tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71874700880625608882024-03-05T08:39:57.928-08:00Rather CluelessShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-78064686290105679412013-02-05T18:51:00.003-08:002013-02-05T18:51:48.151-08:00Without Wordsas so often I am<br />
my hands scritching at the pen<br />
my lips twitching at the mouth<br />
but words are scarce<br />
and meaning more so<br />
in the face of so muchShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-41929248615976836262012-10-18T21:55:00.000-07:002012-10-18T21:58:58.128-07:00Undressed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9b61_a1liZiQrgOfTVcv2hhjPj38I5lTT0MjzFNf1H4ZFShL_6-CHRZD1Q4XC_GFYULLRD1Qd9Wk37lHchnStnvGAHUrVHREIxhe0-FPnebz0WBXzeCIK5HklJXRj5FMUISYu4eZHTZ8/s1600/Window_shopping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9b61_a1liZiQrgOfTVcv2hhjPj38I5lTT0MjzFNf1H4ZFShL_6-CHRZD1Q4XC_GFYULLRD1Qd9Wk37lHchnStnvGAHUrVHREIxhe0-FPnebz0WBXzeCIK5HklJXRj5FMUISYu4eZHTZ8/s400/Window_shopping.jpg" width="313" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I can't give in<br />
you know?<br />
Even though it draws my gaze<br />
ever so poetically<br />
to the window.<br />
<br />
To invest the sparsely collected earnings<br />
from my tired errand<br />
on a dress so fiercely pinned to the mannequin<br />
would unravel my eyes<br />
and there is no seamstress left<br />
to reward my hem with a thimble.<br />
<br />
I tried to tear it free once<br />
twice<br />
maybe more<br />
but all I succeeded in doing<br />
was misshape a garment that was lovely<br />
before my greed<br />
and leave my heart-stain<br />
spattered between the two of us.<br />
<br />
In the dressing room<br />
one beautiful autumn evening<br />
I slipped in on<br />
felt it collect in my folds<br />
as if the fabric were I,<br />
but I never got to take it home.<br />
<br />
I suppose there was a theft I could have made<br />
but we know<br />
<i>all us women know</i><br />
the mirror is tweaked towards flattery<br />
and the lighting is complimentary.<br />
The living room mirror<br />
is the true test...<br />
that dance we do before it<br />
for however long it takes to know<br />
the dress fits like a glove.<br />
<br />
I effort now<br />
towards a circuitous route<br />
that takes me past the dairy, the laundromat<br />
the Rexall, and the 5&Dime.<br />
But every now and then<br />
I wind up on Third Avenue<br />
my breath against the glass of that dress.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-86125662203907201102012-09-28T22:40:00.002-07:002013-04-10T19:39:29.733-07:00ConjectureDo you ever wonder what we would be<br />
if your life hadn't choked you...<br />
leashed your neck in a way you felt was irreversible?<br />
<br />
Would we be lying cheek to cheek<br />
hands locked and laced<br />
while our desires ran the race track<br />
quickening.<br />
<br />
Would we have pummeled each other bloody,<br />
to either beat a hasty retreat<br />
or realized we were both vampires?<br />
<br />
Would we be amazed at the level of intimacy achieved<br />
or disgusted by the fantasy we created<br />
only to find it as unrealistic as Hugh and his bunnies?<br />
<br />
I guess we will never know.<br />
<br />
That's the part the destroys me<br />
or doesn't...<br />
even that,<br />
having no accessible score.<br />
<br />
Just conjecture.ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-50697311137662000362012-07-28T22:48:00.002-07:002012-07-29T06:56:44.476-07:00Premature OfferingWhy do I miss you so much<br />
when the sun is filtering through<br />
grape vines that we used to dance through<br />
as if we were flesh?<br />
<br />
Why did you offer yourself up<br />
as the lamb<br />
to all my sacrifice?<br />
Why did I?<br />
We were so blemished.<br />
<br />
I ran the vines tonight in my shoeless feet<br />
and the dirt was softer than sand<br />
so much so<br />
I floated on it. I swear I did!<br />
The moon rose, and the sun set<br />
simultaneously! It was beautiful.<br />
At least it would have been<br />
if you had seen it.<br />
<br />
That woman from across the continent...<br />
she should have been you<br />
but she wasn't<br />
so she sang your heart instead<br />
and it came to me on a westward wind.<br />
<br />
I felt you<br />
sort of.<br />
I wanted your arms.<br />
I needed them more.ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-32459127361919316812012-06-23T14:30:00.003-07:002012-07-01T08:49:35.503-07:00Behind The CurtainI think that’s what you did.<br />
