So this version, I came across it tonight and it took my breath away, goosebumps, throat hurt. Because that slow, decided piano with those lyrics, and even that low tone of her voice– for me this song is me saying goodbye to the child/doll that has haunted me, because she was a piece of me I was terrified of, and I have come to terms with her, I stopped fearing the nightmares of her and so on, and some how, I showed her compassion. She has been quiet. She’s gone, and lovable. Damn, this song.Beautiful. Gypsy, Fleetwood Mac So I’m…
"We entered alone and we left alone. And most of us lived lonely and frightened and incomplete lives." - Charles Bukowski -and- "It's hard to believe we were so hollowed out so drained only so we could shine a little harder when the light finally came." -Ada Limon
Gypsy, Stripped Down
By Your Side
Published in Word Riot
And Your Face, in the Mirror?
The Gray Areas
Beauty Walks a Razor’s Edge
Madness, they do not tell you, is as lonely as it is scary.
But a map of that night, that space,
and I started seeing without knowing how
that the answers were not static, they were not concrete,
they were not written. They were not
even thought of–they cannot be touched,
they were sketched stars in reverse,
they were the universes in my irises unraveling,
the answers became something changed-something new-
through the radioactive pulse of my unstable heart,
shedding another degree and sparking a new one.
…A steady and heavy cello across absurd piano strokes crash into everything I’ve judged myself on, every law I am governed by and I am intoxicated by the strangeness, drunk on this existential, loveless affair, this music. There is something cold in his quiet demeanor, something almost cruel, a hidden beat to his body, to his sex, a muted aggression beneath a tie. I imagine his eyes ignoring his surroundings, lost in thoughts on maybe statistics, maybe sex, maybe the structure of …
This is a poem structure of Louise Gluck’s, I copied the italics and answered the questions my way, and in this new draft, I am contrasting my old perspective when I wrote this with my perspective now. It has changed drastically-since the first draft of this poem two years ago. You can read the first, old draft here, from when I was in that dark space. Now for the new one: “Are you healed or do you only think you’re healed?” I told myself it is terrible and beautiful to survive. Believing it might make me so, with whatever limitations I guided myself by. “But can you love anyone yet?” I slipped across mirrors, always mirrors. I was only yet learning my reflection, a face I didn’t know. “But will you touch anyone?” …
For Brendan’s prompt at Real Toads. It took me awhile to really chew on this one. Good one, Brendan! I chose an interesting combo of Plath and the Slavic goddess/demon Morana: I inhabit the wax image of myself, a Doll’s body. Sickness begins here; I am A dartboard for witches. –Sylvia Plath BABA MARTA They burned dolls of Morana, Baba Marta, tired of her winter her death her nightmares she breathed into the children pressing their chests and stealing their breath, crippling their faith, their little bodies– her dark hair spreading around their beds like night. …
But she smiled at me so sadly That my anger straightway died If music be the food of love Then laughter is its queen And likewise if behind is in front Then dirt in truth is clean. –Whiter Shade of Pale The Black Cat was a dark coffee shop a lot of the Northland College kids gathered at. Hippies and environmentalists, writers and musicians. I was sixteen in my hemp mushroom jewelry and bell-bottoms. Sunday afternoon late afternoon sun streaked through the open French doors and lit up the wood planks. I was sitting on a couch reading when…
Morning all–….very early. Here’s some acoustic/live renditions to start the day. How’s about a peculiar mix-but I really have to hear Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatter’s this a.m. Dermott Kennedy singing “After Rain,” Stateless unplugged on “Bloodstream,” and Bon Iver on “Skinny Love”–I love this version. and Bon
“When your lost, and you low, and you can’t get back again, I will show you you’re so much better than you know…. you think I’d leave you down when you’re down on your knees? I couldn’t do that… …when you’re cold, I’ll be there to hold you tight to me when you’re on the outside and cant get in i will show you you’re so much better than you know when you’re lost and alone and cant get back again I’ll find you and bring you home If you want to cry I’ll be there to dry your eyes…
as if for a lifetime, promising me breath,
my own breath,
so I punch holes
into the lid
searching for stars
that had probably been his eyes.
Hey everyone. I am writing on a private blog-a new fiction surreal dark fairy tale thing. The memoir is taking too long, or I am just too close to it yet, so I am looking for another form–and this one is a blast. It’s full of imagery and symbolism and metaphor and if you’d like to check it out as it drafts along, let me know and I’ll give you access. Caging the Ocean Here is a scene/chapter–one of the darker ones. She is in the ocean, and her wings have been cut out. The protagonist is actually the one…
A hot summer evening, hot enough to lay my tireless, unending head on the pillow for its coolness; thunder cracking down my avenue and the rain slanting in sideways, wetting the blowing paisley curtains; somewhere out in that dark the pine I am surrounded by soaks. These nights I am not climbing up the roots of forgotten things, I am not scrambling for something solid I can breathe my air into, that old familiar ache of wanting to feel through my own skin so hard that I push right through it like broken bones because I am here, in a constant state of awakening, sometimes only to another dream only to wake up again and I stand in the mirror across the…