unloving yourself

 

this is for all beautiful young girls–inside and out–they all are born beautiful–they must believe this and not allow life to turn them otherwise–my daughter has grown into a confidant young woman–this was not always the case–and she’s so much more confidant than I ever was at the ripe age of 19🤗

temptations

I often speak
not often enough
of honesty
when it’s practical and lends itself lyrically
So, here I will weaken myself by revealing
a palpable fear
This dread haunts me in most aspects of thought
Elusive
still I know its talents in matters of temptation
She tries to bend my whim to her words
He employs brute strength to muscle my conscience
They slide plug nickels, never bright pennies
I don’t understand much of what I do
What if we’re not supposed to
There remains a prideful integrity in placating my own selfish spirit
I grip this fiercely
The dismay of losing my voice pales my heart
There are glimpses of things I’ve seen
Wisps of smoke on horizons blazing far above my dark corner
Questions I ask my patient angels on loan and my personal demons on demand
Am I not at their measure
Am I not reaching enough
And my humanness does stall
And my heart does break
She, He, and They come at me in these moments
bending, prodding, soliciting me to fabricate with their designer colors
In weak moments, I fall to my knees in thanks, that I was born a willful child-listening to no one’s voice
but my own

Angel Cone

solitary fish

She keeps her Siamese Fighting fish in a glass bowl
Gravel glimmering in aquatic blues and mermaid greens
A solitary fish might believe lake, or better yet, ocean
The pet store suggests Sammy live alone,
otherwise he might kill his friend
The red-orange Betta is fire under water
She is fire under water too
Her lavender room is a glass bowl
She and Sammy swim in tiny circles in small worlds
A wooden peace sign beneath her bed
Painted with glitter and all the paint jars within reach on the picnic table
Long wooden benches occupied with sweaty kids who whittled words into tiny canoes from two-by-four scraps
The wood, leftover construction from a nearby development
She swims in a luxurious new home
many rooms, many spaces, glass bubbles, no air
The peace sign is tacked behind Sammy’s bowl
It reminds her of summer camp, a happy temporary time
fair-weather friends
She grows into autumn alone
The seasons, solitary
A huge house and a small fishbowl
one mother
one daughter
one fish

Hair Hiding

spiders’ bacchanal

A spiders’ bacchanal down here
Eight-legged thespians skirting about
across the faux wood of my desk and underfoot on the beige mahalo
These onyx-backed beasts don’t give me the wicked respect I crave
Rather the opposite, they mock my rage
They rappel down sateen webs with the grace of silken ballerinas,
while I clumsily produce vague sand traps like a common ant
The warm April sun is out today
It mocks me too
The light pushes in, I do not see it
I do not want it to touch me
The basement is winter cold and autumn damp
With every bulb powered, it remains oppressive
My excuse for non-producing spinnerets
Spiders are flippant and insensitive creatures
an abundance of legs, but they do not help me walk
a treasure trove of eyes, yet my vision is unclear
They do not direct words
They do not produce art
They do not manage feelings
Am I a thespian like my spiders
Acting out in moments of blank banality–no better than a two-legged starlet with a bug up her ass

I must curtail my ‘creative passions’
No reliance on fake scuttling muses
A maturation must come with webs of fire
or they are out-of-control things, to be snuffed out
ripped apart for catching bad karma
I sometimes play the fool
I sometimes age wisely
Whenever my son chastises me for behaving like a child,
I sometimes behave like an adult

and the spiders laugh at me in mimicries of silver slandering

it’s a wonderful life

Aroma and bubbling of a Seattle blend
Dark splitting open by jagged blue
Promises of the sun
Soft light dusting treetops–only treetops–magic beyond miracle
Squirrel’s ass bounding to safety
The red barn where he once sculpted in metals
Old white house, black coffin shutters where I imagine Poe sailing on a brigantine in a bottle, the ancient bottle forever resting upon an antiquated sideboard with missing crystal glass pulls
Lanza’s voice at any volume
Moon roof parting like the gymnasium floor, Charleston revelers diving in
Gold sparkles on my fingers from latest spray paint project
Son adjusts side view mirrors
The mere possibility of these glorious events repeating
Tomorrow, while driving to school

wood nymph

thinking of Christmas movies on this warm, sunny day 😉

warrior of the asphalt

hawk talons grapple the dense power lines
an eighteen-wheeler speeds over the underpass
he’s flying more than the raptor right now
wonder what the driver is thinking
traveling alone
heaving semi propped up on massive tires
trailing long, behind his sun-bleached Kenworth cap
burning a day’s rubber
friction not exclusive to the highway
is he fatigued
in need of sleep
in want of the broad bed where she lay
milk-curved skin and pink perfumed
the way he likes her to wait
shouldn’t have left like that
anxious for the heavy payload and burning light
regretting his exhausted voice
bellowed like his semi’s Kleinn Triple Horn
he soars again and again
cranking his hand to move the big lady into gear
her gentle touch lingering on his skin
honeysuckle freshener and hand-rubbed leather
he’ll get the haul done
always does
this warrior of the asphalt
dreaming of flying highways
that speed him back to her

what story will this be

Backseat
Waiting
Quiet and low
Steel eyes trapped behind metal car door
Glass window mocking
No view to the street
A world crisscrossed with yes and no
violence and peace
He lies there
On his back
Silent
Thinking about his family, his life, his choices
Circling to this moment
In an unmarked car
Followed from the crime scene
An old-school mafia hit
From another time
Only one commonality
His heritage
The dark looks that placed him in harms way
Undercover
This moment
His wife, his children
Clinging to a backseat
A tale papa may one day tell his grandkids
His ears are his eyes
The men are closing in on the car
He steadies his service weapon
What story will this be

this is a work of factual fiction

a work of factual fiction

I’m worn out this evening
Not sure if it’s the life around me
or in me
It’s exhausting trying to guess all the people someone might be
The person, I can’t become
All this circular mystery
I get dizzy going in circles
Question marks hover around my soul-
fishhooks trying to bait the truth
That I can’t tell you
Not because I’m deceitful
Certainly, because I’m dishonest
Here, a thin sliver of me–
a fish scale on a dead seashell
I can’t stop thinking
This is not a flaw
Not a fact
It just is what it is
My mind wanders
Disconnects from other parts
I go places I shouldn’t
with people I shouldn’t go with
We do things, I’d never do
Except I would
if I were anyone else

This is a work of factual fiction