The big white dog ate all the double chocolate chocolate chip cookies this morning, and it didn't kill him. He's not a dog. He's a pain in the ass. The shredded window screens, the scratched up furniture, the stained carpet, and the white fur everywhere - all year, are evidence of that...to me. To others in the house, he's endearing. Are you kidding me?! It's become a production just to leave the house, and I thought those days were over once the children had grown passed the toddler age.
Whatever happened to the dream of being able to pick up my purse and keys and walk out the door without a second thought? It got trampled on by a big white dog. A big white dog that every body in the neighborhood hates. He barks at anyone who comes up our driveway. He barks at the big brown truck when it drives down our road. He fuckin' barks at the wind! When people come visit, we have to educate them with, "Don't stick your hand out or make eye-contact with the dog. Let him come to you. Ignore him." Once in the house, their hand goes out while looking the dog straight in the eyes. Even guests don't believe me that he's not a dog. What ensues happens in a split second causing so much drama. The big white dog growls, barks, jumps back, jumps to the side, sometimes jumps right into the person. He brought one woman to tears, another to cross herself while reciting the Hail Mary, and another to jump back and spin. He scares people - well, most adults. He tends to like girls. Add one more thing "to do" before guests come over - put the big white dog outside and let him bark at them as we reassure them that he's behind an invisible fence. How welcoming.
It's not that we didn't have him trained. We did, and he did well. Then we put him back in his cage. My question was "How do we BE with this dog?" Or whatever he is. After six months, I put him up for adoption. The stress was unbearable. My older daughter's response, "If you give him away, then you have to give me away too!" Oh, boo hoo. My husband's reaction was that of his heart being ripped out. Please don't fall for that. Are you kidding me?! I called the animal protection league in town and changed our status from fostering the big white dog to keeping him. That's when the recommendation of a dog-whisperer-type dog trainer came into our existence. One visit from him showed me that the "being" with the dog was possible. We, or rather I, worked it with the big white dog and got some results. He got out of his cage.
Freed at last - kind of like when he was released from the puppy rescue shelter from where we adopted him. I remember seeing the cute, little, white, 10-week-old puppy galloping (maybe he's really a horse?) right toward our daughter when she stopped at his kennel. "Ah," I thought. "There he is. Our dog!" I was nervous, because I never had a dog, especially one from puppy-hood. He was cute, and my husband reassured me that raising a dog was fun. Chewed up dog-training books, chain-yanking training sessions, dog poop piles throughout the house, and ignoring my "Come here" commands proved otherwise. Are you kidding me?! I was sick the first six months of training and attempting to "be" with the then little white dog. If he weren't so cute...
I often wonder why the hell we got this dog, and then I remember. He literally got the meanest neighbor out of our neighborhood, restoring peace among others who were tortured by this individual. The big white dog got out of his invisible fenced in area and went into the neighbor's land. I was in the house, enjoying my quiet time when I heard an angry horn blaring repeatedly outside my door. Walking out, I saw the neighbor, raging drunk, screaming obscenities at me with threats to shoot my dog. Now, as much as I don't like having the big white dog, I don't want him dead, and as much as chocolate should have killed him, I knew a bullet would. I ordered the raging maniac off my property and called the police. Once the young policeman arrived, we heard gunfire. "Back away from the window, ma'am." and out the young officer went, gun in hand, making his way toward the gunfire. It was around 3pm, the time the kids get off the bus to walk home. My husband was away on a business trip. I couldn't believe what was happening. Are you kidding me?! After all was said and done - animal control officers, police officers, court dates, restraining orders, and adjusting the voltage of the invisible fence to the max and the pause feature to zero - peace and quiet was restored in the neighborhood.
I claimed my peace of mind by relinquishing my big-white-dog duties. Sure I'll let him out and let him in. I'll even refresh his water bowl. But as far as taking him to the vet (who nicknames him "speedball" and where he rears up like a horse and has to be muzzled followed by a team of assistants getting him on the table), taking him for walks (done with my chiropractor visits after being unexpectedly yanked), cleaning up his shit (after a bout of eating anything but dog food), or cleaning out his self-inflicted wounds (thinks his paws are chew toys), my husband and kids are more than capable.
I was informed this morning that we better hurry and get a new battery for the big white dog's invisible fence collar. He could get out! I'm in no hurry.
-LD
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Haiku for Orson Welles
Rosebud ego stains,
his last meal his upward gaze-
baseline just got raised.
~ M. Lucia
his last meal his upward gaze-
baseline just got raised.
~ M. Lucia
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Testament
I dream of Constantinople.
The moderns call it Istanbul, but I know so much better,
in the amber chambers of my heart.
My body knows what it felt like to breathe that air of the Golden Horn
to re-enact the caricature of biblical proportions;
not to think about the feelings, the desires and thoughts of those gilded in
gold, and pearl and silver metals,
but to become those that told us how to live,
how to worship god and behave with one another,
when the demon human wasn't in charge of who we were.
Theodora had her man construct her the might of the church door,
not strong enough to keep the Turks out
when the harbour was compromised, she died too early for his ruling
and the libraries burned the sacred yellowing words
so hard, so vicious and clear.
She wished so strong for more orifices,
so she could please more men at once-
I took to this idea at the age of 12 and thought,
greens and blues, Rhythm and Jews
what a righteous woman to set sail beyond that which
she was told she was supposed to be.
I dreamed of a cinematic vision;
one of draperies drowned in shine, the Hagia Sophia
that indescribable place I know one day I will feel soaring
through my bones, as I imagine fucking the man whose
soul belongs to mine, in those very halls, the low-lit
clandestine language of Latin telling to me the story
that I didn't need to understand in clarity, or decisions.
The robes fell to the dirt ground, as the towers no longer
stood: knock of the wall, rap of the story they ran out of words
to tell properly, capture in the sea scribe of pen reserved
for those with less lascivious tendons that she, and he
thought to recreate-
The might of gods made one with the bloody holes
in their egos, and the thought that we could be as Him,
playing out the storytime lightning battles that
they built in slaves and misnomers, their grandest
church standing still, in this town with a new name,
which I do not accept, and I will live to step foot upon.
They said the Virgin claimed her painting on the final night
of Constantinople-
too tired of these games of men,
and in need of the light behind the paint to lead her way on,
she took her painting back to heaven, in the glory of the skies
that still shine down on markets of cheap goods,
tourism rackets and the Black Sea,
laughing her whorish laugh upon us all,
as we try to navigate the folds of her thighs.
