his head like a juggler, wondering where the extra ***** had come from. It was that Moran girl he was sure. The things she’d said. The times and manners, he mused. On the other side of the confessional, Mary Moran knelt with her eyes closed. She searched through her mind for any sins she may have forgotten to relate like one sorting through a laundry basket for soiled garments for the wash. No, she could remember nothing else. That was it. At least as far as she could recall. She fidgeted on her knees. Scratched her thigh. Breathed heavy against the metal grille. She smelt the scent of polish and after-shave; the odd smell of mothballs that her Da’s suits had when he brought them out for funerals or weddings. She opened her eyes and stared at the semi-dark. Had the priest fallen asleep? she mused, moving from knee to knee, wondering if he’d be long, she was dying for a ***; wanting to get out in the air and light again. She heard the rustle of cloth and sighs, a slight cough, a deeper breath. The priest spoke softly and said things that floated around Mary’s head like smoke; disappeared into the dark corners of the confessional without penetrating her ears or mind. If she were a daughter of his, he mused, in between words of absolution, gazing at the outline of the girl through the grille, letting the familiar words leave his lips, hoping the Crucified was listening and that he’d not be a father to a child like that for all the holy water in Rome. Mary squeezed her knees together; bit her lower lip in desperation. If the father didn’t get a move on there’d be a puddle on the floor; she’d not be the one to clear it up, so she wouldn’t. Did I tell about the truancy? she mused, squeezing the knees tighter, thinking of abandoning the confessional for a quick run; risk purgatory or worse, she couldn’t give a fresh fig. Father Joseph paused; sniffed the air; fiddled with his thumbs again. Was she still there? he wondered, listening to the silence, peering through the grille, making out the outline of the girl’s head. Mary waited for the penance. It reminded her of waiting for her Da to home after her mother threatened to tell him all she’d done; the wait; the tanned backside; the dark room. The priest spoke. His words cutting the air like Sister Thomas’s ruler in mathematics, when she waved it madly above her head if the girls were talking in class. The first chapter of St John’s Gospel. No Aves or Pater Nosters. She sighed. Bit her lip. Rose to her feet, ****** her hand between her thighs. Muttered a Thank You. Pushed opened the door into the church and, after a smile at Magdalene in the pews, walked at a fast pace down the side aisle to the lavatory outside in the passageway beside the statue of St Joseph which lingered by door. Father Joseph stared into the darkness; listened to the silence. The girl had gone. Her scent lingered. Her words hung in his head like harpies. He breathed in deeply. Thanked God for celibacy. Awaited the next girl. Hoped she was a minor saint in the making and not another Lucrezia Borgia and a mouthful of sins. Mary sat in the cubicle and stared at the graffiti on the door of the toilet. References to the priest and Sister Luke were scrawled in red ink; some remarks about Brian Brady, which she hoped, were not true, at least she didn’t recall as true. The smell of after-shave and incense lingered in her nose; the first chapter of St John’s Gospel loomed large; and the sense of relief flowed through her as she smiled at the memory of the priest’s silence after the words about Brady’s hands and intentions in the woods a few days back. That was worth any amount of chapters from gospels or a mouthful of Aves from noon until night, she mused. She smiled; recited a whispered Ave; closed her eyes to the days’ light and the noise from the playground outside the window.

theres a story,
that runs through her veins, that feeds through her heart, that reads through her eyes.
theres a beginning to the start the journey- a middle to crush her dreams- an an ending that she never reads out loud. for its not what she looks like; her pigmentation who identifies her no-
nor the length of the locks that are apparent from the scalp of her head no, its nor the coarsness of it or the silkyness.

its not her tiny waist or her abnormally chicken shaped legs no- it is the story- the stories which run through her veins, feed through her heart, and reads through her eyes.
these are her limbs, her bones and structure. these are what her character and compassion are made of, these are her creators.