You pulled back the curtain and I saw the next layer<br />
maybe the universe beyond that.<br />
<br />
Was it you or I, believing<br />
that I could draw the drape,<br />
shut my eyes<br />
and not feel my hearts wanderlust?<br />
<br />
Such is a futile exercise<br />
I have engaged like an occupation.<br />
At first I was glad for the job.<br />
Something to do. If there is a doing thing<br />
then there is an undoing possible,<br />
an erasure of the new errand<br />
my soul convulses with.<br />
<br />
I was fascinated.<br />
You were delightful<br />
and I sometimes wonder if I shall wake<br />
knowing it the concoction of a dream.<br />
But my dreams die quickly in the morning light<br />
and this has been a slow death,<br />
returning with the lunar consistency<br />
of the living dead.<br />
<br />
I am the watch tower<br />
that waits within the definition of insanity<br />
and when the immortal appears<br />
I feel sane.ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-19343697394313574762012-05-11T21:37:00.000-07:002012-05-11T21:37:15.170-07:00An Incoming MomentI recognized the look<br />
two wool coats<br />
scratching backs in the foxhole,<br />
her ringless hands around the barrel of her want<br />
your eyes scanning for incoming hurts.<br />
<br />
I waved goodbye without touch<br />
a casual passerby within a marriage<br />
and wondered what it meant<br />
to see this woman fighting wars with my husband.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-41769107483811466642012-04-12T19:33:00.000-07:002012-04-12T19:33:52.039-07:00MedicinalI wrote this down<br />
to digest later, in incremental pills of nutrition or arsenic.<br />
<br />
I know not which<br />
or in what order<br />
or if I shall outlive either one.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-4441137294859457112012-04-12T19:26:00.000-07:002012-04-12T19:26:09.887-07:00MenuA vestibule...a syphon<br />
and all that falls into the mouth of its hunger<br />
will be the fruit of some foreign union.<br />
<br />
What we feed upon<br />
is rarely the meal we ordered.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-15248137141807004472012-03-23T17:49:00.000-07:002012-03-23T17:49:47.396-07:00Stuck Betweena dog barks<br />
and you don't even realize<br />
your leg lifts<br />
as if the noise were your true North<br />
and your leg nothing but the rising of dawn<br />
as it always was<br />
meant<br />
<br />
the entrance of the sun<br />
into a darkness you have assimilated<br />
as the beginning of each day<br />
<br />
what can you do with a sun<br />
you cannot capture?<br />
<br />
You shield your eyes.ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-68383031798313463802012-03-14T16:34:00.000-07:002012-03-14T16:34:52.545-07:00Wake up and smell the coffee...Between heavy lid<br />
and the clench against dawn<br />
there is the scent<br />
of something waking<br />
from denial<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-50868470515917030772012-03-06T20:03:00.000-08:002012-03-06T20:03:57.997-08:00This year has been a silent film<br />
emotions flickering and exaggerated<br />
for lack of a voice.<br />
<br />
I've run them through the centrifuge<br />
and separated the head from the heart<br />
the will from the way<br />
the duty from the will<br />
and found myself wanting, as for years now<br />
I have<br />
<br />
Are you coming around?<br />
Can you see beyond all that we crafted<br />
to all that was meant?<br />
<br />
There is a shadow<br />
long and gray as a nameless street through my responsibility<br />
it limps along on three wheels<br />
only one of which is inducted.<br />
<br />
That wheel keeps turning<br />
strong and dedicated as ever<br />
and for that, we go in circles.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-43541288020096763802012-03-05T19:41:00.000-08:002012-03-05T19:41:28.896-08:00SanctityHe said,<br />
"I could be your friend"<br />
and the emotions ran like a faucet<br />
too heavy with the labour of it's waters.<br />
<br />
I suppose this weight is necessary,<br />
otherwise relationships would be the castoff hankies<br />
of the first shed tear.<br />
And so we hang on, for each other<br />
for the sanctity of it all.<br />
<br />
Shit.<br />
I never was sanctimonious.<br />
But I sure tried.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-58047939945964740152012-03-01T22:06:00.000-08:002012-03-01T22:06:11.997-08:00InabilityIf I could turn a dime towards the sun<br />
