Angel, do you see me? Angel, do you care? I'm lost. Our bed is empty without your downy wings to nestle in You spread them, but not for me our forest cabin dream morphed into a succubus of clammy night sweats Angel, with autumn leaves in your hair, you were my oak tree muse. but now an empty scrunched pillow hope for us was strangled in your darkening feathers when I fell without you forever
Monthly Archives: January 2022
On Ubix, a billion light-years from earth, lives an issue of blob-like creatures of diverse colors. Because the Ubixians have pea-sized gelatinous brains, they believed their gods cursed the yellow blobs. (no one knew how this rumor began). The greens make up the elite stratum, being considered high-born. The inhabitants are yellow or green on their pink planet, with a million shades between. Yet they developed an elaborate practice of favoring or disfavoring each other depending on their greenish or yellowish hue. They told proverbs that directed their offspring to accept their chromatic lot in life. Parents of globby greens would make annual sacrifices to the Ubixian gods, praying that their offspring would grow up solely to slime with other greens. The gods forbid that a yellow should slide in. Folklore has it the chief god of Ubix visited incognito as one of them. It took on a yellow blob form. The greens and many yellows (those who capitulated to the cultural lies) rejected the yellow appearing god-glob. The cloaked god was both amused and saddened by the blind ignorance of the planet’s occupants. After all, it had produced them as both colors. The olive and yellow officers nabbed the god, who appeared to be just a no-count yellow blob, and squished the yellow ooze out of it until it died. But a god blob can’t stay flat, so it reconstituted itself and went back to its celestial home. Now, if any Ubixian realizes they are both yellow and green at their core–(just like the god-blob), they are ready to molt. These uplifted blobs expand into a new continuation where neither yellow, green, nor any other distinction could isolate them. They are on equal foot stems, connected to the god blob, and precursors of Ubixian cultural insight. 1.3
She was thirty-three with long feathery black and red-dyed hair rail-thin with a long nose my hairstylist used to be called a barber often, you get a five-minute quicky astounded why it now costs twenty bucks tip not included - but she took her time talked about her five kids - clip clip snip her mom isn't exasperated by her anymore - comb clip or her two-month separation from a second husband with issues - clip snip clip her ulcerative colitis she eats and goes often - faster snips (the excessive combing is scraping my scalp to shreds) she passed out at work last week not sleeping and eating tons of ramen noodles - comb comb snip clip snip - sniff Now I'm as old as dirt - probably older than her father but worked up the pluck to offer her my number she refused it politely -- thanked me for the compliment (the noise of my head being vacuumed)
You demanded that I not write about you anymore, but how shall I not sing of a category five hurricane rooting up a cottage home? How shall I not return an eagle's voice to a quivering heart torn to shreds? How shall I not yowl like a freak hit with a silver bullet? Can I be quiet when the mallet-driven stake impales the chest or silent before the face of the cat nibbling off wriggling parts of the mouse before the kill? No, I can't write you. Who were you anyway? -- indeed, not the person I imagined -- more like the widow accommodating its mate before becoming scarfed down as her next naked lunch. I fell for your well-crafted act, not for the puppeteer above the porcelain doll, so how do I not write poetry of my downfall into the horny pit of a polished pretender who assumes this yarn is all about them?
Though standing behind the picture books, I saw you that October night with a ghoulish moon, a glimpse of who as the glass doors opened of a voluptuous figure passing through? The snippet of an online photo couldn't say. Like a scratched-off lottery ticket, the wasted unmatching don't pay. Where did my rising hope dock from? Or you, another narcotic chemistry? The awkward moment wafted away when the lips fit a stellar time your eyes outshone the need for deducing setting an old salt sailor at ease to tease.
The Cheering Flame The Focus of the Seated The Music of unrelenting Prayer The Presence is already here That Silent Light That All-Seeing Face That Rapturous Meditation That draws us to You The Hourglass stalls The Sands are standing still In One eternal Moment The Eyes are blazing still And Now you Know And so do I, And never more the same Gazing at the Flame