the stories run so deep digging a deeper hole within her soul. the more she remembers and replays like reruns of friends the more her soul seems to loose a bit of itself. a bit of the joy and the warmth that they used to bring.
remembering the giving up of them is something that will follow her in the shadows for years to come

she doesn't miss her family, she's not homesick: when she says she wants to go home she wants to go back-
back the those times when they were all right here.
she wants to smell the sweet loaves of bread and mixes of aromas coming from grannies kitchen. she wants to hear her voice again scolding pop-pop as he took a bite of the chicken. she wants to go home. home to the weird smell of mothballs and the cluttered home that existed way before hoarders. she wants to go back to the light that shined in the living room hitting the cherry red coffee table just enough to have it warm at touch.

she wants to go back to the trips to the super market with uncle carl who could never say no. she wants to go back to that room- where the chocolate plastic barbie stood so tall 3 ft to be exact. she wants to go back to the christmas'-

the one with three christmas trees and one especially decorated by gail- with so many cartoons and lights you just knew it was that time.
she wants to go back to the family gatherings where there were fights but just ooh so much love and everyone held it together for the queen of this family.
when she says she wants to go home she isnt home sick no-

shes memory fond and hurting of the past for the future seems to constantly ****** away the ones who make the most strong of memories and impact on her life.
she wants to go back-bring them back for one last meal one last hug one last sound from their voice one last goodbye

but she knows the only goodbye lies between her and the tombstone which marks the footprint in the sand, and the watering of the soil from her eyes that will be ever lasting every time their footprint reoccurs, she knows goodbyes with people most loved doest seem to happen but the real reason why isnt because they are suddenly snatched away-
its because-
we will never be ready
to say
goodbye.

I was vacant:
dust wafted off the window-sill, swirling in the afternoon sun
when you came, rapping green fists on my empty door
peering into my cloudy windows, glancing at the address
shrugging
and letting yourself in without a key.

You floated across the creaking floorboards of the foyer,
sweeping my cobwebs into a corner.
          Did I forget to leave you the dustpan?
You strode through glass-pained doors into the kitchen,
scrubbing my china with the cold iron-water that poured forth from my pipes.
          Did I neglect to provide you with lye?

After you lumbered up the stairs, coughing on mothballs,
I imagine that you shook your head at the tassels
hung on my fraying valence,
for soon enough you hurried your way
back down the stairs
into the kitchen
through the foyer
and out of my door.
I wonder—

          Was it the dust?
          Was it the dishes?
          Did you ever stop to open my curtains?
          Did you ever peer out the window, and into the gardens below?