~ M. Lucia
The moderns call it Istanbul, but I know so much better,
in the amber chambers of my heart.
My body knows what it felt like to breathe that air of the Golden Horn
to re-enact the caricature of biblical proportions;
not to think about the feelings, the desires and thoughts of those gilded in
gold, and pearl and silver metals,
but to become those that told us how to live,
how to worship god and behave with one another,
when the demon human wasn't in charge of who we were.
Theodora had her man construct her the might of the church door,
not strong enough to keep the Turks out
when the harbour was compromised, she died too early for his ruling
and the libraries burned the sacred yellowing words
so hard, so vicious and clear.
She wished so strong for more orifices,
so she could please more men at once-
I took to this idea at the age of 12 and thought,
greens and blues, Rhythm and Jews
what a righteous woman to set sail beyond that which
she was told she was supposed to be.
I dreamed of a cinematic vision;
one of draperies drowned in shine, the Hagia Sophia
that indescribable place I know one day I will feel soaring
through my bones, as I imagine fucking the man whose
soul belongs to mine, in those very halls, the low-lit
clandestine language of Latin telling to me the story
that I didn't need to understand in clarity, or decisions.
The robes fell to the dirt ground, as the towers no longer
stood: knock of the wall, rap of the story they ran out of words
to tell properly, capture in the sea scribe of pen reserved
for those with less lascivious tendons that she, and he
thought to recreate-
The might of gods made one with the bloody holes
in their egos, and the thought that we could be as Him,
playing out the storytime lightning battles that
they built in slaves and misnomers, their grandest
church standing still, in this town with a new name,
which I do not accept, and I will live to step foot upon.
They said the Virgin claimed her painting on the final night
of Constantinople-
too tired of these games of men,
and in need of the light behind the paint to lead her way on,
she took her painting back to heaven, in the glory of the skies
that still shine down on markets of cheap goods,
tourism rackets and the Black Sea,
laughing her whorish laugh upon us all,
as we try to navigate the folds of her thighs.
~ M. Lucia
Saturday, October 16, 2010
John Tries on Tom's Pants
It's morning in America and the bulls are on the prowl for uncollected bribery and any innocent soul not yet squeezed firmly down beneath department-issue night watch loafers. Broom-handle swing catches bone on the corner, eye orbit set-off half an inch. They got kids back in Baltimore and a girlfriend in Cathedral Park; flatfoots on doughnut patrol, and Smokey playing like a Super-Trooper wannabe. "He brandished his weapon," is the charge and the punchline, ink stained cuffs and coffee frozen gabardine round out the fashion statement along with nicotine thumbs and fingers indexing inventory up short skirts on 11th Avenue. It's morning in America and the sun is a cold-cock rising o'er the river and the smell off a day old shirt and a decade old mustache sends them home finally where they no longer belong, the bicycle left out and the dew shimmered mailbox and the gag in the bushes before the screendoor slams.
Prayer on the Road
Hazing back the thorny branches
blood slices out from under our covers;
when the sun sets too deep
at the back end of our eyes...
who are you, and who am I
to be found wanting, on
this road alone,
may we all find our true home.
In the able hands of dreaming come I.
In the gleam of a broadbent
sits the shards of star,
of scattered memory.
Begging me to put it out of its misery.
~ M. Lucia
blood slices out from under our covers;
when the sun sets too deep
at the back end of our eyes...
who are you, and who am I
to be found wanting, on
this road alone,
may we all find our true home.
In the able hands of dreaming come I.
In the gleam of a broadbent
sits the shards of star,
of scattered memory.
Begging me to put it out of its misery.
~ M. Lucia
Body Art
Remember back when I was to be made to write poetry on myself - my arms, thighs, hips, back, ass, the lot. There were to be hundreds of photographs taken of my inscribed body, made into an overlap of ego and art, as I strode through woods. As usual, half costume, half naked. The mechanical misshapes of your mission statement broke down the process along the way. I'm doing it now, but it is not being captured in the chemical sea. The periphery of freedom, alive in a blinding light. Here it lives, tomorrow its might, on paper I'm setting it right.
~ M. Lucia
~ M. Lucia
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Earth Element Haiku
energies sliding
dark air pokes out from my skull
prick me like you care.
~ M. Lucia
dark air pokes out from my skull
prick me like you care.
~ M. Lucia
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Haiku for the History of Western Thought
Brain, brain go away
come back again another
day, brain, brain go!
come back again another
day, brain, brain go!
Be Here Now
You can't beat a sucker punch...they always know just where to get you. Enveloping your tissues, sinews, chamber doors. Hold your breath, and let the hole that's formed implode, the bubbles rising from your eternal sore. Each red, forming beast a child born, resting his head on your bosom, while you tell him a story.
The dark night in the garden. The actual child- his father acting tough, his mother preoccupied- it happens. The bright spot light releasing hard our wrinkling time-lapse faces, dumb with meat and drink, and complacency. The good kind. The good times, bred from the familiarity we take for granted. It's the gift of the provincial -- a rare occurrence in these invisible days. We've all been ushered, prodded and pushed into the idea of future world, and have all answered with a resounding "no". Not no to the future, but to the anonymous, and its hand flailing into your sight, and your life. Belonging to something and someplace else, but never where you are, or where your hand can reach. We have stood up (or sat back) and decided--- It is better to know every inch, every neuroses, every crook, curve, violence and hidden defect (and delight) of our home, and each other, of one place (inside out), than to blithely touch with the feeble pat of a compulsive, greedy hand, every thing you can. To know the thousand things at face value loses its power and drains of its ultimate reality, when you know the ONE, as yourself. It's the first great lesson in recognizing that these boundaries apart from you do not exist. Still, this is our home and we have scented its perimeter with our dysfunctions, our sharp tongued bravado, our cowering regressions past and away from ourselves and towards each other.
Here, he was my son as well. As was the daughter in her belly, as is the son I will serve one day. Here, he grew tired and we played at our lost youth - outsiders ruling the roost. He could not understand the losses we reared back to conquer and return from. The journey of the tribe commencing and existing over wine, some dirty jokes and the satisfaction that They could not come inside. We were selfish too. For the one thing. But, the touch of home made me quiver to know it, and myself even further. So, after hours, the little prince's face grew tired, let down, finished with the stomping grounds of our super egos. I found his eyes and said that I would read him a story from his book, while he waited to go with his friend to their neighbour's house. To wait until his dad and mom were finished cavorting in the way that he recognized and mostly respected.
