the clamouring noise of our times
hides the holy - disables our noticing
yet there are off-beats of time we can attend

the clamouring noise of our minds
consumes our attention - distracts our soul
yet systolic beats of thought name our noticings

between the memes of our times
are counter balancing sensibilities
to pause our conviction - to open our hearts

between the memes of our minds
are roots of tradition and wisdom
to complete and challenge our understanding

so to extend our fervent hopes to good purpose
so to embrace the silence - and find blessing

I wasn't sure of
those words, that holy
trinity pressed to give back,

until your heart stuttered systolic.

Contracted, you underplayed every line as
I fought, undervalued, omitted and flat-lined

that singular skip your two-******, beated rhythm
warning beacon, red-flashing, blaring signal flared sign

granted every second second of each stolen time, when those
planets and these stars became so fiercely yet finitely aligned,

yes, I understand now, as we lay entwined, cyclic, chest
deep, life-defying leap, gasp of breath, wake from

sleep, it is this that I seek, sunlight unconfined
crushing breath divine, beat of two, separate

singular, unexpected yet still

defined in-kind, of your
continuation bringing
life back to mine.

I've been thinking about our hug you left me with yesterday,
The one that convulsed my shoulder muscles and made my ribs cry just a little,
But a good cry, like the happy tears after holding a new puppy.
You said in that way,
As you have made a habit of
With sarcasm and sincerity,
"You'll always be my sweetheart",
And then you said that you won't call me your sweetheart in public.
That makes me so angry,
And you think I'm joking,
But I'm not.
Because I can't stop thinking about how those hugs and "sweethearts" are dwindling,
How each time you leave for a winter in the southern states
I cringe at the thought that I may never greet you for Easter next year.
And every time we find you asleep,
Open mouthed on the couch
We only panic for a second as to whether you will wake up this time.

You stand like a family monument,
So unique in composition,
With your structured titanium back and chiseled limestone arms that threw me playfully and carried me as your cowgirl,
And transformed our red, wooden house to sophisticated tan siding when I was too young to remember,
With your skin so dark from perma-tan I thought you were black when I was 6,
With your infinite woodworking skills and artistic envisions with architecture
That crafted dollhouses and swing sets for me at 8,
With your callused hands beyond remission and your ever bruising fingernails that paddled us down the Ausable at 13,
With your steel toed boots sewn into your feet that allowed me to dance on them till I was 15,
With your artificial heart valve and five open heart surgeries.
Once I thought it was instrumental, magical, the watch nestled under your ribs.
But now every time I get that gut squeezing hug as a goodbye I can hear that valve faintly tick,
And I pretend it's not your clock,
Trembling with each diastolic and Systolic murmur,
Gears cracking and eroding inside your kindled muscles,
Struggling to keep up with its more natural brothers inside that engulfing muscle,
That which reminds your family of
Your selfless and infinitely giving persona.
But it only reminds me that your days of rock polishing
And dentured smiles are ending rapidly.

Stainless steel,
granite countertops,
crowded cabinets,
and branded appliances.

Whirring,
clanking,
beeps and whistles.

All ours is not.

You won’t find my heart there:
left to be abandoned in a lonely corner,
only greeting soles on holidays,
when arms are forced to open to guests
and lips are stretched to reveal lying whites
because deep darks abided in our chests.

You’ll find it in enclosed in the hall.
Confined, airless, even claustrophobic.
But there are no cobwebs here.
No mildew, no rust,
no crumbs or dust.

You’ll find it underneath the floorboards,
creaking with every footstep,
playing the chords that made up the rhythms and beats
of systolic and diastolic melodies.

You’ll find it in the windowsill,
planted with the succulents,
resilient to forgetful hands
and yet affectionate to sunbeams
who pulsed perfectly.

There are days when the sunshine feels insensitive.
But it is in every throb and rise, murmur and fall,
that life floods in.

It’s funny to me when people say the kitchen is the heart of the home.
If it was, my heart would be empty.

*—S.C., September 23, 2015

I listened only to voices of pervasive enduring loneliness today.  that's right, no point in altering it through symbolic transformation, the metaphor has its decency. no wonder i found this place where silence has infinite nuances like a love slipping through your fingers, like a time obliterating the intensity of the systolic wind. I thought about writing a letter of intent to the world just to say No! (after much yes, a no is vital). No, i don't want to understand, i don't wanna know,  don't wanna shed tears, read books about the meaning of violence, dream war, fear devastation. if you zoom in more and more you can catch history repeating its fractals. the more you look the more you might feel the ******* of pain. somebody asked : do you tantra today? No! today let only this particular silence be

emphasis on this cyst growing in my head
dear sister can you help me help my self
who knew oxygen and essential fluids could give death to life
my system is no longer apparent
this systolic pressure is compressing my heart to a cranberry
cranium buried
help me relive life to it's potential
i'll help my self
personal assistance is a myth... i communicate in fables