I anticipate the sun;
His bright red face
the dark night of
He’ll pucker up
then blow away
on my belly.
I’ll return home.
[Photo courtesy Chris Frosin]
Carnivorous Lily– by A.E. Wallace
Not sure how we came to the notion,
taking that potion at the end of the day—which lead to the smoking—
This is where it all went a different way.
Leaving my watcher,
I went for a wander
down a meandering path.
Pulled down dark chasm—floating, falling, flying —
Into a message
that shot through the dark—
from a distance—
in some uncertain tongue:
All that is, isn’t.
One-time daydream demanding development–
Eaten alive in some floral reality,
the need for my Freedom became the key–
The inviolability of my heart had been much abused.
No longer loved—but bound by a vow–
The elegant simplicity;
He is not the one.
19. Accept loss forever
Keys. Goddamned lost my keys. Everything in those keys. Stability, freedom, tranquillity, worldly wealth, the words on my papers that tell me who I am–what I am–who I will be at some point if I live that long—or who will get what if I do not. I reach in to my childhood for St. Anthony to come and search for those keys—to let me in the house—to help me let the dogs out—to let me use the bathroom—to sleep.
Keys are beautiful—dangled, distracting my crying baby boy–Tinkling in summer wind through art room window at college—keys dangling from the wood beam, holding within them locked away memories in long ago houses from some time that was but will never be again. Forgotten rooms, elapsed moments, long ago lust, hidden away Spector in stasis–precious things– keys all rusting away in some man’s utility drawer; expendable like so many disremembered names of those that faded away when pain expired.
I stand accused of not being bothered because I cannot access my mail– those All important missives laden with requirements that sit just within the locked door. I lost my keys.
The locksmith will come anyway.
The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
Last night, I wore a mask. I was the Great Gatsby. The Great Pretender. The Life and Soul of bullshit. This morning, I am all but broken and a little bit lost. But then, this all makes for good material if nothing else… This is from where my strength comes.
“No time for poetry but exactly what is”
What is exactly this? This is life. This life is Responsibility. Responsibility is about duty. Duty is fear. Fear is regret. Regret is about being wrong this time. Time is gone. Gone are the days I thought I knew what I was doing. I was doing so many things. Things are a reminder of need. Need is too much for me to Dream. Dream is too big a word. Word is being a Catholic. Catholic is something I did wrong. Wrong was trying to be happy when I clearly was unhappy. Unhappy is what I am not now. Now is something that goes far too quickly. Quickly are my days of trying to be good at my job. A job is something you do to get money. Money is never enough. Enough is about silence. Silence is all I seem to hear when I speak to you. You do not see me. “Me” is a concept I am trying to make real. Reality is something that science can prove. Proof is something that has not been de-bunked. De-bunked is a funny word. Here we are with Word again…
I need to have Faith.
“Blow as deep as you want to blow”
Smoker, sinner, gambler, ho. It is none of these that are in the know, yo. But to blow. Deep. Sink into the unconventional vat of real self and swim for your life or die trying. There is nothing worse than regret. Inhale deep–keep–feel–then out slow and pass the pipe, figuratively speaking.
Saturday morning. Wake up still in my black dress from last night. Still in bed as I write and wish I could magic up a cup of tea. Laughing out loud because I know I drunk texted, drunk called, drunk sang and I do not need to hurl…this girl was in control through all the i love yous last night. This girl was deep and true. This girl was her own and her own was me.