It was late. He agreed silently and sat down next to me on the steps of the pagoda, built by the hands of the men who stood nearby. They, and others filed all around, being familiar and drunken, loud, crass or just plain talkative as was typical in their usual worlds. I read him story after story, always leaving the decision for another up to himself; gold like a lion, just before nap time. By the middle of the second story, he had leaned onto me, resting his head diagonally at the top of my breast, relaxing into me as my corresponding arm rested on his shoulder, his upper arm or at his side. Just barely. His friend came by in the middle of it and kept bugging him about going back to "the pirate ship", but the ship was dark too and the waters closed. After ignoring his friend's first two attempts, (to which he responded with silence and I countered by always asking him "Do you want to go play? Or would you rather me keep reading?") upon the third verbal inquiry, he finally put his hands over his ears and yelled a sort of whisper scream of frustration. He said with conviction: "I want you to read". His friend understood and vacated the scene.
I kept reading story after story, and began to offer more natural ease of vocal inflection and tone to my slowly increasing sense of the characters and themes of each. One story was about a man who visited a town without names and he named everything-- so the people there could know where it was they lived, what they did, who they were...so by reading his created words, they could know themselves. I was able to continue reading, while thinking to myself 'what point Is it in life when we decide what names are true for us and how will he ever un-teach himself all the given names which he had no hand in creating? How will he know the thou of things'. The world was drowning in It's, I thought, as he took my arm (which had gotten displaced from him when his friend had tried to rally him away to the abandoned pirate ship) and gently placed it back over his shoulder. I let it fall onto his arm again and held him close, but softly. It seems to be my favourite way.
As I read the last few stories in the book (which he had found here, in the very garden we ritualized upon), he would occasionally point to the corresponding pictures or ask me to indicate specific words as I read them, to figure out what word meant what. I wanted to tell him that people, and home, did not need to be given a name. I hoped at that exact moment that no one would ever come to this place, our epicenter of beautiful misfits, in our innocence, our depravity- our suicide note to the world as we had all once known it, I hoped that no one would ever find their way here, and declare our name. Our unhallowed ground protected us, as we protected him. As I finished the last story, he silently accepted the end of this tale, knowingly closed the book and held onto my hand as he got himself up.
The next thing I knew, his plans were intact, his friend back at his side, and his wait over. I looked up, and was back in the fray. Smoke and voices, posturing and personality. Bonfire and talk. Always talk. I think we'll be trying to figure ourselves out until the end. Before I re-engaged, I saw him on the other side of the vine covered fence, walking past to the next street. His lithe silhouette screamed like a banshee: "Mimi!". I yelled after him, and still held him close to me, giving him a tale to steal and make his own, and protected his mystery, the one not yet said. I picked up my beer, took a gulp, and thought 'sucker punch...there it is'. That kid made my ovaries hurt.
~ M. Lucia
The dark night in the garden. The actual child- his father acting tough, his mother preoccupied- it happens. The bright spot light releasing hard our wrinkling time-lapse faces, dumb with meat and drink, and complacency. The good kind. The good times, bred from the familiarity we take for granted. It's the gift of the provincial -- a rare occurrence in these invisible days. We've all been ushered, prodded and pushed into the idea of future world, and have all answered with a resounding "no". Not no to the future, but to the anonymous, and its hand flailing into your sight, and your life. Belonging to something and someplace else, but never where you are, or where your hand can reach. We have stood up (or sat back) and decided--- It is better to know every inch, every neuroses, every crook, curve, violence and hidden defect (and delight) of our home, and each other, of one place (inside out), than to blithely touch with the feeble pat of a compulsive, greedy hand, every thing you can. To know the thousand things at face value loses its power and drains of its ultimate reality, when you know the ONE, as yourself. It's the first great lesson in recognizing that these boundaries apart from you do not exist. Still, this is our home and we have scented its perimeter with our dysfunctions, our sharp tongued bravado, our cowering regressions past and away from ourselves and towards each other.
Here, he was my son as well. As was the daughter in her belly, as is the son I will serve one day. Here, he grew tired and we played at our lost youth - outsiders ruling the roost. He could not understand the losses we reared back to conquer and return from. The journey of the tribe commencing and existing over wine, some dirty jokes and the satisfaction that They could not come inside. We were selfish too. For the one thing. But, the touch of home made me quiver to know it, and myself even further. So, after hours, the little prince's face grew tired, let down, finished with the stomping grounds of our super egos. I found his eyes and said that I would read him a story from his book, while he waited to go with his friend to their neighbour's house. To wait until his dad and mom were finished cavorting in the way that he recognized and mostly respected.
It was late. He agreed silently and sat down next to me on the steps of the pagoda, built by the hands of the men who stood nearby. They, and others filed all around, being familiar and drunken, loud, crass or just plain talkative as was typical in their usual worlds. I read him story after story, always leaving the decision for another up to himself; gold like a lion, just before nap time. By the middle of the second story, he had leaned onto me, resting his head diagonally at the top of my breast, relaxing into me as my corresponding arm rested on his shoulder, his upper arm or at his side. Just barely. His friend came by in the middle of it and kept bugging him about going back to "the pirate ship", but the ship was dark too and the waters closed. After ignoring his friend's first two attempts, (to which he responded with silence and I countered by always asking him "Do you want to go play? Or would you rather me keep reading?") upon the third verbal inquiry, he finally put his hands over his ears and yelled a sort of whisper scream of frustration. He said with conviction: "I want you to read". His friend understood and vacated the scene.
I kept reading story after story, and began to offer more natural ease of vocal inflection and tone to my slowly increasing sense of the characters and themes of each. One story was about a man who visited a town without names and he named everything-- so the people there could know where it was they lived, what they did, who they were...so by reading his created words, they could know themselves. I was able to continue reading, while thinking to myself 'what point Is it in life when we decide what names are true for us and how will he ever un-teach himself all the given names which he had no hand in creating? How will he know the thou of things'. The world was drowning in It's, I thought, as he took my arm (which had gotten displaced from him when his friend had tried to rally him away to the abandoned pirate ship) and gently placed it back over his shoulder. I let it fall onto his arm again and held him close, but softly. It seems to be my favourite way.
