Poetry/Prose

From Now On

Photo credit: Mine

Photo credit: Mine “Red Woman” (Salvador Dali’s house in Figueres, Spain, holds this, one of his works)

(This is from a writing prompt, issued through the Write Yourself Alive workshop I am participating in this month–today we were instructed to write a poem without punctuation, then take the words and punctuate them–I have always found the enter key a statement in itself.)

Just give me a chance

to feel you might

lose myself

in your voice

and the workings

of that windmill

channeling air

into water

that drips

into shadowy cracks

of dry bread soils

my soylent green

it’s made out of people

Charlton Heston said

to a wave of high-minded

stoned

seventies fans … of cinema?

back in time

when it wasn’t so good

but now we see

what it was worth

and the sublime

curls its fingers

around now

as I turn again to you

ask if you are ready

for an adventure

of such proportion

that nobody would believe it

if we told them

and we mayn’t even believe

when it starts

so hold onto your hat, they say

if you are, indeed

ready

or not

here I can’t turn away

not just yet

because we need time

to taste this, don’t we

feel it suck away the past

and blow it out the other end

as a field

of frosting-colored flowers

that taste to the eyes

like the childhood sweets

that drove our obsessions

yet nourish our soul

like that last bite of food

our mother murmured

a wish for us to finish

this could be

an endless stream of reasons

that cools every passion

washing life’s driftwood to shore

to start fires that burn

in sequence

forever

this is not an invitation from me

it springs from life itself

and I just can’t hold it back

this advertisement

because we may have always known

every day of disappointment

or a triumph

in those moments

when we would be walking

pause

and scream in silence

“where are you for gods’ sake!”

and whisper

“where are you”

and whimper

sometimes through tears

“where are you”

the one who seeded this desire in us

and made us crazy with a hunger

and rarely panic

that we may not find us

in this lifetime

before peace

in knowing

we would be worth waiting for

a million lifetimes to find

and if this life is just a spec

let us polish our journeys

to recognize each other

someday

so you, here, now

just let me know if …

and maybe

just give me a chance to lose myself

if you did

in fact

I would have to say

next to nothing

from now on

next to nothing

from now on

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Poetry/Prose, Sugar Free

The First Thing (Stream of Consciousness)

Houdini

Houdini

I guess I’m a good writer

Good enough to tell myself stories

 

So many tales

About who I am

Why I do what I do

How it all makes sense

 

After all

It’s all true, isn’t it?

 

But you see

Nobody knows

What you leave out

As a writer

 

A literal escapade

You can’t say it’s a lie

If you didn’t say it

At all

 

But you can

Outsmart yourself

To the point

Of being an idiot

 

These days

I’m tired of

Bored about

Joking around about

My life

 

So I’m tranquilizing a tiger

Sitting my animal down

Writing a memoire

 

And I don’t want to write

A pile of shit

That tries too hard

 

Just stuff

Really true stuff

That whispers to me

From just slightly left

Of ordinary

 

But I see, as I try this

It hurts

Like cutting yourself

 

To go that deep

You can’t pretend

You’re talking

About anyone else

But you

 

The more you denied

While it happened

The deeper it’s buried

The deeper the cut

 

And what comes up

It’s a poison, in reverse

Healing you

But burning you first

 

And you’re going to bottle it

Put a sticker on it

Something smooth, criminal

 

You’re going to

Sell it

Heal other people with it

 

You’re not making a profit

In the way that counts

 

You’ll never get back

What you lost

And they’ll never know

What it really costs

 

First you have to trip through life

In the dark

Fall

Look back, take a note

Continue

Until you have enough

To draw a map

 

And you can finally do it

But as you do

You have to go back

Feel it all again

Confirm the coordinates

 

This time

Holding your own hand

Forgiving yourself

 

Every time you say:

Holy gods

Why didn’t I see?

 

Every time you answer:

So that others could

 

Shadowland cartographer

 

All the impulses

Curling fingers

To the status quo

To the tea kettle

To the web browser

Far away

To another mind

 

Stir up that tiger

To dream of tall grass

Where it can hide

From itself

Live on meat, alone

 

Escape, escape, escape

I’m not Houdini

Or am I?

 

This map

That’s been drawing me

And wants me to see it

For the rest of my life

 

A writer

An authority

 

Until it comes time

To know the first thing

About myself

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