Frock. Fiona’s frock. She found it in her mother’s wardrobe while clearing out her mother’s clothes after her death in a car crash. Why had she saved it? Fiona mused, taking out the frock, holding it at arm’s length. Her Uncle Will had bought it for her for her tenth birthday. She remembered the day, him giving her a parcel wrapped in coloured paper with a ribbon attached. He stood with his large brown eyes on her as she opened it excitedly. Black with white lace. She had held it against her, felt the softness of the material against her cheek; smelt the cleanness, newness of it. Try it on, he had said, rubbing his hands together. She ran upstairs to her bedroom, took off her party dress of pink, put on the black frock. She stood in front of the large mirror and turned around. She smiled; it made her look grown up. She turned again. When her eyes looked in the mirror she saw her Uncle Will standing by the door gazing at her. She turned and flushed. Do you like it? He had asked, his eyes studying her. She did like the frock, liked the way it felt against her skin, the way it looked on her, made her feel older. She smiled, said it was beautiful, turned around for him to see her. She brushed back hair from her face, felt her face flush with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. He had come to her, kissed her cheek, told her she looked like a princess in the frock. She had laughed, turned again and when she stopped, he held against him for a few moments, brushed a few strands of hair from her cheek. That was only the beginning, she reflected now, putting the black frock on her mother’s bed, standing back, gazing at the frock that had brought misery into her life. She sighed. Took a deep breath. She thought it had been thrown out years before. Why had her mother kept it? She looked quickly through the wardrobe, threw bundles of her mother’s clothes into black bags, carried them down to her car for the charity shops. The frock lay on the bed where she had put it. When she went back to the room, she tried to avoid looking at it. She carried out a search of the room for other items of clothing, took them all out until the room was empty of her mother’s belongings. She sat on the bed, picked up the frock. She smelt it. It smelt of mothballs and her old scent. She felt the material with her fingers. Rubbed it between finger and thumb. Don’t you like it? A voice said in her head. Yes, yes, I love it, her ten-year-old voice said. Very much? Yes, very much. She threw the frock back on the bed. Wiped her hands on her jeans, sighed deeply. For a few moments she felt she could feel his hands on her waist again, sense his breath on her neck. It was not this room, but another up along the passageway, that was hers that he had entered and closed the door behind him. He stood there that day, the smile on his face, kindly looking, and gentle in voice. She had been just about to change back into her pink party dress when he entered. He stared at her in her underclothes. He asked why she wasn’t wearing the frock he had bought. She grabbed up the pink party dress, held it against her. She wanted to save it for another occasion. For him another time. He nodded. He said he’d take her out for a special meal to celebrate her birthday the following day. He’d asked her parents and they had thought it a great idea, as he was her godfather and had bought her the lovely frock. She felt a mixture of unease and happiness. He walked to her, took away the pink party dress, placed it on a chair by the window. She felt a chill, hugged herself with her arms. She got up quickly from the bed, went to the window with her back to the bed and the frock. It had happened that day. She felt sick. Wished her brain could be drained of the memory. The trees had got bigger since she was that child; the roses had spread along the garden reaching higher and wider than they had then. She told no one. Whom could she tell? Who would believe her? Uncle Will? No one would have thought it possible, not by him, not ever. She turned, stared at the frock on the bed. He had made her wear it, made her put it on again. He sat her on his lap, hugged her. His hands rubbed her thighs, pushing the frock upward. She ran to the bed, grabbed the frock and attempted to rip it apart, but nothing happened, it remained in one piece. She ******* it up, threw it across the room. It landed by the window. The sunlight shone on it. The black looked almost evil. As if it had a life of its own. She walked to the window, kicked the frock into a corner, and glared at it. If only it had been him she could have kicked; him she could try to rip apart. But it was too late. He had died with her mother in the car crash. That was why she wouldn’t visit her mother anymore; not while he lived there with her mother; doing things together; sleeping together. Him. And her. And her father gone off with some young girl some years back and was living in New York. Just this now. The house was hers she guessed. And all this. The frock lay there. Still. Unmoving. Black with white lace. No one knew what had happened that day, except her, him and the frock. Black with white lace. Just there. Huddled. Black and evil. The scent of dress lingered; the smell of him lingered in its folds, the innocence of her childhood soaked into the very fabric, drawn from her that day, filtered piece by piece from her on her bed in that room wearing that frock.

down the lane the summer homes all yawn,
open & airing out,
depositing mothballs, musty deck chairs/on the lawn

strolling i see all last year's forgotten furniture
waiting
on the roadside, dust covered.
here a couch groans out to me:
"such a life!
reeking of mildew,
springs worn from children jumping on the weekends
--and the old man couldn't stop them.
too busy slamming drinks on the porch!"

i very nearly weep,
"poor tired old thing!"
for it is a hard ride to be a couch.

Like this morning for instance
Hot February and dry cracked
skin of my shadow
which sometimes seems
to look at me
and move w/out me
and I, w/out it.

Sometimes I see the flicker
of a dark soul jeer; a savage dance,
right in front of me,
or in the corner of my eye
when my head is tilted.

The other day at my friend’s
I felt like I was, briefly,
in the sunflower courtyard
of this ol’ dark
underwater museum
full of mirrors
that float adrift.
Angles that perpetually
gyrate and shift…..

I hear the sound of a whale
submerged in a highway
crying with striving despair
at night

and I'm sad
because his lovers reply
sounds so distant
and it sounds as if it comes
from a cavern w/in an ocean
below a sun

I hope he finds her
and dies happy
in the warmth of her flippers....