As I read the last few stories in the book (which he had found here, in the very garden we ritualized upon), he would occasionally point to the corresponding pictures or ask me to indicate specific words as I read them, to figure out what word meant what. I wanted to tell him that people, and home, did not need to be given a name. I hoped at that exact moment that no one would ever come to this place, our epicenter of beautiful misfits, in our innocence, our depravity- our suicide note to the world as we had all once known it, I hoped that no one would ever find their way here, and declare our name. Our unhallowed ground protected us, as we protected him. As I finished the last story, he silently accepted the end of this tale, knowingly closed the book and held onto my hand as he got himself up.
The next thing I knew, his plans were intact, his friend back at his side, and his wait over. I looked up, and was back in the fray. Smoke and voices, posturing and personality. Bonfire and talk. Always talk. I think we'll be trying to figure ourselves out until the end. Before I re-engaged, I saw him on the other side of the vine covered fence, walking past to the next street. His lithe silhouette screamed like a banshee: "Mimi!". I yelled after him, and still held him close to me, giving him a tale to steal and make his own, and protected his mystery, the one not yet said. I picked up my beer, took a gulp, and thought 'sucker punch...there it is'. That kid made my ovaries hurt.
~ M. Lucia
Monday, October 11, 2010
Home Sweet Haiku
pluck me in orange
no place else I'd rather breathe
vintage sunset trail
~ M. Lucia
no place else I'd rather breathe
vintage sunset trail
~ M. Lucia
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Death is Not Always Regarded As Inevitable
Elongated
background noise
continuous church bells
struck with the silences found in between
filling space, inside the din,
the bodies of at least five conversations,
lead on into the dreaming of a story ---
A story you want to hear me tell, one of terrible beauty
A story you want to hear me tell, one of terrible beauty
causing tears to fall down my cheeks,
which means
it is true.
My makeup runs, freshly painted
My makeup runs, freshly painted
as I lay down on a sheet or towel I stretch out
onto your chest, wearing its suit.
On a bed.
You want to listen, but you
You want to listen, but you
cannot help but embrace me, and curl
your limbs around and over me,
burying your head and saying it's impossible-
you want to hold me closely to you.
We go out into the hallways, there are sets
We go out into the hallways, there are sets
of people everywhere...on the way to there
the corridors and twists and turns fill
with angry faces who don't care for me much, anymore.
Judgment and empty eyes, I lose you in the halls,
Judgment and empty eyes, I lose you in the halls,
like a french farce, leading to
the one meeting place: Here a sort of invisible
campfire. Celebrities, friends, strangers, peripherals---
all interrupting my story every time I start.
The crowd keeps laughing, or blatantly cutting me off-
The crowd keeps laughing, or blatantly cutting me off-
Every God Damned Time.
You go silent, and I explain to you that I cannot
tell the story like this, when they won't let me.
Before you can say anything, I tell you -You-
to come and find me, if you want to hear the story.
...I leave the crowd in a huff.
~ M. Lucia
~ M. Lucia
Friday, October 8, 2010
Monday
Arise, Woman
from a puddle of whiskey piss.
Let your skin be been seen through,
allow your heart to take in,
and give without fear of the
[[batting]] of an eye.
If you must be your self,
allow a newly born, engaged
version out.
Close the zoo,
put down your dukes,
and see everything for what it is.
~ M. Lucia
from a puddle of whiskey piss.
Let your skin be been seen through,
allow your heart to take in,
and give without fear of the
[[batting]] of an eye.
If you must be your self,
allow a newly born, engaged
version out.
Close the zoo,
put down your dukes,
and see everything for what it is.
~ M. Lucia
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Prayer for the Unborn
Do you hear my whisper, monkey girl?
Your mother wants you to be called Lola, but
your father think it's a whore's name.
You have to come loudly, and quickly
and bring the smiles back to our faces.
I've passed on the story that you are double fortune;
your brother Gabriel's birth soul is inside yours,
bringing you tiger strength,
fortitude like no other little girl could dream of,
and the moment of love --alive and well--
in the dark hair of your father
and redheaded soul of your mother.
I tried to record the story of last summer,
undying heat, her screaming like saxophones wailing
out their row of open windows,
the muddy dreams and dread when we all woke up at 6:19.
The sirens, the pit of our stomachs feeling like we'd been hit
by the very fist of God.
I was happy to drain them of their tidal waves of shock and sadness,
there is nothing like seeing a tiny coffin, in the blazing sun.
This is also the story of your soul, girl.
We're preparing the table for your feast, as
you are almost here and we dream about you.
They've been dreaming about you and your twin brother
the one who stays in the wind to live separately alongside you.
Don't keep us waiting too long.
Your kicks and fists are already legendary on this plane.
Your mark is made, and it's only anyone's guess when
you start giving her a hard time, and finding yourself
always on his side. Just like mine.
I hope to greet you wearing a ridiculous Hallow's Eve costume.
Call me Aunt Ginny, because I'll be having a drink
when I hear your first cry.
You remove the lie a little more, and spread the seas wide
for us, your performance of their blessed circus show
has already received a standing ovation.
Step on over, we are waiting.
~ M. Lucia
Your mother wants you to be called Lola, but
your father think it's a whore's name.
You have to come loudly, and quickly
and bring the smiles back to our faces.
I've passed on the story that you are double fortune;
your brother Gabriel's birth soul is inside yours,
bringing you tiger strength,
fortitude like no other little girl could dream of,
and the moment of love --alive and well--
in the dark hair of your father
and redheaded soul of your mother.
I tried to record the story of last summer,
undying heat, her screaming like saxophones wailing
out their row of open windows,
the muddy dreams and dread when we all woke up at 6:19.
The sirens, the pit of our stomachs feeling like we'd been hit
by the very fist of God.
I was happy to drain them of their tidal waves of shock and sadness,
there is nothing like seeing a tiny coffin, in the blazing sun.
This is also the story of your soul, girl.
We're preparing the table for your feast, as
you are almost here and we dream about you.
They've been dreaming about you and your twin brother
the one who stays in the wind to live separately alongside you.
Don't keep us waiting too long.
Your kicks and fists are already legendary on this plane.
