I hold the blade In my hand
I’m better than this
I’ll follow the plan
The cool metal against my fingers
I shouldn’t do this
Yet the temptation lingers
But how else does the aching go away?
I have to do this
I know ill pay
I pick a place for a new scar
I want to do this
I didn’t get far
A deep red river flows from my thigh
I’m doing this
I try not to cry
I soak up the blood with a shuddering breath
I did this
The next step is death
something small almost imperceptible is crawling across the porch
I have to get closer to see it; it is a tiny bug, so small it has no color
I wonder if my dogs have noticed; but they are asleep, not caring
leaves of my lilac tree capture my attention next; they seem to shimmer.
a different color on the back, kind of a silver sheen.
a tiny wren or sparrow flies downward; this interests me.
Birds usually fly up, unless there is rain water to dabble in.
This one landed on the edge of the cat door and promptly went inside.
Does she have a nest in my garage? This was curious.
She went in that flap as if it was her flap.
there is a whoo whoo whoo sound now
an owl in the afternoon? My ears struggle to hear.
Yes, it is an owl. In the day time? They are nocturnal!
Whoo Whoo Whoo; a third call.
This was remarkable.
A large shadow of a raptor brings my eyes skyward.
It is huge, black, a turkey buzzard?
Now there are two, now three, my final count is six.
They are circling above the marsh. Is there something dead?
I shudder.
One of my dogs is having a daymare. He is shuddering.
I lean down and pat him a bit, to reassure him.
—Blackout.
\ rewind \\
9pm,
my messy curls sizzled
as chemicals
flow down the drain—
raven,
to matte purple.
Each strand a minute
I forced
straight
with smoldering iron.
>> glitch
1am,
Hair unraveled
against the shuddering wall
The taste of heated whiskey
falt
er ing
from our lips
Rusty red smudged
on neon-lit chins—
He muttered, “Your hair looks better at night.”
I replied—
—Blackout,
(sigh)
\ rewind ?
Roll back the tides of time, and tell,
Of ancient books of myths, of hell,
Of temperance, nuns succumbed to gloom,
Entombed within their living tombs,
Of monks, and saints, and gospel song,
Born gently by the breeze, along,
Of deep toned organs' peeling swells,
Of virgins, Mary, and funeral knells,
Of dim-lit cells and penance loaned,
Which can for one's darkest deeds, atone,
Look back and lift the veil of night,
And view the man, the anchorite,
There he sits, so sad, so pale,
Shuddering at superstition's tale,
Crossing his chest with meager hand,
While saints and priests, a motley band,
Array before him to urge their claim,
To heal, in the Redeemer's name,
To climb the heavenly ladder, made,
By every patron, of every grade,
From wealthy abbot, fat and fair,
To starving child, withering there,
All of them eager to usher in,
The soul, ransomed by It's sin,
And tell me hapless bigot, why,
For what, for whom did Jesus die,
If pyramids and statues of saints must rise,
To form the passage to the skies,
Would you think man can wipe away,
With what but penance, day by day,
One single sin, too dark to fade,
Beneath a bleeding Savior's shade.
after the painting by Vincent Van Gogh
Does she even exist? Doubting her own reality,
seeing herself vanishing in undulating undergrowth,
fading and merging into summer-scorched scenery.
But cold lurks there beneath shafts of sunlight, phallic trees...
He wears the night underneath, a fabric of dark and unease,
his hand heavy upon her arm, silver-tongued charm
smooth as the silver-limbed leafless trees,
disappearing now on a twisting breeze...
Sinuous stems suffocate, writhing and thrashing;
convulsions of shuddering green and yellow.
Enticed ever deeper into flailing flowers,
evanescing into foam of frothing flora...
Did she ever truly exist? It's doubtful.
The flower-frail faceless and nameless
will always be lured and laid, invisible,
dissolving, under bare, phallic trees.
Torn skirt billowing behind you
like a parachute,
you fell,
fell,
for the telescoped eternity
of two seconds.
The pond turned its blind eye
to the sky,
and the shuddering gate
swung shut.
No one was talking.
Next day, the sun stirred
the larkspur into bloom again.
A rambler saw the flattened weeds,
suspected a fox,
and poked around for feathers.
They found your body later:
drowned in the darkness of the wood.
And raped,
or so the papers said.
‘A rendezvous with death’
was how one writer put it.
The police are looking for a man in black.
First published in Landfall, New Zealand
She made a little house,
Deep in a vast valley,
Surrounded by blooming flowers
And fluttering butterflies.
She lay on the silky green meadow,
Immersed in the gentle harmony of silence.
A soothing breeze brushed past,
Playing with her locks and flipping them into a messy knot.
All of a sudden, a loud voice echoed,
Shuddering, her eyes scanned the surroundings,
Seeking the cause of ear-splitting voices echoing around her like a thunderstorm.