I miss the panther-warm wine & cream
Was it worth it
Is this worth it

Cold violet city
vacant warm lobbies at night
desolate allies and dogs in such deep slumber
they cant even wake to bark at impending footsteps
The musty brown cars
whose aura of mothballs and pipe smoke
reminds you of a childhood irretrievable  

I smiled back at the rocks that snickered
Beside the fence
which stood firm
In caring vigilance

Cold verdure within
Misery mixed with
Getting bored w/ absorbing it

There’s a strange saloon w/ hotel attached
at the center of Melancholy
where flames are lit music is played
bodies are slowly denuded
and silver knives are thrown

I can show you…

(Long ago it seems
I bit and kissed and became
aquatinted w/ the bark of
the root of delirium

Recently even I’ve spoken
to the heart of delirium itself
from within
w/ no reply
but I can remember
all my memories were hallucinations)

I daydream of dreaming
a dream:
comfortable and surreal.
In it, an antique shop full of character
and the scent of mothballs and dust.
A haphazard maze of dark lit corners
pulls me to its depths,
where nestled in the back,
is a perfectly imperfect piano.
Ironic how the blatantly splintered key
is the most out of tune, no?
In this dream within a daydream,
I sit on a squeaking stool,
foot on a loose damper,
and play all that I know.
In this dream to be,
I know not,
or recognize what I play,
but know it's home
and find peace in knowing.
The name Chopin
would be the faintest
of underlying memories,
but the first upon waking.
All we are is what we are not,
and were I dreaming this dream,
that notion would live in my being;
in the pockets of my marrow
and in the pit of my throat.
No Steinway could produce
such a twang so unimaginably beautiful.
Only the physically appealing use the word ugly,
and only the true understand the word beauty.
In my dream to be,
I watch myself,
but feel the keys
as they disintegrate
after violently being yanked from slumber.
Would I dream,
I would gasp and reach in wake,
grasping nothing,
and yearn again
to live without
vivid self awareness.
Yet when conscious,
I seek lucidity,
despite the comfort
found in effortlessness.
So snap me out of it.
Slap the porcelain saucer
that is my cheek,
for I am no Poe,
and this no "dream within a dream"
but a waltz
with the idea of serendipity.

Everyone is quiet,
Papers rustle,
The slow speed fan
Creaks above our heads,
The air conditioning
Is broken,
We start to sweat
From sunlight coming in
Through the tintless windows.
Exhausted,
We sit in silence,
Unwilling to share
Information.
Miserable in this heat,
Someone drops their pen.
As he picks it up
The room sighs,
Almost as if in relief
That he retrieved it,
While no one else moves.
It's far too hot for that.
The table smells like mothballs,
And the people around me
Smell like sweat,
Perfume and cologne.
You can smell the coffee
Oozing from their pores.
Bloodshot eyes,
Aching backs,
And all-consuming stress.
I'm in class.

A lonely red tugboat anchored at the Hudson River
The Red tugboat in its day would pull some very lavish cruise ships
But here’s a tip
Back in the day, there were stories Sea Captains would say
For starters, the red tugboat having the engine power to pull ships and barches
But as years rolled on, tugboats became a new wave of technology
As you probably gathered, the red tugboat became out of date
Later it gathered dust with no captain nor mate
But things are about to change
A new criteria that will be arranged
The Red tugboat had a new technological engine
This was a reason for the tugboat to feel useful and have fusion
The Red tugboat ropes were thrown over to the deck
It moved from being idled like mothballs
A cruise ship that was travelling from New York Harbor to London, England and the red tugboat was assigned to the call
The tugboat regained its life from being in a stall
But the red tugboat returned with its legacy and it stood tall
A new and improved red tugboat with its sea legs to be proud to be on the Hudson River
All the Red Tugboat needed was a push of confidence
It later became inspiration being the indication
The Red tugboat knows where it belongs
It’s heritage of accomplishments that was so long.

The shelter sleeps like a ghost at night
and I walk with him during the
day, his one shoe on my right foot –

I barely look like a woman,
or if anything, a ******* waiting for
someone to provide her a second
glass slipper & slip off her ball gown.

She will lay on her back in a motel –
beautiful as a tulip’s head
nursing on fertilizer for sustenance
but largely agreeable with champagne.

Even lying on pillows like a pubescent
chest, perky and barely touched,
she is a **** alone with leather boots.