Your mark is made, and it's only anyone's guess when
you start giving her a hard time, and finding yourself
always on his side. Just like mine.
I hope to greet you wearing a ridiculous Hallow's Eve costume.
Call me Aunt Ginny, because I'll be having a drink
when I hear your first cry.
You remove the lie a little more, and spread the seas wide
for us, your performance of their blessed circus show
has already received a standing ovation.
Step on over, we are waiting.
~ M. Lucia
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Therapy Session #1
Dual sided coin. One side is like liquid mercury, boiling in all the witches' chaos that I did not create, but I hold to. Carry it to the ends of the earth, with glaring eyes, a whore's heart and fists always ready to defend a notion that I don't share verbally very well. Defensive, wanting and selfish. My need to possess does not know where to cease.
Then the other side. Meek, sensitive like sugary water which bathes everything in perfect happiness, giving of myself until there is nothing left of the idea of me, crying torrents at the breath of certain piano notes which trickle into my bathtub soul, drowning us all in utter devotion. "You give me everything, when you look at me like that. I love the way you gaze at me when I fuck you", said JR before he came on top of me.
It's difficult to keep that up; it was difficult being such a tender set of limbs when a child, that I couldn't understand why anyone would be mean to me, or say they didn't want to be my friend, or boss me around. I did whatever they said, sometimes to a humiliating default, which then led to anger, and when those catholic girls made fun of me endlessly for a year's time, I would cry, scratch at their backs and tear at them, and even though I left marks, theirs stung deeper. Home was the only safe place.
Later on, when those darkened shadows crept into my soul, those songs, and flickering images, and darkness in people's souls, the romantic, sensual kind, I felt stronger. People they ain't no good. But I knew the truth in them, I could see the flash caught in a single second between living their own personal lie and blankly getting on with their day. I could not. I can not. Felt like being the storyteller whose creation was being played out before her eyes. I wanted to seduce, to save and strike down with aplomb at each new turn in the cog, I knew the forest but I couldn't be bothered to hang about in the immediate content of the trees, or their leaves. I loved their details, but I saw it all with a fieriness that was born out of the ash of rejection, of cruelty, of isolation and eventually, the loss of my creator. There is no other way to say it.
I'd thought I'd come past a long and crumbling plain, to the next level, where I can give and love and be, in the one place at one time. But the torrential rains returned, I'm left alone with my leg caught in the deepening crack leading to one of the lonely and angry hells below, and I know it's not mine. But it was. I lost my closest friend who happened to be my father (even though I knew we were soldiers together in another life, or sister and brother at familial most), There is no remedy for it. I'm angry. And every new face and opportunity and adventure presented to me is tainted, because I liked myself a whole lot more when he was around. And up jumps the devil sometimes, and me his legion's prey.
Because when I Did look into JR's eyes, that way, when he fucked me, the way he used to, I gave all but a remedial leftover morsel of myself, and even then it wasn't enough. He told me I was too beautiful, and that I would have left him if the other one came back. I felt dejected and powerful at the same time. We shouldn't be living as we do. Day in and day out this way. It's not natural. And it's only so long that a mind so chaotic as mine, a heart so fearless and vulnerable and energy so like a sun shining in a firestorm until its blinded to everything but what she feels is right, can take living a life that was not meant for me.
It often breaks at the magic beauty of her fragile mind. The past is always there, ready to leap at me, a cacophony of bitches who hold me down, tear at my clothes and berate me until I need to fight back, fight them, fight something. Apparently, when I look with my full heart, it kills the beholder inside, because they weren't meant to look back. Too much was revealed and the raindrops blast at the forest for its stupidly letting more onlookers in, to see the beautiful freak that the weeds hold down, in the mire and the circumstance. She can pen stunning words but she cannot fight her way out of the gilded cage. The song becomes a whisper, the drugs kick in and she can only burrow herself in a deep, dark hole. Alone, and wanting.
I know there will be a time, when she can get out. I thought it nearly upon her, but it seems she has more lessons to learn. She stepped on the bloody head of the mickey mouse she used to shine up every single morning at breakfast, and wished it away. They say as the last, more horrific remnants of mud are descending out of you, out of your ears, mouth, hands and feet, that this will hurt the most. Releasing the demons was never easy game, but one day -- one day, they will all be gone, made into the lithe blue mouths of sparrows singing the most pure of songs.
There might not be anything of her left when that day comes. Still she continues to hold the liquid that melts her heart daily - enough to love completely, save the world entire from the rigidity and wasteland that it created. She'll keep on the dirt road, never stirring too far, always remembering to laugh, and not be afraid to fail yet again, and maybe she'll be greeted at the end of the trail, none too soon, by a light that absorbs this darkness, by a gaze that crosses her over for good. Until then, her loss remains, quietly at her side, her arms abide and the air that catches her in the mist of her own wit and stupidity, cradles with every passing step forward.
~ M. Lucia
Then the other side. Meek, sensitive like sugary water which bathes everything in perfect happiness, giving of myself until there is nothing left of the idea of me, crying torrents at the breath of certain piano notes which trickle into my bathtub soul, drowning us all in utter devotion. "You give me everything, when you look at me like that. I love the way you gaze at me when I fuck you", said JR before he came on top of me.
It's difficult to keep that up; it was difficult being such a tender set of limbs when a child, that I couldn't understand why anyone would be mean to me, or say they didn't want to be my friend, or boss me around. I did whatever they said, sometimes to a humiliating default, which then led to anger, and when those catholic girls made fun of me endlessly for a year's time, I would cry, scratch at their backs and tear at them, and even though I left marks, theirs stung deeper. Home was the only safe place.
Later on, when those darkened shadows crept into my soul, those songs, and flickering images, and darkness in people's souls, the romantic, sensual kind, I felt stronger. People they ain't no good. But I knew the truth in them, I could see the flash caught in a single second between living their own personal lie and blankly getting on with their day. I could not. I can not. Felt like being the storyteller whose creation was being played out before her eyes. I wanted to seduce, to save and strike down with aplomb at each new turn in the cog, I knew the forest but I couldn't be bothered to hang about in the immediate content of the trees, or their leaves. I loved their details, but I saw it all with a fieriness that was born out of the ash of rejection, of cruelty, of isolation and eventually, the loss of my creator. There is no other way to say it.