Her eyes could find nothing—
Only the loud hissing of different voices,
Shadows looming over her little body,
Threatening to extinguish the little light of hope.
Petrified, she shut her eyes tight,
Covering her ears with her small fingers.
After a span that felt endless,
She finally opened her eyes.
Her eyes searched for her remnants,
Her voice strove for her merry laugh,
Her mind sought to recall her memories,
Her heart yearned to love and to be loved.
Only darkness, heavier than a shroud of mist,
Surrounded her, shackled by a hollow chain.
At last, she ceased her antics, wearily smiling at the fading light within her..!
Swans steam across the lake.
Streaming in, heads held high.
Strung out in single file.
Stippling surface with wakes.
Signaling flock to join.
Sensing storm clouds brewing,
Shuddering storm ahead.
a curious coin flipped free and fell forever fishing forgotten wondrous waves woven wide in a wishing well.
on it wandered heeding head and telling tale of a decisive certain self as written in "the tomes of twi,"
(tw0 t1mes as binary transcribed, preserved there once for each possible i)
deep deep down in mother drowned the coin where by and by
such hopeful heat grew glorious great and there where through and through
rock flows into and knows each other as it's one true self.
the coin once tossed now at a loss for ways as it draws near:
it felt the sway it knew so clear at start was at an end.
no longer flipped, but rather dripped,
as the heart it did approach with glee.
shuddering round and up and down it came to rest right here:
and here, the tomes of twi concur, some miracle occured...
for as a dot.
will light a line
the coin this time did rightly left decree:
to be nothing more than mystery?
the one true way, as some might say,
was told that day upon a sphere,
and there we see ourselves entwined
upon a perfect mirror.
I am but a single shuddering whisper trapped beneath the shroud,
a lingering fluttering flicker of self indulgent doubt.
I am but a small one, an itty bitty insignificant flake of dust,
among the sunlight.
A little soft, though not soft spoken,
a little daft, a wee bit broken,
much too hardened, yet, too young
to be outspoken
instead of “spoken for” or
“in love.”
I am but a girl, spirit frayed and bittered hag
softly and constantly being reborn.
Yearning deep
Leaves cracking
Pain shuddering
Hearts beat
Touches spark
Wild teeth
Run fast
Forest fire
Nothing waits
Everything ages
Into a wall you made me crash
My insides were turned to mash
I feel so weird and mushy
I am wobbly and gooshy
Like jello you make me shake
My control you had to break
With the softness of your hand
My knees buckle--I can't stand
You made me turn into
One big soft pile of goo
It feels like I have no bones
All my sturdiness is gone
Shuddering and really weak
I can't find the words to speak
I am tongue tied--out of sound
Any movements can't be found
But I am not one bit worried
Your strong arms reach out and carry
Me into a strong love grip
I never want to fall or slip
Out of it--I can not live
Without this feeling that you give
Why would I - the maker of this:
desiccated and barren effigy,
the devastated architect of this
biological monstrosity -
want to end the great work?
I ask you dear friend, why would I not?
Why linger when nothing remains:
nothing but broken bricks,
shattered glass in twisted wood;
all the hopes and dreams unspent,
gnarled by time, left irredeamable
by decisions past, my legacy.
For the canvas can take no more paint,
can take no more congealing
of beautiful youthful strokes.
The shuddering structure cracks -
each repairing touch only blemishes;
it’s beauty is lost forever.”
Verdant prairies, lush foothills,
Yellow tulips, golden daffodils,
Waltzing with magnolia’s zeal
Flamboyant in spring’s appeal.
Thundering showers, mirthful bees,
Burbling rivers, roaring seas,
Birds chirping, roaming carefree,
Buoyant, reveling summer’s glee.
Autumn paints crimson themes
Dyeing leaves, charming dreams,
Swaying vistas, iridescent trees,
Whirling frolicking amber breeze.
Shuddering boughs, winds blow,
Scattering delicate falling snow,
Shivering knolls, terrains aglow,
Glistening twilight’s wintry glow.
Sculpting tinges periwinkle, eventide paints on arc of ruby skies,
Sunset dreams of freezing eve, longing warmth of moonrise;
As realms gelid waltz, where light-beams with shadows dance,
Shuddering boughs, quivering vistas, swaying barren expanse.
Prairies frozen glimmer, resplendence of pristine falling snow,
Where decaying colors of fall, in remnants of autumn glow,
When twinkling cosmic rivers, on tapestries of Milky-Way flow,
As frosty moonlight glistens knolls, of shivering terrains aglow.
Quietude dwells in grip of winter, where lakes and rivers froze,
Where beauty shines reflecting light, gleaming blustery woes,
Of shorter days, of time glazed, mellowed in golden sunshine,
Ceding to lingering nights, glinting in glamor of heavens divine.
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