I would.<br />
<br />
But you see,<br />
I have no hands,<br />
and we've lost face.ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-3091893747778672672011-10-07T14:28:00.000-07:002011-10-07T14:28:40.931-07:00Yellow<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">Ever notice how yellow is a gathering color?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">It doesn't stand alone</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">but clusters together</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">fields of mustard</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">as if</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">it has a cumulative desire</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">to trump the sun.</span></div>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-4083632591344832462011-10-07T14:26:00.000-07:002011-10-07T14:26:59.393-07:00Winged<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">I am sparrow</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">claw clutching edges</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">of poetry and prose</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">little evidence</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">that the hard work of soul</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">is in flight</span></div>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-47451093856935900002011-10-07T14:22:00.000-07:002011-10-07T14:22:54.757-07:00Desperate<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">I was sitting with a friend last night who lost her husband to cancer last year. She said that it was almost as if 2010 never happened, or it was ages ago. And now, almost twelve months later, she is saying she is no longer numb, and the grieving even more desperate. And I want to tell her it will end, but we both know it would be a lie. We grieve, we die, we are reborn every day. There are moments when we are living, and dead moments when our blood is turning to alcohol beneath six feet of earth and the beetles are feeding off it, drunk and inappropriate. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">No hands, no retreat, no return. Only a continual going out from our shoal, arms out, belly up...bloated and burnt. Then you lift me, with your sweat and love, desperate even in that. Desperate for that. True gifts indeed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-20158350549405484582011-10-05T15:03:00.001-07:002012-08-27T15:45:24.198-07:00She Took Me With Her<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOXtXOslaxOSxYg140l13IeZMdajOUrRmBslP_9Nb4c-NTW6V9kNbXzqU8b9952kHX4ZaKlmbAA88_6AoAmAWb1i71GsN-maUm991yW-9CTNQImmIghIV254X2ZNmm2C5I8TU3iN5CSA/s1600/Park.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOXtXOslaxOSxYg140l13IeZMdajOUrRmBslP_9Nb4c-NTW6V9kNbXzqU8b9952kHX4ZaKlmbAA88_6AoAmAWb1i71GsN-maUm991yW-9CTNQImmIghIV254X2ZNmm2C5I8TU3iN5CSA/s400/Park.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div>"When she went, last night,<br />
She threw closed a<br />
Thousand doors and<br />
And a phone lay crushed on the floor<br />
<br />
It was a fire, big and wild<br />
Of another's wood<br />
That scorched, not warmed<br />
And only a river of tears<br />
Might put it to shame<br />
<br />
She hushed me quiet<br />
As she opened her window,<br />
That i might see<br />
A clenched passage</div><br />
<div>Unavoidable</div><br />
We didn't speak<br />
Or hold hands as<br />
She guided me<br />
To where her innocense<br />
Had been sacrificed anew<br />
<br />
In her hands of a child<br />
She carried a sack of burnt offerings<br />
<br />
I watched as they squirmed<br />
And writhed to escape<br />
Or perhaps, fight escape of<br />
A resolve they underestimated<br />
<br />
As silently I shadowed<br />
And her child's fingers fisted,<br />
The sun withdrew knowing<br />
It had no place here<br />
<br />
She sat me on a bench<br />
And looked away as<br />
She settled beside<br />
My torn shell of helplessness<br />
<br />
Then it began,<br />
Just a tear, then a stream<br />
Finally a river<br />
As one by one<br />
The bag was emptied.<br />
She cried too<br />
<br />
<div>Purge,<br />
First a history<br />
That should never<br />
Have been written,<br />
Then a guilt, mindless<br />
Of compassion </div><br />
<div>Next,<br />
A horde of miscreants<br />
