The Creature Who Spoke A Damned Tongue

Deadly trickles of anticipated dread

Are familiar enough to her to seem distant

But presently and always keeping her comfort

Likes years of experience following pivotal decisions.

Dusty and dark as her place of dwelling

Were the unfurnished caverns of her intimacy.

Too long empty is as vulnerable as untouched

With the burden and ferocity of memory.

Language unused atrophies like a muscle,

Remaining unseen negates the power of recognition,

The faces of a friend, family member, or companion

Turn feral as forgotten dogs to such a creature’s intuition.

There, in her lair, were the worlds where she dwelt,

Distinct and unapproachable, like light too bright to see,

Away in a darkness unbroken by trouble or fright

Her life, locked so preciously away, ever outward seeped.

Damn every fragment of those unresting feelings

That scissored her apart from every body where’s peace,

The creature of anxiety speaking tongues of the mad

Sleeping separately and sound in dysfunctional dreams.

I Like To Play Deeply

I fall asleep to voiceless thoughts

And wake up to morbid day-dreams.

Out drips excretions from serrated prose,

The monologs of lifeless playthings.

Like playing dress up in foggy streets

Where every few feet has potential to be anything

And I can be whatever I believe

Until the sun erases my possabilities.

It eats me away with every dull moment,

Goading me back into my imagination.

Creative spirals of disparate mumblings,

The umbilical straps of my safe haven.

Eventually I’ll wake up to freer days

And slumber securely in a psychic Hell

When all my debts have been repaid

And I don’t slip away so well.

Happy New Year, Everyone.

There’s no denying it’s been hard. There are many faces I’ve missed and harsh realities to swallow. Still, it means a lot to share these scraps of prose with everyone who comes along. I hope you’re comfortable and secure tonight, and that we’ll have even more to share in 2021!

If You Go Into The Cold

At 6 P.M, Christmas night,

When there’s no shadow on the frozen ground,

It’s better to stay inside with coffee and cream

Than to risk being seen out of doors in this town.

The weather alone is enough to have caution,

The first things we find are often their winter clothes

Followed, not far away, by whatever else they wore,

And finally, the body, often half buried in snow.

It happens every year, but we couldn’t tell you why,

Only that it’s irrelevant where one’s supposed to be,

It’s 20 below freezing just an hour after dusk

And there are hours more waiting before anything can be seen.

They stagger, it seems, to the woods from the roads,

The thickets leave cuts, which make them easy to find

Following the broken twigs stained with blood

To the places where the victims inevitably lay

An old tree, bent and rotting, where we find them reposed,

Or by the bridge, in the stream, where their skins turn pale blue.

Sometimes they seem to drop somewhere randomly,

And only rarely are there signs a struggle ensued.

What we mean, is you’re welcome to stay if you must,

We’re aloud to be festive, if we don’t leave our homes,

But Winter is the master of the elements tonight

And if you care to see another year, you’ll stay out of the cold.

A Touch In Bad Weather

Some people can’t be reached no matter what you say,

Who probably wouldn’t care to feel your touch anyway,

And for all those who need, in some way, to be reached,

Our fingers might wave but they rarely ever meet.

In a dark windy heart there’s cracked glass in the rain,

Palms still untouched can be cut all the same.

Quieting the air with a gesture, I find

It helps, when you reach, to shield your hands with mine.

Those stinging cold moments with warmth underneath

Pour lakes into places overridden with dead leaves,

An Autumn-stained blush from a spring-tinted gaze

Briefly turn skies that were black back to grey.

Sixteen Hours

It’s over and begun again

Before I was awake to contemplate my place therein

And now there’s decisions to make before another day is wasted;

Time to get out of bed and make the most of who I am.

Sixteen hours to occupy.

There’s money I need to make,

Feelings I need to hold at bay,

Friends I ought to engage with

Dreams of mine to explain;

I know I should write another poem,

I know I should do more for myself,

I should work harder to realize my potential,

To help others and bring more beauty into the world,

Oppose oppression and lift up the beaten down,

Make new memories and new connections into love,

Write meaningful stories as impactful as I am able,

Speak truth to power and lead others to something more.

Sixteen hours.

A day’s weight to carry and divide

With all the urgency of our dwindling time.

My God, I need a release and space to hide,

Some poison to feel temporarily satisfied,

A window to the make believe, to live a life that isn’t mine,

Immediate pleasure, to be ok alone and pacified.

A day’s tension and relief , begun again, immobilized,

Consistent as death with all the awareness of being alive.

It needs to end, this state of being that leaves my paralyzed,

Because all the stress within a day hurts less

Than witnessing your life go by unrealized.

When Summer Never Ends

A neverending summer is coming

And then, will all of us live authentically

With space to grow?

On a transformed planet

How deeply will we confront ourselves

To become something more?

Our chaos, our need, drives far ahead of our rationality,

And rationalizing our needs only breeds further chaos.

The narratives we believe in feed the roots of our beliefs.

Skies burning, tensions rising, anger, anxiety, malaise.

Nature pressures us from every angle,

Guiding us forward to communities of love and

Societies of strength.

Flaws and preferences notwithstanding,

Will we shape ourselves to live abundantly or

Apply pressure to stay restrained?

They say love conquers all as strength enslaves.

Compassion may carry us through tumultuous times

As Egoism may grind us through arduous days,

And how will we console ourselves when the hot breath of summer comes to stay?