No one knows his name but
he comes and goes and feels like home,
the fuzz still in her eyes from sleep
still collected from a previous divorce.

I visit the shadow with my tongue
and only mothballs when the sun sets –
an uncomfortable rat in the soles too.

As the other kids traipsed off to bed,
You held me on your knee,
I watched the cricket, next to him,
As they made history

The crack of the bat against the ball,
The cheering of the crowd,
I didn't understand it then,
And neither do I now

But his room would always smell the same,
Of mothballs, damp and sweets,
The three of us would all sit around,
In pyjamas with bare feet

The taste of garlic lingering,
The best food in the world,
And I knew what it meant to him,
To be next to his favourite little girl.

On the way to Hell, I met a man
who sold counterfeit tickets to Heaven.
He was ***-bellied, bald and hunchbacked,
mothballs in his mouth and flames in his eyes.
He mumbled through consonants,
slipped over vowels and destroyed syntax,
pointing at the tickets frustratingly
at the comprehension of my confused expression.
I shook my head and moved on
as he coated the air with broken expletives.

By a bridge over a magma river,
a bird-headed demigod held a set of scales,
but he waved me through,
seeing by the weight in my eyes
that my soul’s mass had already been determined.
He whistled a tune vaguely familiar,
a desert swansong of a dying missionary.

The road rose slightly, and at the apex
I saw the city in a foul-smelling valley.
Blanketed by smog, I couldn’t discern much,
a factory chimney billowing smoke and ash,
screams forcing their way through the cloud.
A giant man with skin like fresh, glistening blood
greeted me as I began my descent.
He informed me he was a demon
and he would be giving me a tour.
Asking him how long it would take
he said it was entirely up to me,
all the time in the world was waiting for us.

I asked him why he had no horns
and he laughed with a noise of horse death,
one he had baptised himself with an aeon ago.
He dutifully informed me that this particular misconception
came about due to a similarity between invading warriors
and their certain bloodthirstiness and vitriol
held in much akin to the view of demons at the time.
He assured me that demons weren’t that bad,
friendly enough but with a temper fitting
a location as unearthly foreboding as this place.

As we walked through the ***** streets,
I couldn’t help but notice they were busy with people
rushing about and selling things and generally
much like people did on the mortal plain.
The demon said Hell was much like Earth,
just with greater punishments if you didn’t pull your weight.
An abominably long and disjointed finger
pointed in the direction of the chimney I saw earlier.
That was where the worst of the worst end up,
the rapists and abusers of child and woman,
all the filth humanity had to offer,
always churning, he said, always smoking away.

We stood by the door for some time,
an awkward silence descending between us,
rattling the synapses in my brain
as I tried to comprehend my past life
and the fate that awaited me.

After an insurmountable time, the demon knocked on the door.
I heard scraping on the door, a set of keys fall to the floor,
a curse put upon those keys then the clinking of a lock.
The door opened and a massive fire raged within,
conveyor belts from several directions leading towards it,
naked people, statues to the Heavens, falling off the end
and making the fire grow and glow like no fire I had ever seen.
The demon in charge of this awful place looked me up and down,
asking me what I had done to ever deserve to end up like this.
I attempted an excuse but couldn’t muster the right words,
so I just told him the truth without hint of any repentance.
He shook his head and genuinely looked shocked at what he had learned
and grabbed my shoulders and hauled me towards my piteous soul-death.
I was stripped naked as I became more aware of the intense heat,
flames of scarlets and oranges reached out to my broken body,
all skin and bones and nerves vibrating to an otherworldly chill.
I floated up to a conveyor belt which felt unduly cold beneath my feet,
and as I looked back on the life I lived and the one I dreamed when I was young,
I realised that this was a fitting ending to a life lived fully sans regret.
I opened my arms wide like a Messiah and began to pray eternal thanks.

Oh where have you gone to my old purple coat?,
With your buttons made from the horns of a goat,
How i fought with my mother when she'd make me wear you,
Yet now i just wish that the mothballs will spare you.