I'd thought I'd come past a long and crumbling plain, to the next level, where I can give and love and be, in the one place at one time. But the torrential rains returned, I'm left alone with my leg caught in the deepening crack leading to one of the lonely and angry hells below, and I know it's not mine. But it was. I lost my closest friend who happened to be my father (even though I knew we were soldiers together in another life, or sister and brother at familial most), There is no remedy for it. I'm angry. And every new face and opportunity and adventure presented to me is tainted, because I liked myself a whole lot more when he was around. And up jumps the devil sometimes, and me his legion's prey.
Because when I Did look into JR's eyes, that way, when he fucked me, the way he used to, I gave all but a remedial leftover morsel of myself, and even then it wasn't enough. He told me I was too beautiful, and that I would have left him if the other one came back. I felt dejected and powerful at the same time. We shouldn't be living as we do. Day in and day out this way. It's not natural. And it's only so long that a mind so chaotic as mine, a heart so fearless and vulnerable and energy so like a sun shining in a firestorm until its blinded to everything but what she feels is right, can take living a life that was not meant for me.
It often breaks at the magic beauty of her fragile mind. The past is always there, ready to leap at me, a cacophony of bitches who hold me down, tear at my clothes and berate me until I need to fight back, fight them, fight something. Apparently, when I look with my full heart, it kills the beholder inside, because they weren't meant to look back. Too much was revealed and the raindrops blast at the forest for its stupidly letting more onlookers in, to see the beautiful freak that the weeds hold down, in the mire and the circumstance. She can pen stunning words but she cannot fight her way out of the gilded cage. The song becomes a whisper, the drugs kick in and she can only burrow herself in a deep, dark hole. Alone, and wanting.
I know there will be a time, when she can get out. I thought it nearly upon her, but it seems she has more lessons to learn. She stepped on the bloody head of the mickey mouse she used to shine up every single morning at breakfast, and wished it away. They say as the last, more horrific remnants of mud are descending out of you, out of your ears, mouth, hands and feet, that this will hurt the most. Releasing the demons was never easy game, but one day -- one day, they will all be gone, made into the lithe blue mouths of sparrows singing the most pure of songs.
There might not be anything of her left when that day comes. Still she continues to hold the liquid that melts her heart daily - enough to love completely, save the world entire from the rigidity and wasteland that it created. She'll keep on the dirt road, never stirring too far, always remembering to laugh, and not be afraid to fail yet again, and maybe she'll be greeted at the end of the trail, none too soon, by a light that absorbs this darkness, by a gaze that crosses her over for good. Until then, her loss remains, quietly at her side, her arms abide and the air that catches her in the mist of her own wit and stupidity, cradles with every passing step forward.
~ M. Lucia
Black and Blue Haiku
angst rears hard again
not enough girls pushing back
they tell me, quit now.
~ M. Lucia
not enough girls pushing back
they tell me, quit now.
~ M. Lucia
Thursday, September 30, 2010
EMERGING C
I wonder if he remembers from last time the bed, the plexiglass box, captain of his own starship, surrounded by machines and measurements, indicating instruments and panels of lighted shapes and signifiers--gentle, persistent alarm.
Does he remember anything? The sounds, smells, the perspective looking at an angle up at NURSE and acoustic tile? The feel of plastic in his nose and adhesive on his face, glued monitors and burrowing hose?
He remembers, I know, the voice of SHEHERTHEONE singing about the boat on the river so like his cushioned container adrift on a tide of morphine, hearing though not seeing. Hearing is enough for now, and, in a dream, for now, the boat is heading gentle on the stream, to reveal to someday's merry maid the already broken hearted boy now thus unbreakable.
Does he remember anything? The sounds, smells, the perspective looking at an angle up at NURSE and acoustic tile? The feel of plastic in his nose and adhesive on his face, glued monitors and burrowing hose?
He remembers, I know, the voice of SHEHERTHEONE singing about the boat on the river so like his cushioned container adrift on a tide of morphine, hearing though not seeing. Hearing is enough for now, and, in a dream, for now, the boat is heading gentle on the stream, to reveal to someday's merry maid the already broken hearted boy now thus unbreakable.
I Am Your Neighbor, Cunt!
Those were the words screamed out at me by a woman in her car with her two young children on Van Brunt this morning. Why, do you ask, would she scream such an ugly thing at me? Well, I'll tell you the story dear friend.
It was a wet and windy morning, as I was leaving my abode for my commute to work. This particular morning my fair gent called Ethan took the train, leaving his bicycle locked up. In doing so, my bicycle was trapped. So, it was on foot I had to go. As soon as I began my canter out the door, my hair (which I had made much effort to look decent as we had guests to arrive that afternoon) began very quickly to turn sour and fall limp and oily. I sighed to myself, but continued on my way.
I noticed that there was a back up of cars from the light at Sullivan and Van Brunt. It would seem one of the Chinatown buses we all know and love was stuck in mid-turn, with an SUV trapped in such a position by the bus, other autos behind it and the parked cars to its right. To add insult to the situation, a migrant worker had left his blue collar work truck double parked in front of the ever popular morning stop, Red Hook Coffee Shop.
There was really nothing I, myself, could have done to rectify the situation, so onward I trodded. Upon my walk, I was verbally accosted by a very... oh how should I put it? A very skeezy older man of the dark persuasion. This was in no way pleasing to me. I exchanged sordid words under my breath to him, but carried on (my wayward daughter). Shortly thereafter, I passed by another not-so-gentle man of the lighter brown credo. Once again, I was entrenched upon by what he thought was charming and an opening gesture to possibly collecting something of his want from me. Rather than before speaking under my breath, I set off to advise the man that he should, pardon my French, fuck... off.
By this final imposition, my mood had quite shifted to match that of the forecast for the day.
Onward and upward I trudged on Van Brunt. As I came to the crossing at Pioneer, I was rudely encumbered by the blaring of one Volkswagen Jetta station wagon's horn. A woman, not a very attractive woman, was most probably driving her children to school. As it is a rainy day, tho t'was not raining at the time, she felt the need to drive the few blocks to said school to dispose of -what I can only assume after the example she presented of herself to me and the people at the bus stop of what kind of person, and therefore the kind of mother to be raising- her young hellions.
