a day of whispering bones

Happy Halloween!

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’tis wrestling season, my eyes close for 2 months


I listened last night
cresting waves
you
a ship
the gymnasium floor
covered in ocean blue and harvesting gold
home advantage
there you were
every time I closed my eyes
imagining the sea
rather than watching you twist and be twisted

my heart opened them
I must be like you
brave
put myself out there
on the mat
face my fear, my folly, my foe, my friend
when did you become so you

my son

the little boy
I must one day
release into a hard world
with no soft wrestling mat beneath
should you fall
maxmy max is on the right, gold-stripe
so very difficult watching these wrestling matches
hoping none of these kids get hurt
but they do
must keep my eyes open

goddamn peaceful

5 am
wishing ’twas contented spirits
who dusted winter’s cement grasses
with sparkling pixie dust
my little dog’s lone paw prints
sweet as a postcard one might send a faraway lover
I linger in this miraculous quiet
let the moment warm
the silence of this morning
as beautiful as swimming beneath water
where sounds of despair are drowned
swept away by bubbling filters and light-dancing reflections
fondling liquid ballerina toes
there I often dream
there, I can only dream
in the silent spaces away from mouths not my own
‘the’ planet, when we’re cruel
mother earth, when we’re kind
I don’t want to touch the frozen front door knob
twist it and go back inside
rather
I’d love to freeze out here
5 am
with the sparkling pixie dust
and all that glitters
in the beauty of this miraculous silence
when the world seems so goddamn peaceful
rest
“ye merry, gentlemen
let nothing you dismay”

Rudolph Hug

Rudolph Hug

lotm-screen-shot-amazonhey, what do ya know, monster clawed its merry little way to #9 position this past week on Amazon’s little list of, hot new love poetry releases

kryptonite

sometimes she just gets tired
her little world snags on the edge
it doesn’t want to spin
neither does she
kryptonite sometimes settles across her womb
in the dark where light once lived
a spec of universal magic
slapping weightless color across heaving walls
offers no more portals
and the face present for all
is its most false
on the other side
baby gorilla
baby chimp in prisma on construction paper done a few years back-thank you

sweating glass

it took an old southern rock bar band
a switch from wine to gin and tonic
and the recollection of a childhood memory
to swallow a dream starting to slip slide on thin summer ice
chilled to near perfection once, the dream
the gallant aspirations striking a spark at one’s heels
“why”
love
always there, the love
passion–an over-used word, I call into service here
I want to write about me (without you knowing)
I want to write about you (and think it’s me)
I want to create boulevards and labyrinths,
defeat, victory and the people that fall to both
friends, lovers torn apart, maybe connected in twisting alleys
plain flat features and sculpted bullshit
forbidden denizens
I want to go down the creepy hall and
have my right hand make the left open the door
but the most honest excuse
I’ll place here (bear in mind I got in very late last night)
if I don’t sit beneath the light at 4 am with a pen
I won’t be any good to anyone
so many of us have this story
we happily summon up this creative nightmare
it is not a bad dream but a wickedly feisty journey
across dark boulevards
sipping my midnight refreshing gin and tonic
the sweating glass slipping in my hand a bit
listening and watching the band
they were decent as bar bands go
around people drinking, laughing, texting
four band members
wasn’t a gig worth the pay
wasn’t worth the hot lights, sweat and beer stench
(and there’s that Jackson Brown song)

and the token rude person or two in the crowd
they–the magnificent four, simply loved what they did
not the hot lights, sweating, drunkards, texters, talkers, laughers
and
there was the flash memory of a childhood diary
a little worn book “accidentally” left out for my five sibs
so they might read
my words