I have searched in the attic, where my dress up chest is,
And ive looked in the garden where my tree house is,
How ive hunted and searched for you,my head has no peace,
I so want you to turn up, to give you to my neice.

Maybe one day i'll find you and hold you so close,
And say sorry for hating you and calling you gross,
I feel sure you're hung somewhere warm, in a cupboard,
So until then i hope you're safely covered.




(c) eileen mcgreevy 2010

Caffeine
a pen
I yawn and then
yawn again

nothing flows out except
mothballs

cloth ears they called me
deaf to their pleas
but
I was as different as
chalk is to cheese.

I yawn once more while
weevils bore into my brain
and yawn again.

The snipers have got me
shot me on Monday
sometimes I wish
I was
Solomon
Grundy

then I fall
into the week
because I'm weak
or antique
couldn't hold on to
the
yawn again
dawning on me that
what I see is
what I'll be
by Friday.

Had the hospital to himself
   He had broken his childhood against Army historians and mothballs
When reassembled he would say
I could carve a better man out of public demonstration and a woman's hair.
But the world had to bury him
In a coffin lined with a transparent curtain,
False perception,
And blame.
Until it all caved in
Pointed back to him
Reborn again
A stranger in  
The home town.

Sensible, I'd
think it was the way.
Your heart grew claws
that latched on to my skin
and I wore your obsession
like an overcoat that smells like
mothballs because I was ashamed
to wear it for so long.

And I wrote you
eighty page love notes filled with
all of my nonsensical prose just
so you'd never know exactly
what it is I dream.

And at night I'd pretend
you're lying next to me, a warm
presence for a stiff like me.
And for once my cheeks
would be rose and my
eyes a little lighter,
but in the morning
you're never there
and I am only
human
once again.

Skies have been cloudy for days
Great mothballs threatening liquid
Vengeance, and all the weathermen predicted
Rain. I for one anticipated a second
Flood, torrents of water so as to wash
Everything down the drain
And why not?

That would be horrifying and
Exciting in most respects
But the rain refuses to be
Dislodged from its clouds, looming
Above a waiting world to firmly assert that
It will not visit, not until the grass is a bit greener and
The flowers show their true colors

But the brittle brown grass cries out for water and the
Cracked gray flowers weep with despair
Because, of course
Water is vital, and
Everyone needs a rainbow

On days that
I have a
difficult time
writing, I let
my mind wander
to another
place and scene.

Today
I imagine a
musty attic.
It smells like
mothballs and
old perfume.

I stumble upon
an old trunk.
And when I look
inside
I find hundreds
of my poems that
I wrote and
forgot about.
I thumb through
the brittle pages,
and read.

"Hey, not bad.
This one is pretty
good.
Hey, here's one with
multiple layers.
Writing as a
metaphor for
******."

This silly exercise of
mine just netted me
this poem.
Wanderlust of the
mind promotes
creativity.
Now I can nap,
after I ***
of course.

"you’re mumbling up pulp again, babe.
pick up your head."
give up that ghost that vibrates between quiet hands loud words
and think of the foaming fingers you left on the kitchen floor
roll them at me in between eyes,
I can smell it on my mouth mopping the floor with your sight
"frightening isn’t it, clementine?"
shattering keys
leaving keys in
locks and beds and shelves and waking to keys in loopholes and
a headache
like the swelling of a wave before he crashes back into himself
back into the shore line of his face of
uncertainty, uncertainty
quivers
the tip of this wave
into a sea of
uncertainty flinches
at outstretched hands whose fingers greasily echo
fingers mothballs under the sink
keep telling the rusted problem
stir it around with cheeks like plastic spoons
but a body like a jack knife
but my back cocked like a gun
my baby is back,
always talking about something unless head first into something else
although I’m never quite sure of what.
with refluxs of regret
by bumming cigarettes,
kisses, even myself
"let’s get stupid.” and  i do.
a haze of carnal avoidance  
wagging the finger,
blurred, curled, wagging at me
bubbling up like our own private pompeii
just a phase of the moon,
more like a perpetual elapse because
while humming orange lullabies,
he sleeps with the belly of the beast
and his foaming fingers remain on the floor