As previously mentioned, my mood was wrecked so this woman was adding insult to injury. So as she was blaring her, I stopped and called out to her "There's an accident at the light. Honking is not going to change anything. Would you please stop blaring your horn." She had let up on her horn to be able to hear what it was I was saying to her. Once I had finished my statement, she proceeded to blare it again, looking straight at me with disdain. I once again told her to stop, including the statement "You're disturbing my neighbors," to which she replied -as stated in the title of my monologue, "I am your neighbor, cunt!"
Well... what was I to do?
Inside I was like a ninja from the darkness suddenly upon her, reaching into her car window, grabbing her by her ratty hair and smashing her face two or three times against her steering wheel, all the while telling her with each slam "You're (slam) No (slam) Neighbor (slam) Of Mine (SLAM)."
But... I didn't.
Instead I gave her an ugly look, and continued on my way. I was greeted with smiles by those at the bus stop, along with a "Well, good morning to you," by the neighborhood trollop, Kiki. My only response to defend myself on what I consider an embarrassing situation I regretted getting involved in just as quickly as my first words was "I hate honkers."
Now, I am trying to go through my mind who this woman is. I do know she does live in the neighborhood, tho at the moment of our dialogue I was unaware. I believe she may have a dog. I am hoping it is not the woman who lives on King St (I don't think it is) who I am neighborly with normally... I don't think she is.
She looks much older than she is. I would say she's in her early 40s, but looks to be nearing 50. Mousy brown hair that's stringy and wavy, wrinkles and dry leathery face, petite - this is how I would describe her.
Nonetheless, I do look forward to my next encounter with her. Should she say anything, I can simply tell her that she is a shameful human being who needs to get control of her patience, and who really should think twice about how she is presenting herself in front of her children. Yes... another morning in Red Hook.
Vaduzuvunt
It was a wet and windy morning, as I was leaving my abode for my commute to work. This particular morning my fair gent called Ethan took the train, leaving his bicycle locked up. In doing so, my bicycle was trapped. So, it was on foot I had to go. As soon as I began my canter out the door, my hair (which I had made much effort to look decent as we had guests to arrive that afternoon) began very quickly to turn sour and fall limp and oily. I sighed to myself, but continued on my way.
I noticed that there was a back up of cars from the light at Sullivan and Van Brunt. It would seem one of the Chinatown buses we all know and love was stuck in mid-turn, with an SUV trapped in such a position by the bus, other autos behind it and the parked cars to its right. To add insult to the situation, a migrant worker had left his blue collar work truck double parked in front of the ever popular morning stop, Red Hook Coffee Shop.
There was really nothing I, myself, could have done to rectify the situation, so onward I trodded. Upon my walk, I was verbally accosted by a very... oh how should I put it? A very skeezy older man of the dark persuasion. This was in no way pleasing to me. I exchanged sordid words under my breath to him, but carried on (my wayward daughter). Shortly thereafter, I passed by another not-so-gentle man of the lighter brown credo. Once again, I was entrenched upon by what he thought was charming and an opening gesture to possibly collecting something of his want from me. Rather than before speaking under my breath, I set off to advise the man that he should, pardon my French, fuck... off.
By this final imposition, my mood had quite shifted to match that of the forecast for the day.
Onward and upward I trudged on Van Brunt. As I came to the crossing at Pioneer, I was rudely encumbered by the blaring of one Volkswagen Jetta station wagon's horn. A woman, not a very attractive woman, was most probably driving her children to school. As it is a rainy day, tho t'was not raining at the time, she felt the need to drive the few blocks to said school to dispose of -what I can only assume after the example she presented of herself to me and the people at the bus stop of what kind of person, and therefore the kind of mother to be raising- her young hellions.
As previously mentioned, my mood was wrecked so this woman was adding insult to injury. So as she was blaring her, I stopped and called out to her "There's an accident at the light. Honking is not going to change anything. Would you please stop blaring your horn." She had let up on her horn to be able to hear what it was I was saying to her. Once I had finished my statement, she proceeded to blare it again, looking straight at me with disdain. I once again told her to stop, including the statement "You're disturbing my neighbors," to which she replied -as stated in the title of my monologue, "I am your neighbor, cunt!"
Well... what was I to do?
Inside I was like a ninja from the darkness suddenly upon her, reaching into her car window, grabbing her by her ratty hair and smashing her face two or three times against her steering wheel, all the while telling her with each slam "You're (slam) No (slam) Neighbor (slam) Of Mine (SLAM)."
But... I didn't.
Instead I gave her an ugly look, and continued on my way. I was greeted with smiles by those at the bus stop, along with a "Well, good morning to you," by the neighborhood trollop, Kiki. My only response to defend myself on what I consider an embarrassing situation I regretted getting involved in just as quickly as my first words was "I hate honkers."
Now, I am trying to go through my mind who this woman is. I do know she does live in the neighborhood, tho at the moment of our dialogue I was unaware. I believe she may have a dog. I am hoping it is not the woman who lives on King St (I don't think it is) who I am neighborly with normally... I don't think she is.
She looks much older than she is. I would say she's in her early 40s, but looks to be nearing 50. Mousy brown hair that's stringy and wavy, wrinkles and dry leathery face, petite - this is how I would describe her.
Nonetheless, I do look forward to my next encounter with her. Should she say anything, I can simply tell her that she is a shameful human being who needs to get control of her patience, and who really should think twice about how she is presenting herself in front of her children. Yes... another morning in Red Hook.
Vaduzuvunt
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Anthropoligical Delineation of Arse
So ass (said housed in pornography, else arse by those who love British, Irish, Scottish boys, but still, kilts and eye patches and confidence, gypsy style) is the subject of this lecture. Sit deep in your comfy chair, children, take a sip of your special elixir and know that you are safe, in the arms of my words, and everyone will get home alright...either way, the lights go out, the moon lasts through the night, the stars come and fuck every hour until the morning brings its wayward promises...
It starts with a story about anal beads. I think they're very overrated. I have never found myself the recipient or the administrator of the beads of arse, but I admire the kink of it either way. Mostly, I am not a fan of toys, nothing a cock or myself couldn't do that any plastic, non recyclable item could do better. Seems a waste of ability, lithe comment or slow curled, little smile, outside or in. Three lengths of rope and a strong personality can do worlds more than any fake cock toy ever could. Do You know someone who wants to fuck a pink playdough "sex" can? The janitor who never got his college degree? He has better things to do. Just like me.