Oscar E. Hornse

the other thing I adore–monsters, this guy drawn last year
happy Sunday:)

no more pearls

how can words be brave
she goes only so far with her sentences
so far with little imperfect pearls
watching them break away from the strand and roll away
across the museum floor
she pretends to be a paper doll
with those high shoes
moving her away from the earth
where she belongs, but doesn’t want to stay
the lumpy pearls are spinning across the high-gloss parquet
how is it the wood shines so
burdened all day beneath novices and admirers
gilded old masters
their oily stares, thoughtless and menacing
deny her the luxury of concealment
does she flop about the perfect floor
scooping up the renegade low-luster gems
where are her words now
she can’t think on her feet
they are too far from the ground in silly paper dolls shoes
old men are staring
in beaten leathery soles that don’t scuff
every gem ball has disappeared
the broken strand dangles from her thin white sweater
she has no words
she has no pearls
there is one set of old eyes upon her
he knows her heart was once
not made of paper
she wills the oily-eyed man
to kiss her wet cheek and pull her
into the linen where she could rest alongside him
for all eternity

her silent fingers lurch deftly over the velvet rope
she fondles the painting
an elderly gentleman in a white-starched shirt
and shiny black Oxfords asks her to leave quietly
which is fine by her
she has no words left anyway
rembrandtthis is an ink rendering I did in college – the assignment was to copy an old master
I chose Rembrandt

well red or where to find her secret

a play on words. the theatrical presentation of polyester tomboy life. a waking thought. sky diving into bedtime storyland. Peter Pan warns individualism must be shared. now, I don’t want to see my wings clipped by an elfin dude I could beat the crap out of, so I’m going to (begrudgingly) divulge a diary secret.

shh, I’m about to give up the hidden location of an idea place. 
before moving beyond this point you must have a dog (if you don’t, borrow one from a friend). 
for starters, you don’t have to wear the same pajamas like I do–fifteen years (going for a personal best).

we begin by focusing and moving backward to a place you weren’t born then go ‘well’ passed there. continue meandering as long as you can stand it. when you arrive at the small door in the fat tree, do not look for Alice the Golden, or a gleeful bear. you’re on your own. spirit around the bulky tree and the little door (if you went through that stumped portal, you must start over. hey, I didn’t even tell you to turn the knob).

the rest of you keep moving. up the six hills with the long grass that tickles you into forgetfulness. on the seventh hill where the black sun spreads across the white ground you should see a dilapidated well. climb to it. push the lopsided bucket aside. peer into that black hole. it is ungodly deep and satanically dark down there. throw yourself in.

that’s right (if you thought about how much it might hurt, were nervous about what could be lurking on the bottom or loathe falling upside down in confining lightless places–you’ll need to change your wet pajamas then go back to the beginning). those still with me we are presently falling. down, down, down. submerging into the red. crimson lightning splatters across the abyss walls (Mr. King likes this). if we remained calm, we’re floating in spectacular red. red for the reason all good things are. blood. pumping. boiling. lusting. bloody good. bloody fucking great. get those blood suckers. blood hounds. drink up as much life giving red as you possibly can. (hope you brought the dog I said you needed. luckily for us, all dogs are loyal so they followed) now, whistle for Lassie. she’ll find that silly Timmy whose only job is to follow plan b–get real help (let’s face it, Timmy is nothing but trouble and lacks coordination).

if your dog isn’t Lassie (sorry, I forgot to mention that little detail in the beginning), you’re not getting out of well red anytime soon. kick frantically if you must, but you’ll eventually drown. if this happens you’re definitely not getting out. just float on your back. think of where you aren’t and what might be going on there. is his head too big to fit through a little door? is her soul too small to fill a honey pot? did the insane tambourine player find his moldy hamburger? all good questions. continue emptying your mind of whatever it is you think you know.

then a black sun epiphany–

a way to climb out of well red.

hopping up one little springboard at a time ’til you reach the top

with a fistful of fresh inspiration in each hand

now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get my wings polished.

Angel Cone

art created last year for another post

walk ins welcome

walk ins welcome
read while gazing into a dirty vacant store window next to the pizza place.
 shit I’m gettin’ old. gotta get my groove on before I’m ungrooveable or I forget how to cha cha (don’t wanna brag but back in disco days I had a kickass pelvic thrust). 
so let’s get this going shall we. 
you and me. okay, pretend I’m standing so close my breath is clouding your bathroom mirror.
 we laugh. you’re nervous. I’m not – never am in these situations. shower steam has fogged up the whole damn room. I stare at your towel and say, “

let me walk inside you.” 
You must know before answering, I’d pin that silly sign–walk ins welcome–to my face if I could style hair. 
I can only grow it. Like everything else I do or get into, I grow overboard. 
Hair is hitting my belt loops, the weight always pulling. 
so I must ask you again, 
will you allow me passage into your deepest darkest places…

