I want to hear a snatch of all the songs ever sung. The gong of all the bells ever rung. I want to see, smell, taste the flowing rains that have spattered on the canvas tops of wagons and the oaken decks of rolling ships. Please give me but a while longer before we lay... Continue Reading →
Why’d I dream of Skinnygirl?She was hardened,with wise eyes and a smile for sale.In our yappy group,standing in the drizzle,we fussed and discussed,looking to trust.But she stood out,most quiet and calm.Our magic Ellie.Her pounds were 98.6Our linchpin,our Skinnygirl.
What sievewill distill a dream?A thing of momentintimated,but confoundedby dictionary devils.Enticing in its grey distance,alluring in its apple wholeness,it follows like a moon.One wakesto the knives of morning,mourning the loss of the thing.Struck dumb,as it were.
It's a bitter little thing. As I bid it adieu and sent it on its way, it spun a smoky path, bloodying the bystanders. Finding no hosts, and diminished in the seeking, on it travelled, parasitic in its contagion.
Make cuts carefully, in concealable places, so as not to be known as an attention whore. Bundled in fives, as at Shawshank. You and I know that it's better than a serious spanking. That it's our punishment, our atonement, for speaking with the Devil.
I cry inside. I see the sky in robin’s egg blue. Things of old have turned to gold, unglittering. An alchemy, an accretion, to life’s masterpiece. I fear I’m being asked to sign my name. There are nodding heads, prayerful hands. But, layered sheets of sleep settle upon me. Soon.
A Dream of Life by Karen Kleis, flickr
He took your lives, Colette and Barbara from Iowa, a place smelling of milkfat and hay, where your Mama was looking for you, and he buried you in a shallow grave in Port St. Lucie. Nightly a priest performs an exorcism of the Devil Tree where your souls haunt Florida.
Mister Macho, I'm not after your attention, nor will I give you mine. Don't mistake me for a doormat. I know about theatrics, and I have a long fuse. Attack my kin or my friend, and I will call you out. It's not bravado. Just old age that doesn't care no more. Throw that punch.... Continue Reading →
The girl had rosy-appled cheekbones, soul-grown by those blossoming blue eyes. As she looked up at the streetlit snow, she shone amid the crowd of parade watchers. The slight smile of her small mouth made me feel as if it were mine to see, and mine alone, this time.
Be not offended If I don’t remember what you told me. Or if I tell you something for the second or third time. I need a good defragging, And, now that we are all homebodies, It’s excusable to forget what day it is. The names we pin, The borders we mark On borrowed continents.