golden mill

My hands reach up high, past her thighs and along the sides of each breast. She purses her lips, as if to say something in a whispered voice, but never speaks. Her eyes close, in pleasure and pain, and in that moment I am her lover. They say she once was queen- wrapped in scarlet with tassels at her feet.

She is flat now on her back, still, like a dead fish out of water, and her legs, like lures, dangle aimlessly about. Her hair, a pale amber, has soiled the satin sheets, while pools of crimson gather at each nostril, filling her folded skin. But once she was queen- with butter cream curls and a gait to woo the paupers.

Time has taken its want, though, and her body now lies vacant. Lifting each leg, exposing her warmth, I cradle tight her toes and swaddle her pain and my own. And like a screaming infant, gasping for breath, life begins again.

She calls to me like a daughter, and I answer in song to ease her lonely nights. And in the morning when I wake her, her pain's beside her, and once again I reach past her thighs, and up near each breast, and in that moment I am her lover.

home

And when I shall cross through those pearly white gates, no more shall I suffer, no more shall I wait. They'll size me and find me a gown of great glory and onto my back they'll finish the story.

My wings will stretch low and stretch o'er the streets, like a blanketed bed wrapped in satin white sheets. I'll soar through the night piercing death and it's sting, charting clouds, riding comets, in search of the king. And donning new bones, hair down to my toes, with dress silky lace, a shield to my face. Strung pearls 'neath my chin, and locked round my heart, the king I will wed and ne'er depart.

And cheeks full of rose and lips honeydew, sorrow be vanquished and death be slew. The starving will feed and the lame be freed, will soar o'er the land, a colorful band. Of my land and yours, of this tribe and that, warding off those of the deafening clan.

To live on those streets and fly through those trees, like bees, honeybees, come sweetness, come life.

dry bones

For lunch, I consumed too much. The cooks made some sort of snazzy Ellio's pizza. At least the mushrooms atop the cheese made consuming the crap (that it was) worth it. And I say crap because, nutritionally, it was no good for me- not crap in a snooty way. Because I think of the clay disks the mothers in Haiti are serving their sons and daughters and that makes me sad and makes me ill.

But for some reason I live in a town with multiple grocery stores and I have a bank account with my name on it. I have a wooden front door with a peep hole and deadbolt, and even a bed full of down and warmth. A fridge, overflowing with food, and a medicine cabinet full of remedy. I own multiple jackets and numerous shoes and my closets are full of things like cameras, quilts and even extra bedding.

But in my heart, deep down, I wrestle with all my stuff- all the demons that whisper. I gaze 'round the cluttered walls and covered floors of my apartment and know that I am not worthy to possess such wealth, such lifestyle.

I don't desire a body of lace and ruffles. Not to be clothed with frill and rape me of my frock. The lines on my face and the freckles spattered about- they are just skin, colors, temporal. My hair falls out, more and more, every day. And this twenty eight year old body will one day rest beneath the earth in soiled grave. And the worms, vermin and creatures beneath will eventually make their way to mine. And this pretty girl will be rotten flesh. A pile of nothing. A stack of bones and a string of pearls.

angels and demons

A creamy, white, sugary substance oozes down the teapot resting atop my desk- almost as if the kettle has burped and vomited the white goo. Kind of like demons, frothing at the mouth, desperate to woo one more.

I miss the way my dog would comfort me when I'd come into the kitchen, slump onto the cool tile floor and begin to weep. He'd hear my soft cries from whatever part of the house he was lying and make his way to mine. Then, beneath me, like an old afghan, he'd catch my tears in his old sagging ears. He couldn't understand the words I uttered. He didn't know who had hurt me or who I had hurt, but he'd sop my pain, all the same, just like water quenching his thirst. And I would carry on, hunched over, damp by my tears and smeared in his drool.