Masquerading as love<br />
<br />
Brothers, so called<br />
That might have sheltered<br />
But instead hid beneath her,<br />
And a sister that might have loved<br />
If only she knew how</div><br />
<div>Efforts,<br />
To fix, explain-conceal<br />
Music<br />
That fell just one note short<br />
Of true healing<br />
And two wine glasses<br />
That lied about forget</div><br />
<div>And finally,<br />
Mothers<br />
That never were<br />
And weak, foolish fathers<br />
Who never could be</div><br />
<div>And when at last </div><div>the bag was empty,<br />
Swept away<br />
In the dirty flood,<br />
Then she took my hand<br />
<br />
And it was no longer<br />
A child's frightened squeeze<br />
But rather the tender hold<br />
Of a beautiful woman<br />
Who would no longer</div><div>Carry other people's trash</div><div>To the curb</div><div></div><br />
<div>Then close, she let me draw her</div><div>as I kissed away her tears,</div><div>And her sweet face</div><div>Found my shoulder.</div><br />
<div>She let me hold her</div><div>Having learned her hurt</div><div>And she taught me love, again</div><div></div><div>The way it should be.</div><div></div><br />
<div>And when </div><div>There was no more to do</div><div></div><div>No more to cry</div><div>No reason to linger</div><div></div><div>-She let me walk her home</div><br />
<div></div><div>I liked that she took me</div><br />
<div>I like that we held</div><br />
<div>I like that love still lived</div><div>In a home of broken windows</div><div>And dirty linen </div><div>Where rats rule the cupboard</div><div></div><br />
<div>But I hate that her heart had to shatter</div><div>Once more</div><div>As purchase for me to learn</div><div>That her love is unbreakable" - 9/15/11</div>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-17826911065891270212011-10-04T16:13:00.000-07:002011-10-04T16:13:10.994-07:00*Sigh*On the edge of all I know<br />
I am brilliant<br />
clearly<br />
the things I fight against<br />
are truths that wish to be known<br />
<br />
And yet<br />
all I can do is live what I know<br />
as today<br />
and acknowledge<br />
that I am fucked, either way.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-69381515504696003182011-09-22T09:22:00.000-07:002011-09-22T09:22:28.427-07:00the things we do against all we can't<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
It's 5:00 AM, I'm on my bike beneath a teenage moon that's still wide awake from a night of heavy partying. His eyes blink drunkenly as I follow the beam of my narrow headlight. If he wasn't so hung over, he'd be doing a better job, or at least give way to day. But the sun will hurt his eyes, and he's in no hurry whatsoever to fall behind the world.<br />
<br />
I pedal to the coffee shop with my goosebumps on full alert to the temperature of night. I stand at the counter, rub my eyes. "Decaf." She looks at me askance and I shrug. I take the long way home...stopping to window shop and sip the cinnamon off the surface of my Java. When I get back to the house I tuck myself away in the backyard...book of poetry, a flashlight, my warm mug. The moon yawns and slips just a bit...just enough that the world becomes silhouette, and I nothing but another black mark against the skyline.<br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-78032623919809737082011-09-15T14:35:00.000-07:002011-09-15T15:09:57.025-07:00Easy OutOmmission has a backward ease to it<br />
<br />
you can't return<br />
to the forgotten<br />
once your footsteps<br />
have hardened in clay<br />
<br />
so we shrug<br />
<br />
there's no power over yesterday<br />
today<br />
and no ruse to circumvent<br />
error<br />
<br />
Let us lie<br />
at the intersection<br />
of our parallels<br />
<br />
(poem response to a 3 Word Wednesday poem. Photo showed construction of two bridges that ran into each other.)ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-40521903595275621652011-09-12T08:19:00.000-07:002011-09-12T08:19:41.232-07:00All ArmsIt's like we're legg-less<br />
crawling up each other...<br />
all bicep<br />
shoulders screaming<br />
<br />
the only ease<br />
seemed surrender<br />
on one side or the other<br />
and strangely, I've white flagged 'em both<br />
<br />
But ease never carried much promise<br />
<br />
I live my life like a war<br />
and each day a battle.<br />
These arms have always been my strength.<br />
Coaches would tell me to kick<br />
