She had left the summer house tucked in the drunken, gaping woods, the one that laughed too hard and thought too much, and didn’t know how the outer begot the inner and reverse and so thusly it was, and walked her way out of the place. Not for good. Probably not at all on the inside, but it’s good to let the house be…see how it rises again in the next sunlight, notice whether any fires start again burning from the stone chimney, and listen from afar, so much until you can really hear the roots of the echoes, the timbre of each word and how it comes to you, and you can see that blessed, orchestrated forest from the relative safety of the outer reaches of the river bank, and wildwood. Leavin’ alone, is not leaving, that’s for true.
Just as the fire blood of the setting sun shed its last hum of quarter beneath the skirt of heaven, she felt something tug on her boot, crunching with the leaves in a way that she knew was not naturally so. There was a tiny folded up piece of paper (not ripped, or crumpled, mind you – folded), stuck to the inside heel. She removed it and kept it as she did most things she found or was meant to find- she tucked it neatly into the left side of her bosom. Safe next to the heart place, which lived out here, well fortified. The sun skipped itself away from the places within and without, the loss of light made her feel full, and she was hoping beyond hope that the little summer house was learning to fill itself up again too, fires, whiskeys, the like…the little bent up paper made her smile, and she decided These words written upon it would be the last words until that time came, the next one you can’t see until you’re flowing in its waves, back and forth and the light returns. A haiku no less. Only these, not hers, could be the last words indeed…for now.
No sober sobber
am I. 'Round gypsy camp fires
I dance drunken tears
M. Lucia
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Wave Goodbye, Now...
So, then. Words. The Skies circumscribed their letters in order, dark velvet crevices punching hard with every last impulse they could summon up. I describe it this way, because I often have a very delectable, and detailed (and heightened) electric view of the sky from down here, where I've been cast several times. The fallen woman, who is raised first so high she cannot but knock her head in those sharp corners round the clouds, teetering on the step stool which has been built and fashioned out of an unmarked love of some sort, which the master builder does not yet understand. This world moves too slow and thick for my taste. But I am repeatedly cast down here all the same. I scratch my cheek against the harsh blade the wind provides, and remember myself as I'm knocked down, into the ground and the lower quarters of the grass, suddenly and clumsily so, just so they can still look up my skirt as I go, jack off to it later and pretend it ain't me they're after. Anyway, I slayed that dragon a long time ago.
There are bigger vistas which don't tell you their whole story which I have to be on about, in this breath, with my best will rising, my most complete portions of energies working, and my skin still sliding up against itself, and against yours. I arrive, 2 minutes early to where I am asked to be, and I am 3 towns to one side of things, gone as fresh as the black night more than a few moments before I am wished away to the back of the mind. Something clicks, and shifts, and moves about my feet as I learn my lesson, for once and for all time. I channel God and light and darkness, and do not run from anything which births itself from me. Absolutely nothing is beyond my scope. I do not have the need to construct a life around and about me, as it is alive no matter what I do, rising in the heat between my legs, in my ears, in your eyes looking at it unfold.
The train's a whistling. I gather together the many books full up with secrets I never asked to hear, and will take care of them, or maybe just scatter their swollen ashes into the nearest sea I can find. I hope the words follow me close behind, but the living that makes them alive is the most important thing. The words will work it out for themselves. And They know where to find me. As for the rest of you, it's been fun. If you ever find yourself down here with scarlet, intelligent, literate and liberated women like me, who know ourselves to be children, gods, molecules rising from failure and the best of ourselves, make sure to look up at those grandly fashioned stars, swirling a story in front of your eyes, down in heat from the sky, asking thee to know thyself, and smile as the black night falls in on you, and say "yes".....
M. Lucia
There are bigger vistas which don't tell you their whole story which I have to be on about, in this breath, with my best will rising, my most complete portions of energies working, and my skin still sliding up against itself, and against yours. I arrive, 2 minutes early to where I am asked to be, and I am 3 towns to one side of things, gone as fresh as the black night more than a few moments before I am wished away to the back of the mind. Something clicks, and shifts, and moves about my feet as I learn my lesson, for once and for all time. I channel God and light and darkness, and do not run from anything which births itself from me. Absolutely nothing is beyond my scope. I do not have the need to construct a life around and about me, as it is alive no matter what I do, rising in the heat between my legs, in my ears, in your eyes looking at it unfold.