(here we go now)
I want to wander down where you hide things from everyone but me
up and down, in, around and down slippery Sherpa
let me lay my curves across your lines
see my roads take you places
places I whisper in wet blue
us, that would be so nice
I’m excited for me
for you
you won’t believe how reserved I can be out of my place
that place I don’t dare go as it tongue ties and pen paralyzes me bad
I like caves and clouds and I can get you there
I’d like to play with you in water too
when you let me in
I think you might just love me
a tiny bit only a tiny bit
it was too long before I loved myself completely
so much has been and maybe still is rehearsal for my heart
the role play if you let me in
I’ll whisper from inside your ear like a raindrop on a windowsill
I’ll say things like, “your soul is precious”
no
I wouldn’t say that
precious is a word I’d use to describe a smiling goldfish that can juggle knives
I’ll think of words just for you, don’t worry
please don’t get mad
but
after you love me just a bit only a bit
you must let me leave
I must move on
I must find others
who will love me too
(here I go now)

hairbrush

hairbrush

I wish I were him

I eat each piece, tearing apart the lines, ramrodding through the verbiage to find the golden rabbit. Dissecting the words, vivisecting the pulp flesh to get at the blood.
He’s so popular and I’m at a loss to explain this to my heart. Clearly he’s dug into term universe, uncovered buried gems in the trove. My eyes follow along waiting for an aha moment which I believe imminent. I continue whooshing pages beneath my flippant index finger. I’ve even welcomed a paper cut to my writing hand, my sketching fingers and if that’s not love and appreciation I don’t know what is.

Have I become jaded here, to take from this writer his every success? To deny him entry to my pathos. All these heavy-lashed eyes who cut their hearts on their emotional skins find him not only aha but voilá too. Have I grown distant, out of touch with those in near circles, the ones I stand outside of but near enough to see shapes. Really a square is what I am, too old for the shit of jumping, thumping and humping. (let’s see if that catches on like chew and screw, or her whale tail is riding high). God, when did I become such a bummer.

Gratification the millisecond glazed eyes puncture letters and back lit brains string ‘em together to chow repurposed cinema kernels. 
It’s sugar free instant pudding with no pudding skin, what the hell, the floppy sugar skin is the entire delight. Lambasted with social medium, no large, just fucking medium and you have to hit that sweet spot. Like his words, the sweet spot, he’s got it covered with a giant manhole cover.

There are lines I read now, not his, but other minds. Mind you – was I to have the exact same words in a tumbler, I could never spill out what they gloriously let flow and have us swallow greedily in want of more steaming rum on frigid nights when we’re alone with our bored hands. These exquisite things to be viewed, fondled, touched then returned behind their velvet ropes.

I grabbed from the money shelf for pretty books. His is a very pretty one. Books I sometimes buy to impress others with my vertical color collection. The truth if I may be honest with you. I don’t always read them, only some, the pretty ones. I’ve placed his words on the pretty shelf because I want to remember what I don’t know. I want to recall my head falling into a tailspin. My bones neatly following in a jerking motion. My fingers in my mouth licking my wounds the paper cuts pretty books give me.

I must be honest with myself.
I must be honest with you.
I want to be honest with him.
There are words I will never write and thoughts I will never have.
There is genuine fakeness in so much.
Even Me. Even Me. Even Me.
I don’t like the words.
But still I am wishing
I were as creative.
Still I am wishing
I were him.
sasquatchMy time is drawing near, where I will be critiqued more than usual. I’ve never read much poetry before. Of late, it’s all I do read. There are so very many spectacular and amazing writers out there – mind blowing really. And on a rare occasion, there is one, I don’t quite grasp why their words resonate with the success they do. This leads me to believe and realize, it is me. I’m the one without my finger on the pulse. And I need to continue learning. Also, I must be ready to cry, because we are all entitled to our opinions. In my heart, it’s not about the popularity, it’s the staying power. It’s creating something that doesn’t pluck a chord but strings a harp when one needs to hear such music…
Big Foot drawn last year for illustrated project

apologies for the cussing, sometimes there are no more perfect words than the most worst imperfect kind;)