Call Waiting

My damn phone is attached to my hip pocket like white on rice

My damn phone is attached to my hip pocket
Like white on rice
It’s like a drug or a small child or even a puppy training on a leash pulling at my hand.

Watch me.
Look at what I can do.
Look at me Look look look look at ME
Feed me.
Touch me.
Play with me.
All the time.
Allllll the time.
Sucking me into an electronic hypnotizing vortex
I avoid all eye contact with humanity.

On this contraption every damn day. Annnnd night.

Mesmerized by its blue light and power over me
Like us all
I stare LOL-ing in stitches for hours upon hours transfixed
Looking at my life

on this screen in Helvetica or times
it is comic with sans

We are all blah blah blahing on blogs
bragging about our lives without living them

Panic sets in when we lose sight of it.
OMG!
Where’s my PHONE??????

Like some
peeping-tom diary
Auto correct whore twists my words into pretzels
While I remain a
slave to its charm

It is a sham set up by the government under the guise of connectivity
Tracking me down like an entranced
antisocial media zombie
I have been sucked in
by the dark side
of its glow

It seems to me since this device was invented intended to connect ironically we have forgotten how to communicate.

I am slowly becoming less me and more iPhone.

Put it down.

Say goodbye to it
if only for a day.
An hour
if that’s all you can handle. See what happens
as it sits far away
from riding up your ass.

Turn to the person next to you and say hello.
And laugh out loud.
Take a memo to yourself and declare I am “ME” again damn iPhone.

Like Tears in Virginia

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Plump fallen stars stripped to the bones baring souls

stand at attention uneasy in tombstone testimony

to inevitable rites of passage of voluntary defenders

Oxblood and aubergine leaves scatter dervish hearts spiral downwards

towards deep dark earth staining knees in prayer and long stemmed stone roses

tripping up freedom with flashing light fantastic

tethered together rank after file bank after line after triple rows of teeth

conjuring image of queues of grapevines of wine country ready to bleed

willingly sacrificing themselves as Bacchus raises cain and glasses

ripe for the picking were they brethren then in vibrato and celebration

though not quite ever prepared for such severity of the stomp

in a well coopered barrel of ancient smokey white oak staves now stained red

as the guns twenty-one declare honor to the fallen ones

melancholy sun settles reluctantly bids adieu

with fingers of god through mist and

into decent of chilly slumber

Cost of Freedom

…because of boys to men we have this day…

Beyond the Mason-Dixon line magnolias fade from bloom a mere memory as the brigades grow dividing and shaking the houses’ very foundation to the core

Fields of grasses yeild under heavy button boots with ragged soles as young boys march on and on unsteady with shaking hands and faith nearly broken

A portrait of black and white, of wronged and neglected rights, dogma chasing dogma simmering tensions coming to a point surrendering to many a sacrifice and melee

Laden heavy with worsted wet wool and leather plackets sticky with sweat and hidden fear staying only for a moment then fleeing into bravado for sake of freedom

Air heavily perfumed with the sickly sweetness of eluded hygiene and day’s old mud clumping together as if safer in numbers and heft

Long honed hard cold steely bayonets brush against icy bark cracking off limbs tripping breech loaders temporarily out of the arms of babes into battle bombardment

Windows of widowed souls left watching from afar from behind ratty lace curtains as the boys dart and dash from beneath matted hair scanning the hillsides for any brief encounter with sanctuary for just awhile

Barking marches ordered under guise of peace all the while tearing them to pieces boasting colonels act as braggarts often must do, bullying valor to stand at attention with intent masterfully trained untarnished standing their ground righteously relentless

Pining for days gone by, these young bucks, for the recent past of warm hearth homesteads, motherly touch and hot home cooked meals

Now, the young wide-eyed innocents take direction unquestioning authority for a cause

Humanity quickly stripped stark and bare stippling into piles as the stench of burning hair and flesh rises up through the air thick and heavy trampled under foot

These young bucks brawny beyond belief committed to the cause of their uniformity although you would never know it by the look in their eyes

With peaches and cream on freckled faces still plump with baby fat they yelp a rebel yell and descend into their innocence lost

It seems to them that it was only yesterday they surveyed the family acreage scattering crows from off the corn harvest under the pie-eyed moon

Pyramids of hay bales lay curing on the fields hiding needles and swooning ladies with button down shoes and small brimmed feathered hats

Or perhaps they were just herding cattle coaxing a lone rogue calf back to the barn after a lazy grazing day and crossing rivers but, nay, this fresh hell was reality now

After the smoke and dust settle circling carrions on high exposing their hungry underbellies and soot black wings intent upon

Yonder pile of boys, buttons, boots and bloodied uniforms lay refuse to get up ever again

Truth of the matter is life has been disposed like rubbish in hoards

Handcuffed to honor, death hangs thick and heavy on these hills

All for the sake of freedom

The dogs of war handed their lives to them only it was on a tarnished platter

Duty, honor love and war do indeed have costly price few choose to pay readily

Lives short-lived in the name of life

Because of boys to men we have this day

Ours is ours to live on and on

Because of them, that is,

Yet for many, that was their last, they have no more days

We owe homage to those boys of honor; they became men for us

We are free to live our lives because they gave up theirs’

We indeed have freedom but aye, at what cost?