<em>kick kick kick</em><br />
but I let my arms do all the work<br />
'cuz I never really had a leg to stand on<br />
<br />
I know this...<br />
they keep holding on<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
(L&L - Was a little drunk when I wrote this)<br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-3120644988765037842011-09-07T10:09:00.000-07:002011-09-07T10:09:24.377-07:00Sparks<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and when she lit him on fire it was like the fourth of July. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He hopped around like Brer Rabbit on caffeine</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">colored sparks coming from his ass. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She should have been horrified, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">or at least worried</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but she hadn't the skin for it...worn as her sediments were. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">(response to "what you got?" That's all I had. At the moment. Just sayin')</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial Narrow;">.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial Narrow;">.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial Narrow;">.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial Narrow;">.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-92231164843833517632011-08-30T10:08:00.000-07:002011-08-30T10:10:15.896-07:00Heal Thyself?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial;">The fact of the matter is, we all try to heal ourselves. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial;">You are gauze, he is tape, she is stitches...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial;">we take. we take. sadly. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial;">But (and here we've come round again) we bleed out, and need attention. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial;">It hurts to be the healer</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial;">It hurts to be the sick</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial;">and we've all been our share of both. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial;">So empathy will be our bandage...and a modicum of mercy.<br />
<br />
I have been the child with the cancerous childhood. I still attempt the surgical removal of every tumor. I have no blade. I grab your hand and poise it to slice. It's just the way of things. But I love you no less for it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: white; font-size: x-small;">(comment to a post)</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-36377601678710436822011-08-26T09:12:00.000-07:002011-08-26T09:12:44.822-07:00PhotographI laid it in the sun<br />
exposed<br />
perhaps to watch it fade, or to highlight it...<br />
I'm never sure<br />
but I clip it to the post in the yard every day<br />
watch the light do a slow roll across our faces<br />
in no damn hurry at all.<br />
<br />
It seems as vivid as ever<br />
all that weather, yet still saturated with the hues of love and denial<br />
<br />
I think the color releases only in pace with my eyes<br />
and when they see their last<br />
the sun bleached photo will take flight<br />
a graveside dove.<br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d;">.</span><br />
ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7187470088062560888.post-40828452283803814122011-08-26T08:58:00.000-07:002011-08-26T08:58:54.081-07:00The Collector<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think one of the greatest things we do for each other "in here" is witness. Without judgment or even opinion at times, we witness each other in the minutia that gets missed. So much goes on between our ears, the unspoken growth and death that our fingers scream about on the page. We witness these things and press their petals into our scrapbooks. It's important to be so heard, and collected.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;">(blog post response)</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial Narrow;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial Narrow;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial Narrow;">.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Arial Narrow;">.</span></div>ShoeBoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12510067807604049574noreply@blogger.com2