Trapped in the definition of his interior,
he had become an invisible thing.

In moods deeper than dark ebony
repetitive folding and unfolding of nefarious reasons
pushed him to step outside his restricted vision.

Lost perhaps?
Or provisionally eclipsed?

A luminous slash hinged his door,
the cicatrice between brooding paralysis and explicit dreams.

............

Here on the ledge,
teetering on the cusp of obscurity and mountains blinding peak,
his sight catches a net
streaming from an open window-
billowing freedom.

A metalic thread glitters through him,
its coppery tang branching across clenched fibres
igniting his fingers, his tongue.

A mute cloud disperses.
He stands in the presence of a revelation.

Through the smoke of his eyes
he steps off the threshold
plunging into burnished sun,
his head incandescent with foreign scents.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012

I think I'll have a dinner party
and I'll invite myself
to see what it is that others see
maybe that will help

I mean I look into the mirror
and I see me looking back
and sometimes in my head
myself and I we have a chat

But thats really not the same
there really is no doubt
that what I see in my reflection
is not what you see from without

So I thought that we could sit down
over dinner me and I
And get to know me better
as if through someone elses eye

Well the invitations been extended
and I provisionally accept
but you'll have to read the sequel
to see what happens next....

God stood
On the edge of uncertainty,
On the brink of creativity, ready
To step off and risk his reputation
On a venture that would be his signature dish.
A world stuffed full of flavours,
A realm ripe with potential
For life, for growth,
...For relationships.
But like all relationships, not without risk.
And so, with a smile of anticipation,
He took a deep breath...
And the rest is history.

You see,
Though unseen, soon
The infection of heaven's rebellion
Snaked it's way in through the gate,
Made friends and prompted a short debate
So subtle that man was tempted to partake
Of an apple that caused trust to crumble
So humankind would from then on struggle
And toil to survive outside that paradise lost
Til Christ stepped up and paid the cost
Of the curse we deserve...

But as a foretaste
Of that greatest sacrifice
God was pleased to accept
Flame grilled substitutes,
Instituting a family repast
With crisp, pleasing aromas
Of juices that provisionally provided
Undeserved forgiveness
And tasted of promise
That the Lord will provide
For a new world
With his own lifeblood.

God stood at the beginning,
On the edge of that first Monday
On the brink of creativity, ready
To step off and risk his reputation 
On a venture that would be his signature dish.

A world stuffed full of flavours,
A realm ripe with potential
For life, for growth,
...For relationship.
But like all relationships, not without risk.
And so, with a smile of anticipation,
He took a deep breath...
And the rest
is history.

However, although unseen, soon
The infection of heaven's rebellion
Snaked it's way in through the gate,
Made friends and prompted a very short debate
So subtle that man was tempted to partake
Of an apple that caused trust to crumble
So humankind would from then on struggle 
And toil to survive outside that paradise lost
Until such time when Christ would step up and pay the original cost
Of the curse we deserved...

But as a foretaste 
Of that preferred sacrifice
God was pleased to accept 
Flame grilled substitutes,
Instituting a family feast
With crisp, pleasing aromas
Of juices that provisionally provided forgiveness
As a foretaste of a greater high priest
A greater promise
That 'The Lord Will Provide' 
For a new world
Fit for his future bride....

God stood 
On the edge of that first Monday
On the brink of creativity
And saw that it would - indeed -
be
good.

On the rebound
finding
bed
and
board
all found on the bounce
where the waste ground
looked inviting,

she saw and she
invited
I accepted
and too casually
I fell for her
she
fell for me,
stopping
just to catch our breath.

Serendipity,
fates collide
provisionally
and then
permanently fuse.

On another digit of the
digital day
the clocks don't strike
the lights don't strobe,
this is what?

I don't know if
it's in morse code
if the road I tarry on
is to Babylon,
what a carry on,

but a couple of dots
and maybe a dash
don't seem so hard
so
I'll have a bash

The crash will always come
like Stuka's out of the sun
you'll be
I'll be
shot down and krapped upon
or should that be not so
we'll go on.

Ink falls spherical in the air
and maintains that shape while falling.
Ink in the air’s a gymnast tucking
her legs and arms into her core.

Hitting water everything contained
within the frame of its own self
spiderwebs out and so becomes
vaguer and more formless as it grows.

Days in human memory appear like this:
Clear for hours after they’re provisionally made,
then all fade and deformation as they tend
to nothing but suggestion in the end.

I’m so ******* high on stardust, I inject glitter into my bloodstream.
I live in no fairytale and that a prince won’t find me is highly likely.
I only write stories about longing, after all that’s all I feel.
But I’m good with the pen, have a soul of a poet, I’m creative.
So I grab my calligraphy pen and I write your name in cursive, then I take one breath and write mine next to yours.
It’s an untitled story, an unpublished romance and I’m not sorry for any nuance woven into it.
I take his proposition.
Ask my everwishing soul to speak sweet compliments like someone playing the harp.
I polish my blue eyes like sapphires, let them sparkle in the glow of big round emeralds,
and that is the start.
That is the start.

Where do I continue, I wonder.
Friends first or lovers, I ponder.
For realism I’ll make it meander and weave in a couple of tears wet nights so when all the lights turn back at them, he would grow fonder and realize he loves him so much.
But my pen is just an object, I’m the object of some grand plan, I’d try to paint what I crave so bad, but even the greatest painters fail, cause love is hard.
Play my song, take a cruise under overpasses in West Oakland, California is home, but if he won’t come I think I won’t go.
And that is the draft.
That is the draft.

After many ripped out pages and grenadine flavored drinks, I can’t write the conclusion.
I don’t wanna be there yet
I don’t wanna skip past that
I don’t wanna climb that high
Cause if I fall, may not stand up.
I leave my calligraphy pen, shut the pages provisionally, then I get undressed and swim in the glittering stars.
And that is the ending for now.
That is the ending for now.