Truth is something
You can’t always see.
A stone dropped
In an unconscious ocean,
A letter written
But never sent,
Caught on a jump rope.
Truth is the story told
To the sleeping child,
A shard piercing
Truth is in the silence between
A husband and wife.
Truth is disappointing lace.
Truth is 16 years.
Truth is a noxious gas;
Plague doctors with beak masks.
Truth circles Black holes,
It is dandelion fruits
On the air.
Truth is something you
Oh I was binary,
Slave to a celestial joy
caught up in once-upon-time,
Text lies, pizza boxes & corsets.
Knocked out by a quasar,
Sobering sense at cocktail hour,
I heard the Word that made me whole;
The Big Bang of truth in a forgotten date.
Set me free.
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
Ann: Hey, Sarah. I’m going to try something. Thought i’d tell you cuz I don’t want you horrified and shit.
Sarah: uh-oh. what are you thinking?
Ann: Lemme read this to you, yo. REMOVE LITERARY, GRAMMATICAL AND SYNTACTICAL INHIBITION. That’s what I gotta do for the blog tomorrow.
Sarah: (horrified face) oh god. no.
Ann: I gotta do it.
Sarah: ok. but it is so hard for me not to try to edit it especially if it is not in my own handwriting.
Ann: I know, right? so I gotta do it.
Sarah: ok. oh god… ok.
Ann: (clears throat)”running, rolling, rambling out on that road at a viciously, vivacious speed shouting out in the vernacular voom-voom-vooming aloud…”
Sarah: oh god. oh god.
Note: Sarah is more than just my work colleague..she is the Spock to my Kirk. The Stabilising-Editor to my Freak-Writer…also my watcher when I get far too drunk on port to know what is good for me…but I digress. Once I read this out loud to Sarah, I said, “This was fun. It actually was pretty good.” Sarah laughed then said, “Yes. actually it was pretty good. It could have gone so wrong.”
“Submissive to everything, open, listening”
Just as I left the Tube station at Camden, my ears danced on the various snippets of conversation of the people who moved about their daily routine. They all seemed to know who they were, what they were saying, what life was about. Determined, strong-said and bountiful with existence but dead inside all at the same time. Little snippets. I need to include little snippets of conversations that the people had as they went this way and that in the bowl of human soup that was the entrance to the Underground.
“Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy-“
I have nine journals and two diaries. None of them completed–Some of them with fragmented ideas, ramblings and ideas that tease me. Some have nothing in them at all. All of them like some secret vice—like a stripper doing her dance but not allowing me to touch, leaving me aroused yet unsatisfied. But I love them. I am drawn to them. I get angry and walk away. I leave them. But I come back…often when I should be doing something else…when I should be attending my responsibilities. And the feeling is utter bliss of the luscious dancing images the words give me…