Ode to Mrs Slovenly....
Mr ScratchyRainbow hues brushed asideDark thoughts furtively enticingExalt;'Enbrace me!'Damp sheetsVeil conscious thought,dappled vigin lightRecessed shadows running tandemContradict the here and now.Waking dreams leach my willDumped almost lifeless on the floor,pillowsScattered,comfort lost.Struggling weakly to my kneesTender,gravel peppered palmsEnrage.Anger swells my tongue asCarrion creatures jostleExcitement builds,theyScreech and peck in mountingFrenzy.Bruised and bloodiedAccepting of my fateDull ringing echoes,skullBludgeoned from inside:Then.Silence.Intensly bright,white paperCauterizes emotion,staringBlankly i paint myself aMask and call himMr. Scratchy.His long armsFlailing awkwardly,knots in stringPropel the ungainly-Unbalanced as i am by you,Buried somewhere inside meToying with my metal plated heart,iStruggle,shove you hard'Back in your box!'Naughty Twinkle Toes.Valiantly,down the yearsAttrition was your sword,randomVictories grudgingly acknowleged
i. my little pigeon,you walk the line betweenreality and imagination, strayinginto the unknown and bringingback little pieces of wonderwith you when you return.ink drips from your fingers asyou smear words onto pages,breathing life into stiff piecesof paper torn from your notebook.coffee may be where i foundmy home, but it's tea that runsthrough my veins. i could braidyour hair for hours, letting the silkystrands run through my fingers likeyour words run through my heart.we can walk into the sunrise together,holding hands and laughing. i will sharethe sunsets i hold in my tiny palms,and you can share the stories you lockin your heart. i want to travel the worldwith you, pointing out the little quirksthat make up people and stumblinginto adventures behind little shopsand backwards alley ways. i hopeyou remember your handkerchief,or we might end up flying there andback again in the blink of an eye.
Call it Fallthere's a soft kiss ofmedium-rare sunlightin the barelybroken bonesof this October dayjust warm enoughto think that summermay have stasheda day or twoin our pocketsbut each tomorrowreminds us morethat it didn'tthat this autumnknows little lifeoutside its barrelof choking appleswhere yellowjacketsbore, conquer and,still sweet,curl into a coolslow sleepof frozen dreamspaused in dawn'sblanket of frostthese short daysunder long nightscount down toa new beginningof the enda dark springof bright blushand angerthat will burn this forestnot down, but nakedand we call it Fallas if there's a misstepor slip involvedas if we make a choiceor skip the chanceto not veerfrom daylight's trailonto these our printsso well worn and re-worninto timetwo human sets enterand where it goesfrom theregets lost in thecrunch of leavesbeneath usour moon stays lowgiving trees new lifeand wind carries crieslike song, for miles
decodei pinedunequivocallyfor the quillin soft shadows:the swallow's smileand toothyflightthe curveof treebowsrotting-freshto planta buduphigh andhemlocking-mebetween a dreamand sleepand sleepand sleepyou musn't worryI have foundan ink-sourcethus:a quibblingcreek -my soul!It willblossomlike poppieson the pagebefore me,myfingertipthe pen
ten.why don't we sit underthe hangmans noose;contemplate lifefor a bit.watch the crows hustle aroundthesefrayed ropes, and listen to thewind rustle dirt'sleaves.there's a cool breeze comingthrough,almost too cold, its...bitter.so let's just walk away and seek thewarmthunder these charcoalfeathers.[its a comforting feeling to have life, anddeath in your control. ]
people don't listen (you've just too much to say)we fell asleep in hotel rooms filled with stars, the leaky faucet in the kitchenette dripping galaxiesinto oblivion. they might have faded by the morning, butthey were beautiful while theylasted, drifting inand out of f o c u s with the ebbingof a neon-light tide -it reminded me that beautyfades with ageno matter how brightyou may shine . (black holes are so cliche, but they're some kind of nothing made from something and that's beautiful enough for me)
Think on PapaThe crickets breathe softin the dampened leaves,and the wind smells of winter(but only under the moon.)Nights like these make me thinkon Papa.(We would climb into the minivan,the air would smell this wayas I turned to see his silhouetteat the window,reading in his plaid armchairwith the paper in his lap.)Odd memories.Not what I think I'msupposed to associatewith late grandfathers,but I find myself yearningto drive to his headstoneand whisper to his ashes,thatturkey smelled better in his kitchen,a spice we didn't have perhaps.Every broom resembles his mustache,and I read misheard lyrics in his voice.Second-hand stories are sustenance to his memory,humorous annotations to mydictionary definition of his person--Papa (n.)Dad's father--deceased, 2004. (Heart disease)Made you hotdogs and mixed fruit cups,(in which you lost your first tooth)sometimes noodles with butter and cheese.thought the mole on your face was chocolate (twice.)Sneezed louder than the engi