The train's a whistling. I gather together the many books full up with secrets I never asked to hear, and will take care of them, or maybe just scatter their swollen ashes into the nearest sea I can find. I hope the words follow me close behind, but the living that makes them alive is the most important thing. The words will work it out for themselves. And They know where to find me. As for the rest of you, it's been fun. If you ever find yourself down here with scarlet, intelligent, literate and liberated women like me, who know ourselves to be children, gods, molecules rising from failure and the best of ourselves, make sure to look up at those grandly fashioned stars, swirling a story in front of your eyes, down in heat from the sky, asking thee to know thyself, and smile as the black night falls in on you, and say "yes".....
M. Lucia
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Grains of Paradise
“I told you, Bushmills is a proddy whiskey and Jameson is a Catholic one”.
“Whiskeys aren’t religious like people”….why do we believe the information we receive?
He told me that, way back when, the brain (not the mind) that knew everything, but broke down far too easily in the silence of its closed in waters. Now, I look like the asshole saying this, just drunk enough to try and remember if there was any backup information to go along with it. People really do say the damnedest things.
I once told a hairy Irishman that, who walked me home only to push me up against the side of the wall at the roundabout of the BQE (the most romantic spot there is, to some) to keep kissing me, his Rottweiler at his side; lumbering, silent and perplexed. The street was lit golden with dim, late night light, and moist air from the water breezing in.
He took himself out of me just in time, and I asked why he’d stopped. He said he wanted to take a precaution, since the obvious precaution wasn’t being taken (and which I hated taking; it’s like playing tennis in oven mitts…no good), and I kept repeating “we don’t have to worry about that with you…” He inquired, and got it again, quiet and oddly superstitious: “we don’t have to worry about that with you”. Later on, he’d come to find out that I didn’t want to be a mother, then and there, nor achieve any other level of dastardly reproductive women doing/chance taking. Bushmills had made me say it. It had made me repeat it, and the back story of the facts in my head which did not mean the phrase spoken or the intent seemingly coming out of that (coming on the sheets below) didn’t make it out of my mouth before something else then made it in. That didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Later on, I laughed and then I ruined it all, again. The dark place, the one coming all over me in dreams chuckled a bit, in a whispered tone to itself, when I thought I was beyond it all. I’m glad to say I nearly am. But, dear Reader, make sure you resurrect any parts of your life wherein you were not living out as yourself – they will form a legion of outbursts and wrongdoing, and find you, in the most inconvenient times, at the most inopportune moments…and they will gently remind you that they are not through with you just yet. Exorcisms aren’t pretty, but our eyes shine clear as Heaven when we make it though to the other side and the darkness falls away, for good and all.
I shouldn’t have trusted a Proddy whiskey from the North.
M. Lucia
“Whiskeys aren’t religious like people”….why do we believe the information we receive?
He told me that, way back when, the brain (not the mind) that knew everything, but broke down far too easily in the silence of its closed in waters. Now, I look like the asshole saying this, just drunk enough to try and remember if there was any backup information to go along with it. People really do say the damnedest things.
I once told a hairy Irishman that, who walked me home only to push me up against the side of the wall at the roundabout of the BQE (the most romantic spot there is, to some) to keep kissing me, his Rottweiler at his side; lumbering, silent and perplexed. The street was lit golden with dim, late night light, and moist air from the water breezing in.
He took himself out of me just in time, and I asked why he’d stopped. He said he wanted to take a precaution, since the obvious precaution wasn’t being taken (and which I hated taking; it’s like playing tennis in oven mitts…no good), and I kept repeating “we don’t have to worry about that with you…” He inquired, and got it again, quiet and oddly superstitious: “we don’t have to worry about that with you”. Later on, he’d come to find out that I didn’t want to be a mother, then and there, nor achieve any other level of dastardly reproductive women doing/chance taking. Bushmills had made me say it. It had made me repeat it, and the back story of the facts in my head which did not mean the phrase spoken or the intent seemingly coming out of that (coming on the sheets below) didn’t make it out of my mouth before something else then made it in. That didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Later on, I laughed and then I ruined it all, again. The dark place, the one coming all over me in dreams chuckled a bit, in a whispered tone to itself, when I thought I was beyond it all. I’m glad to say I nearly am. But, dear Reader, make sure you resurrect any parts of your life wherein you were not living out as yourself – they will form a legion of outbursts and wrongdoing, and find you, in the most inconvenient times, at the most inopportune moments…and they will gently remind you that they are not through with you just yet. Exorcisms aren’t pretty, but our eyes shine clear as Heaven when we make it though to the other side and the darkness falls away, for good and all.
I shouldn’t have trusted a Proddy whiskey from the North.
M. Lucia
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)