Fib

Today, I annihilated the myth of duality with my sister of  different beat..  ...     ........             .....................                                  another pulse from within a vein of the
Ancient

                                                        blood.
Scattered                    seeds, severed

stems brought together
by the winds.

The Public House

Behind glass smiles are the whiskey ties,
the salutes, and drunken testaments,
liquid praise, and clinking compliments
as we try to swallow the past like wolves
waiting-

to devour the burden of remembrance.


Our regrets,
we bury like coffins;
silently mourning our defeat.
The void,

and vacancy we cannot fill, but turn
to stock as we attempt
to fix our losses.

Caught between affliction and anger,
our emotions bulge, and brew over
the brinks of bottles, the verges of pints
as we drown our woes behind
the barriers of the public house,
we rely on the benevolence of strangers,
to wash away the risk and reward, the sorrow
and strain of squander, the dread of ruin,
and total sum of disaster

we stagger,
masquerading our condescension,
we stumble as we lose,
our courage.

SparkNotes

I deleted all of my writing over the last three years. I had to. It was too depressing. Every poem, every essay, every simile, and stale metaphor, I had to erase this cycle. I had to purge the Past. The Past is gone. And, I relied far too much on the cyclical forms of expression, and dark subject matter. I am tired of writing about darkness, and all that is ugly and vile. It did nothing, but cloud my mind, and I cannot revisit it. It served a purpose. It was a necessary part of my catharsis. So here we begin a new page. I leave behind the notes of the puke gallery, the days spent in Brazil, the hours spent agonizing over men, who couldn't love me back, now, is the time to redefine rhyme.

I made a religion out of sorrow and whine, 

I was the preacher and the pulpit, I was the dark romantic, the tragic Bohemian, the lost soul, and those days are over, the days of nomadic self destruction have come to an end. And, I am tired of being a fringe spectacle, it's cheating, I am exhausted by recounting the close encounters with death, the brushes with Fate, I am weary of glamorizing destruction, I have given up glitter, laurels, and red lips, I have cooled, calmed, and settled, and I will not make myself the main attraction, I am not a freak show. I am a girl who has lived and survived the worst humanity has to offer, and rather than attract wonder, I'd rather convey what was lost, what is gained, and what remains than add faux glimmer and sparkle. I am not a book invented for you entertainment. I am not your SparkNotes. 

Thoughts on the Equinox

I started a new practice. Each morning, I get up and I try to assess the source of my thoughts, and rather than immediately pan out to the future, I now go through the day on a case-by-case basis. It's difficult at times because what is perhaps a core to most is absolutely new to me. In a way, I am sort of frightened and relieved that my voice can still be so Puritanical... how? I have no idea.

As a child, I was super petrified of making the smallest error in judgment, and this manner of thinking was present from the get-go. The funny thing is, as a child, I always felt alien, I always felt disconnected from others. As a child, I simply stared and spent the majority of my time, playing in my own world. I don't remember feeling anything much. I even used to pull away my hand from my mother and other adults. I refused hugs, and pretty much never wanted to have anything to do with anyone else.

I didn't know how. I didn't understand other kids. They couldn't understand me. I was meant to be an only child, but I was lucky enough to have a sister. Being the older child is confusing. I think we're more of an experiment, we're sort of the testing ground, and it's okay because our parents had no instruction manual either. There is

I loved water, and I loved looking at things in the garden. I had very poor social skills. I didn't want to play with other children, I liked drawing, and I liked my grandfather, and I loved sitting and drawing on the coffee table while he watched "The Price is Right."

And now, I think about who I am, and how I got here, and where I'm going. I think about all I have to do, and all I want to do, and all I need to do to stay true. Life is a learning experience. Some of us need to fall harder than others. Some of us must climb to be better individuals, and some of us are further along than others. I'm here, I'll do the best I can.

The Guest from Canis Minor

I wonder, who my Puppetmaster may be in this reality; he's always operating behind the scenes, and will remain there until it's 'Game Over'. It doesn't matter much more to me, I've basically tired of Unknown adventures, I just want to figure my life out, but of course that's the minute things become ultimately more complex, definitively unclear, but it's a constant battle, I've had a hard time surrendering. I was told to plan out my entire life, and didn't do so with much success. Then, I'll wait for someone to bring up something, and then I'll go back home, and then what? I don't know... something, though. 

Watching Rabbit Hole, I thought about something, I should write a play. I want to write a play about the old consuming the young; a play about a reality that I and the members of my family cling on to still, after all the years that have transpired. The play will be told from the perspective of my dead dog, who no longer has a body, but is the omniscient narrator from another dimension, who came back as a ghost to see the state of our family after being dead for two months, the equivalent of a 10-year journey from where she's from. She is a male in her new-found reality, and it will be told in 1st person, with asides to the audience and dialogue, featuring flashbacks and flash-forwards. I think a play is more accessible to someone like me, because in Creative Writing workshops, I was always told my strength was dialogue. Well, time to flesh out this idea, and write working title, "The Guest from Canis Minor". 

Drawn to ledges  

           my gaze    

                    edges

  tip   ... toes  one 

                                blink 

                                         over 

to kiss wet

[Cement]

Quartz graveyard 

bottles 

without messages

glimmer and gleam 

like blades or blood 

diamonds

                   distant celestial dots slaves to the night sky.

Twinkle  ...

   ...Twinkle

you  

staccato sirens 

lamenting life's lost

children      

searching...        for shiny promises 

      scattered             across 

                             the 

Universe                           like               seeds 

                           weary               of                 the

                                                whims            of 

          impulsive

                                                        winds.

Who remembers these

motherless

sons 

and

daughters? 

nocturnal nomads 

seeking mercy from 

the damning 

desert's 

solemn sands'

subterranean 

caverns

realm to ravenous red 

giants' stolen 

treasures

down

below 

the day's surface 

ruled by serpents

       crowning the

      (anonymous?)

bones littered by life’s countless {1...2....}

orphans. 

Paradise Lost

The need to escape intensifies; this time it is different- a chemical journey inside or outside of my consciousness will not cut it anymore.
I dream in the most vibrant and intense hues of Technicolor, but
you say, "Not everything is black or white..." Keep your neutral
grays, which cannot begin to express my curiosity. I want no part of
your bland discoveries--
a slight thrill is the last thing I am looking for
(I know it's not enough). I want to feel my pounding pulse
behind my eyes, I want the world to challenge every truth
I've ever known to be true. I want to experience for myself,
by myself. I do not want to be tested on past
experiences contained in cruel, dust-heavy
tomes burying the facts inside their thick-skinned covers.

If the world is diabolical, I want to to arrive at that conclusion alone.
If the world is good, I want to discover unexpected kindness and grace in the darkest alleyways.
We have but one life, and the promise of a padded afterlife is not good enough.
Paradise. What makes you so sure that I want any part of your Paradise?
I am one of your lost children and you have the nerve to ask why I detached myself.
Your flagrant authority, your blind conviction drove me
to doubt every truth you had ever fountained.