 

Frankenstein’s Angel

Detatched features,

Faces, fingers, scalps, and skin

By silver knives and blunted hammers

Stripped from many and made whole again.

The Human Ideal and depraved’s obsession,

Perfection in a women’s form,

Assembled with passion, ardor, and precision

From stolen bodily possessions and one pair of volunteered eyes.

Her mother blinded, her father fanatic,

The night dreary when she came alive,

The mind of a girl with the body of an angel,

A gift to the world, the artist’s nightmare and scientist’s prize.

By design, incomparable to any other being,

At sight, overwhelming one’s sensitivities to shape and light,

And having glimsed her, any obscurrance of her face induced pain

In the heart so profound whole crowds were made to cry.

Musicians and poets wrote nothing more but about her,

Some despaired knowing what they could never have or be,

Multitudes gathered daily to witness and adore her,

All the while laying cash and other gifts at her maker’s feet.

The living embodyment of faultless beauty

Drew wealth and satiation into her father’s hands,

Admired by all the world for merely existing,

Her mother, whose eyes she had, became her only friend.

The crowds, left outside constantly yearning,

Grew more restless, depressed, and frenzied every day,

Bewitched every moment she allowed them her presence,

Dead to all pleasure while she was away.

In time, sight alone wasn’t enough to ease their torment,

And an unprecedented emptiness stole their collective minds,

Demands to be loved by the being that was perfect

Grew from callous whispers to a full-blown battle cry,

But the angel, who was a girl, hardly loved a soul,

The consuming gaze of strangers seperated her from all

But the mother, being blind, who saw her without desiring

And the father who idealized her as art’s true and final form.

The final levy broke, and the people flooded their home,

Cornering her in the attic where she’d only recently been born,

The crowd shouted unanimously for the love that they deserved,

With guns, torches, and hungry eyes prepared to take by force.

There is no way to love anyone by choice, the angel knew,

But when so many want your life there’s little you can do,

Ascending down the letter, every voice was silenced,

Scalpel in her hand, she did what was required.

She slid the steel past her cornea and cut the optic nerve,

One after the other and offered them to her observers,

“My mother’s eyes are the only gift I ever truly loved,

Take them and know I’ve given you all I have.”

Torches were dropped, legs fell away as if broken,

A stifled cry echoed loudly and gave way to screams unrestrained,

Many shots were fired into the temples of their holders,

And many more gave in, weeping into the devouring flames.

The house erupted, the blinded angel bleeding, motionless,

Suffocating, sweltering, and without thought of escape.

A pair of arms found her, above them all the most devoted,

The eyeless mother, holding tight as the world fell away.

Identifying A Woman

Far be it from me to tell you

What a woman is or isn’t

Because even the act of living it

Leaves ambiguities.

 

Do you believe identities

Are something we experience internally

Or something we’re assigned

By nature or how we’re perceived?

 

There are hormones and chromosomes,

Patriarchial structures and feminine superstitions,

Poems and stories devoted to Goddesses,

And those who break away from all traditions.

 

Desire, lust, and expectation,

Something defining or something latent?

A human being entrenched in Image

Or a depth of feeling you simply experience?

 

That which is not man

Or that which is only artificial,

A culture, a gender, a sexual character,

Someone you recognize but can’t quite decipher.

 

Style, substance, intuition,

A history of subversion and subjugation,

A relationship with words like “beautiful” or “pretty,”

The feeling of being prized or hunted.

 

A mystery, a darkness,

A power not delicate but malleable at the edges,

A subject that either fits you or doesn’t

But not a thing that can ever be taken or given.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They’re Not The Same

There are characters and stories I’d always imagined growing old with,

Looking back on forever as formative to my being,

But while growing up changes a person and our worldly understanding,

Stories often remain undeveloped and unchanged.

There are moments in books that once thrilled or astounded me,

That were once profound, insightful, or full of mood,

And while many of those words still make me feel something,

Their meaning seems to change as often as I do.

Themes that represented the concepts I believed so perfectly

Have revealed themselves to be shallower over time,

And writers whose minds seemed so beautifully percipient

Have fallen behind perceiving the experiences of life.

It’s sad to watch something beautiful be diminished

When circumstances change how it reflects in our gaze,

And characters that fell so easily into our hearts

Transform into beings from which we’ve become estranged,

But, if there are stories we’ve grown away from

It means that we’re growing all the same,

And becoming new and better people will always alter

Our understanding of what the past means.

Sentences and ideals that mattered then can still matter

With new understanding settled into the narratives we’re making,

And the stories we’ve left behind can still inspire us

As we renew our loves and troubles into characters worth creating.

 

 

 

 

 

A Place Away

There was a house in the woods

Bordered by a ring of brambles and thickets

Encircling lush ambrosial gardens

Fed from a narrow cascading stream.

It was concealed by enchantment

From the designs of outside eyes,

Untouched and immoveable,

Unfazed by the works of time.

There, knowledge distilled to one question,

That of pleasure between souls,

The unfurling of tangled psyches

Like fine beaded twine softly pulled.

It was home to several dozen

Who stole away from haunted homes,

Caught lost inside the darkest forest

And running from the world.

In place of statuses and structures,

There are faces always warm to you

And hearts always open

Never asking for or taking dues.

Nothing you thought you were

Or what others did to hurt you

Need go unspoken or lamented,

There’s time to attend your wounds,

And ambitions have all died

As did the barriers between minds.

The house that’s in the woods

Holds space for passions to spring alive.