I have some thinking to do. First off, I think it was anal beads I once got told the story of -- think he was gay, and told me that somewhere deep in the night, one man strung the beads from the arse of the other man, and ripped clean a pearly necklace of brown shit across the wall. How do you wake up to that, and not feel liberated, like every stain ever made within you came clean, in all honesty, in its true face? Or perhaps it's just dull, and something for someone else to clean up. The one who didn't know about the brown activities going on that night.
It's not just about the boys. I used to tell the girls I knew, that they had tattoos on their lower back (much like the pretensions of my upper back) that would give the fella something to read when he was behind/on top of/inside them. I've given a few of mine own some great new ideas to sink themselves into. Entertained, obliged, obsessed and ridiculed. How can he look you in the eye when he's way the hell behind you? A joke, but also a truth. Isn't that always the way.
It came from being of a couple who were European in their style. Even if my mother was born repressed, and my father over-exuberant about life. We lived Euro childhoods, spending early mornings in their grand bed, lounging forever, my mother scratching my father's back for some time, like a duty she had, no judgments made of the activity. He used to chase her and smack her arse, with hand, wooden spoon, and she liked it. Just like I like it now.
What picture painted when the arse is struck properly. Will no one understand the glory one cunt can feel? Thunder clap, revolt of nations, the slaves made free, of the torrent of sparrows singing ecstasy within my belly pit, take notice. I blame those vintage adverts. You know the one. About the coffee the woman doesn't buy which causes the situation to occur. It sets me still-------------He's got her stretched across his lap; she looks affright. (I'd be smiling ear to ear). His right hand up in the air to come down with a crack. I cannot move for a literal 10 seconds and I feel my cunt twitch and butterflies fuck themselves silly in that same belly pit of my mythology, where the sparrows watch, drooling and coming, in the most off putting, off-key song...still, it's beautiful music.
Associate this deviant play with love. That's how it happened. My parents loved each other. Guess it would have been ok and more Americana if my father grabbed my mom's tits every night --- like me, they've never been the focal point. The man in the ad reigned down on her ass, and the wind caressed, vibrating her hips, setting My cunt in motion. The soft, protruding cliff onto which stories were penned, soap operas kept alive, gods invoked as the Biblical sea crashed its waves on his cock and turning on the Light of the world.
The Song of Songs, the Jesus dance, the Word made Flesh. It's all sacred in the eyes of the beloved, ain't it. We're made into virgins, our arse made into your saviour, the tongue speaks the thoughts inside that no one else can try, and our cunt speaks highly of the impetus which keeps it red, and sore, and tender. She'll reveal what the scriptures really had to say, at end of orange light, meal gone empty, my cunt full up with the lithe taste of him. Truth, my friends, smack (again) smack (again) smack. Perfection, in that lack of silence, and nothing more to judge upon that that. The marriage that bears no name. It's hard to find, but once you do, keep that grip round your strong and tender hand, forever. This is the end of the arse lesson.
~ M. Lucia
It starts with a story about anal beads. I think they're very overrated. I have never found myself the recipient or the administrator of the beads of arse, but I admire the kink of it either way. Mostly, I am not a fan of toys, nothing a cock or myself couldn't do that any plastic, non recyclable item could do better. Seems a waste of ability, lithe comment or slow curled, little smile, outside or in. Three lengths of rope and a strong personality can do worlds more than any fake cock toy ever could. Do You know someone who wants to fuck a pink playdough "sex" can? The janitor who never got his college degree? He has better things to do. Just like me.
I have some thinking to do. First off, I think it was anal beads I once got told the story of -- think he was gay, and told me that somewhere deep in the night, one man strung the beads from the arse of the other man, and ripped clean a pearly necklace of brown shit across the wall. How do you wake up to that, and not feel liberated, like every stain ever made within you came clean, in all honesty, in its true face? Or perhaps it's just dull, and something for someone else to clean up. The one who didn't know about the brown activities going on that night.
It's not just about the boys. I used to tell the girls I knew, that they had tattoos on their lower back (much like the pretensions of my upper back) that would give the fella something to read when he was behind/on top of/inside them. I've given a few of mine own some great new ideas to sink themselves into. Entertained, obliged, obsessed and ridiculed. How can he look you in the eye when he's way the hell behind you? A joke, but also a truth. Isn't that always the way.
It came from being of a couple who were European in their style. Even if my mother was born repressed, and my father over-exuberant about life. We lived Euro childhoods, spending early mornings in their grand bed, lounging forever, my mother scratching my father's back for some time, like a duty she had, no judgments made of the activity. He used to chase her and smack her arse, with hand, wooden spoon, and she liked it. Just like I like it now.
What picture painted when the arse is struck properly. Will no one understand the glory one cunt can feel? Thunder clap, revolt of nations, the slaves made free, of the torrent of sparrows singing ecstasy within my belly pit, take notice. I blame those vintage adverts. You know the one. About the coffee the woman doesn't buy which causes the situation to occur. It sets me still-------------He's got her stretched across his lap; she looks affright. (I'd be smiling ear to ear). His right hand up in the air to come down with a crack. I cannot move for a literal 10 seconds and I feel my cunt twitch and butterflies fuck themselves silly in that same belly pit of my mythology, where the sparrows watch, drooling and coming, in the most off putting, off-key song...still, it's beautiful music.
Associate this deviant play with love. That's how it happened. My parents loved each other. Guess it would have been ok and more Americana if my father grabbed my mom's tits every night --- like me, they've never been the focal point. The man in the ad reigned down on her ass, and the wind caressed, vibrating her hips, setting My cunt in motion. The soft, protruding cliff onto which stories were penned, soap operas kept alive, gods invoked as the Biblical sea crashed its waves on his cock and turning on the Light of the world.
The Song of Songs, the Jesus dance, the Word made Flesh. It's all sacred in the eyes of the beloved, ain't it. We're made into virgins, our arse made into your saviour, the tongue speaks the thoughts inside that no one else can try, and our cunt speaks highly of the impetus which keeps it red, and sore, and tender. She'll reveal what the scriptures really had to say, at end of orange light, meal gone empty, my cunt full up with the lithe taste of him. Truth, my friends, smack (again) smack (again) smack. Perfection, in that lack of silence, and nothing more to judge upon that that. The marriage that bears no name. It's hard to find, but once you do, keep that grip round your strong and tender hand, forever. This is the end of the arse lesson.
~ M. Lucia
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