I heard of a war this morning on the radio. The demons and the angels. And sadly, the demons took the lead. A man, in rage, fired at another, and the shot man's daughter saw her father slump to his death. And the blood gushed from his head, like a quiet babbling brook, and the little child, stung by death, hit those demons head on.

The archangel applauded while the onlookers paused, and a flock overhead told of love once said. "Greater is he, and greater he'll be, in the dark hours of death and the bright hours of morn." And echoes were heard throughout all the land, and the creatures screamed out, "death be not shed!" But ripped her he did, with his sash of defeat, and the lamb was then shorn with a deafening bleat. Flesh and white bones, weeping forlorn, the child and the lamb crucified dead.

But Messiah came forth and onto the scene, and spoke to those present, and to those not seen. "My boy and my girl, my son and my own. I, Alpha Omega, hear all but one plea. Now come to my side and drink of my wine. Taste and but see, 'twas broken for thee. Now dine in my love and drink of my river, not to pass by gift or the giver. This chalice I raise, offers life to the dead, a labyrinth of loss will be no more tread."

And when I had stopped, with my bout of great tears, my face shone of mercy and was filled with his ease. Wrapped 'round in thick wool, the naked sheep cries, the child of the father, deceived by his lies. An orphan, a dog, a soon to be liver, this life but a midst, is only a sliver. For tomorrow will dawn, the newness of day, conquering demons and traipsing o'er graves. In victory, white, blinding set sail, onward to heaven, forever prevail!

Ruby

It's been quite a while since I've posted. So I figured today, the day I killed the bird, would be a good time to write.

I told a friend earlier that I had killed a bird. He reminded me of the children. Just after dusk, they'd gather 'round and ask Mama, "Where's Papa? Surely he isn't out still searching for worms?" Sadly, those worms won't be making it to the dinner table. No, that beautiful ruby bird's gone and smashed itself into the pavement. I was reminded of that deadly sin, gluttony, when my tires crushed it's fragile body. Why'd the darn thing have to be so consumed with the rigor mortis roadkill when my death machine of a car happened upon it?

I've had countess close calls prior to today's mournful event, but never, never has the darn bird stayed on the road. Always, at the last second it gloriously chants out, "I'll fly away..." and phew, just in the neck of time, peering out my rear view, I see the bird free in the air and near diminished- a speck to the eye.

But not today. The salmon feathered bird was gnawing away, apparently forgetting it had perched itself on a highly traveled and winding country road, and the bits of whatever it was prying off the pavement must have been that tasty. That tasty that it cost him his life. Think of the children.

But, I'll admit, about four minutes after the deadly encounter, I was sipping on my doppio espresso and had forgotten entirely about my murder. I suppose my chance meeting with gluttony, or perhaps greed, freed my mind from the guilt of my killing. Oh well, tomorrow's another day. And, sadly, there's many a more rubies in the rough.

green and red

a strand of white pearls hangs just above the neckline of my ivory shirt, accentuating the femininity of my neck and jutting bones, and looking in the mirror, i almost pass me by. today in the paper i read about a former classmate of mine who died just a few days ago. 28 and already gone to meet her maker.

death always seems to put things in perspective. i am astounded at how much time i waste thinking of myself, living this life, with my numbered days. it could very well be me that's next in the obituary column. her name was laura too.

there is nothing morbid about the realisation that God alone knows our day of death, our deathday. more so, i believe this is health. if only i could learn of this well being, live this health, rise from these dry bones and be the fisher i was born to be.

there is something glorious about dangling your feet in the cool summer water on a hot summer day. the splintered deck rubs against your thighs and repositioning yourself frequently so as not to sweat yourself stuck, your body burns from the rays. and you cast out a line and hope that the lure goes deep, but only time will tell. the sun blinds you and near hypnotizes you, and soon, the bobber looks there, gone, there, gone. or is it just the sun?

but sooner or later clarity arises. you either have an igloo full of life, or an igloo gone and dead. and i just pray i'm alive when i die.