Truth of the Matter

…not to the point of rejecting her own…

Epiphany ensues enigmatically
Truth of the matter
She,
the other she
not the me she,
is the one
not to be trusted
with regards to
Truth of the matter
All this time
Wasted
Accusing
Pointed finger of projection with three right back in her face
Rejecting my light
and the real
Truth of the matter
Of what’s the matter
With all her woeful cries
and cruel queries of
what-have-you-done-nows
and
why’d-you-say-that-like-that
stems from her inside
ancient paradigms
of who she is
And who she isn’t
And where she stands
And how she walks
Not seeing
Truth of the matter
With eyes wide shut
Blind to her own
Truth of the matter
Projecting her
Fears of unworthiness
Twisted gnarled roots
of her withering vine
Choking to a crisp
Attempting denial of
Truth of the matter
She demands
obedience implicit
from others whilst doubting
Truth of the matter
She sits in the hot seat of her own judge and jury
To decipher dialectically
this that and the other ever so slowly oozing
like poisonous treacle
onto a budding bloom
browning the glorious edges of all delicate decency
Attempting to clarify,
Demean and deny
Truth of the matter
Carrying on with fisted glove
Choking the gilded rose flailing and winding twisting wildly out towards others
Thorns and all
Facing not the fears that unravel in her own gut wrenching
Truth of the matter
Her own worst enemy in discovering she has but the most minuscule of
personal trust in herself
In her own truth of
what’s the matter
With her own
Truth of the matter
Affecting full compass
due magnetic north
of her sinking heart
the true
Truth of the matter.
She matters, yes.
Truth is
(And this matters)
Not to point of
rejecting my own
Truth of the matter.

The Last Act

…he will trample you until you enjoy it…

along shores of ancient woods where fairies dare not tread and rambling rivers merge a high hot wind circles the tent like a noose

a black rabbit flies out of a hat on the wrong cue coaxing two ravens out beneath a long black cape screaming like Valkyries into startled crowd

the magician pretends this a part of the act his weathered honed bony finger distracting towards the skies like electric pinwheels in dark dry air as hairs on your neck stand up

the poles pull muslin taut and loose again snapping like a whip arousing your interest as winds whisper into a howl calling out the magician’s true moniker – Odin

for an instant, his eyes catch yours paralyzing you and you know the jig is up, concede to his unwavering gaze you must; there is no other way to survive his wrath but to submit

he has never been more daring…….racked in chains and padlocks submerging into deep dark water bubbles lifting to the surface writhing to get free you are hooked into his war

his iron clad chains emerge from just below the surface raising his body unblemished as you realize his fury in the wave as the crowd reaches a frenzied state beyond reproach

Someone from the back of the tent cries “FIRE!!” as the pyre sets ablaze he remains still…….. Valhalla is calling this warrior home and you are but his royal ancestral sacrifice

there are no survivors; he will be with you always calling you by your true name

he is the shadow of your fears, bad debt, the deafening silence at the end of the phone

he is the glass slipper, the loom, the thorny red rose, the terrors of your night

he is the mirror on the wall cracking with unsettling truth

he is the horse hoof with iron foot and he will trample you until you enjoy it

 

he is the unspeakable and the only language you will ever understand

White Witch

…so familiar this battle with darkness…


Casting spells

into the belly of the hill

on bristly dragon charred broom

shifting shadow selves aside

as wet leaves stick up

in momentary protest

of dark disturbance

her gaze focused diverting deeper

into the canyon’s crags

those damn worms

in her brain rearing

had camped for

far too long deeply rooted

as she began emerging

once again unease settles in

so familiar, she thought,

this battle with darkness.

Find the lullaby

Find the lair of serenity

Find the lesson

Find the light

Bit by bit

Epiphany hit

it has all been about

Finding

Family

Pins and Needles

…she could feel herself emerging transcendant…

With timid breaths awakening she eases precarious legs

twisted like fiery flywheels pining for borderline gait

arms nearly ready to once more hug again in unison with her heart

when not so long ago laden with plaster purple thick and pin burdened

digging sluggishly exposing the rawness of her skin

Feline warmth times two nestled into the downy swirl of quilted breathing

a steadiness slowly emerges calming her savaged fragile shell

Reaching down with her good hand touching fur

she realizes recapitulation in this recuperation

this

is

life

triumphant

Where once

in not so distant past

her security within her own body eluded her

by eyes of needles and tingling threads

inserted deeply into bone

clawing chewing at her insides like hungry belly bulging rats

She could almost feel whole again

Torn and mending flesh scars prove evidence of her survival

eyelids a bit blurry heavy with taunting weighted tears

still she saw past the bed covers’ downy horizon

despite tossing about twisted from last night’s terrors and dreams

Just this side of being on the outside her window she watches impatiently still

undulating branches bring back reality with the weight of woodpeckers as

ancient redwoods keep sentry saluting her moxie every which way with wonder

she marveled at the glow of how amazing this day actually is

in its simplicity in its testimony to life’s perpetuation in perseverance

Part of it all, she realized, she was part of all of this earthly world

her body may be broken but her spirit remains bright

though a once solid foundation beneath her cracked and split

she could feel herself emerging transcendant

Where once quicksand sucked at her into a vortex

she was rising above the not-so-sweet treacle and brimstone grind

she found herself wittingly able to pull herself onto the rolling chair

take it for a spin knowing she would once again dance like before freedom fell

Easier this then on that blessed day, horrah-horray for this vessel’s cracks, she cried

for in those cracks she found the light more easily welcomed