Ma_Malai's Xanga

Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory (An Improper Christmas Story) Part One

Fri, 16 May 2008 00:30:04 GMT

It was raining Christmas day. It rained everyday, but still, it was Christmas. Israel moodily crunched a few of her cornflakes underneath her spoon. They broke and floated to the surface in bits, becoming soggy, much like her present thoughts as they dripped through the cracks in her brain.

"You gonna be alright?" Chester asked through a mouthful of canned beans. As his tongue ran over his teeth it left behind a glutinous trail of brown maple-sugar coating that caused Israel to shudder. She was not one for baked beans in the morning. But Chester had insisted, providing her with a rather dusty can he’d found in the back of the cupboard. "Are you thinking about him again?"

Israel flared her nostrils as Chester flung his head back, his jaws snapping, throat fluctuating to swallow another large jaw full of baked beans.

“I hate Christmas!” Israel threw her spoon to the countertop with a clang and upturned her chair, splashing through the shallow kitchen water towards the backdoor. After several loud gulps Chester splashed through the water after her.

“I’m sorry.” He flexed his bat-like wings, emerald grey like the thousands of rain clouds, and lapped at the water, clean and clear. And cold.

“No,” Israel rubbed her chin. “I’m sorry.” She leaned against the glass panel and looked out at the horizon where a magnificent boat with bright sails lay in the shallow water only several yards from where she stood. But it lay breached, its hull torn open, blood red awning flapping feebly in the Christmas wind. Israel shook her head and exhaled, running an agitated hand through her hair and pulling her bomber jacket more closely to herself. “I'm just so tired.”

“I know.” Chester said.

“I'm tired of all of this! Christmas, and boats with giant holes at the bottom! Rain! Dragons with morning bean breath...” when she was done she exhaled again and bit the inside of her lip furiously. “Stupid people running around in Christmas blimps pretending they can solve everybody’s problems.”

“You’re only angry because you miss him.”

“You!” She made to kick at the dragon, who splashed backwards. Chester made his way back to his unfinished breakfast. “Well, you’re just a charming little Christmas present to me, aren’t you?” He hop-fluttered up onto the table, his scales scratching against the wood, claws gouging into the counter as he pulled himself up. He glared back at her over his shoulder. Then he bared his teeth, a characteristic of a dragon smile.

“Christmas.” Israel said miserably, still looking out the window.

“Oh, you’ll be fine. You'll see.” He stuck his tongue out at her.

“That’s what you always say.”

"Anyway, I don't know why you're so sour, you've got me- and that's a far cry better than what most of those other sorry Christmas kiddies have. ” Then he resumed his bean feast.

Outside the wind picked up, whistling loudly, and a water stained banner that read 'To All a Happy Holiday' blew by, landing wetly in the shallow water islet of Israel’s home-of-the-moment. There was no-one else around for miles, which meant the sign must have blown free from a zeppelin.

The thought caused her heart to leap and her stomach to turn, then she felt something rising in her throat. Israel threw the door open and leaned out, vomiting spectacularly into the wind. Regurgitated bits of corn flakes soaked in coffee splattered against the side of the house and onto the windows. Hair blew around her face as she wiped her mouth, her eyes scanning the sky for any signs of life. But there were none. She coughed again and pulled herself through the doorway out onto the wet sand. Her bare feet dragging as, splash. Up to her ankles? The water was rising. "Chester!" She cried out, panicked, as she ran to the side of the house. But he was already next to her, and then ahead of her pulling on the rope of the small wooden rowboat that sat on the waves, knocking against the side of their would-be home.

"Catch!" Chester threw the rope to Israel, who caught it and pulled, wading now, through the water back towards the kitchen door. "Israel we don't have time!"

"No! We do, I have to get my stuff!"

"Israel, it's happening too fast!"

"Then help me!" She yelled angrily, and Chester flew past her, his wings scything through the rain like two finely pounded sheets of metal, pummeling his way towards the bedroom where he grabbed a half filled pillowcase in his talons and turned back.

"I have it, get in the boat!"

By now the wind was screaming into their ears, and the most they could do was read each other's lips as Israel climbed into the boat, hugging Chester and the pillow case tightly against her chest.

She stole one last look at the red sailed glory, her red sailed glory, and then untied the tarp, pulling it over their heads, darkness blocking out what little sun this world provided them.

They lay there, huddled in the bottom of the boat as the world ripped open around them. The waves pounded the tiny vessel against the water and Chester and Israel found themselves getting increasingly seasick.

"Here," Israel opened the pillowcase and searched around for the bottle, "Chester," she gently touched one of his wings. He was lying quite still next to her. "Chester, here, eat this." He turned his head and Israel pushed two of the seasickness tablets in between his teeth. "C'mon, swallow," and then she took a few and put the bottle back, pulling out a flashlight. "look, Chester, light!" She flicked it on, luminosity fluttering like a moth inside of their little wooden cage.

Chester groaned.

"I told you this would be the worst Christmas ever." Israel held her hands over her stomach, still holding the flashlight, and closed her eyes, trying to meditate. But instead drifted off to sleep.

When she woke the wind had died down, the seas had calmed their rage, and water was misting on her face, over her whole body. She opened her eyes to a sky still full of rain clouds. Chester had pushed back the tarp and was sitting at the bow of the boat, watching cities go by underneath, his tail knocking gently against the till. "Look," he whispered, "Christmas lights."

Israel struggled up, shut off the flashlight and crawled over to the helm. She peered over the edge, into the water and there they were, thousands of tiny white lights glinting far below the surface. An entire underwater city, still lit beneath the waves by magician's FaerieLightsÔ . Israel took one last look and sat back, reaching into the pillowcase for a candy bar. "I guess that advertisement's true then. They never do go out."

"I guess not," Chester lay his head to rest against the rolled tarp and Israel tore the wrapper off her chocolate, and broke it in half.

"Chester?" She held it out.

"Thanks."

"So, where do you think we are?" Israel asked him, taking a bite. The chocolate was old and crumbly, she made a face but continued to chew.

"I don't know, but I'm going to miss that one." Chester licked at his candy- he didn't like sugar much. “A whole closet filled with cans. We should have taken some with us.”

"Yeah, that was one of the nicest houses we'd found." Israel thought wistfully of the red sailed boat. "If we'd only had more time, I could've fixed it."

"And the beds!" Chester sighed and swallowed the rest of his meal. Then shuddered and turned back to the sea.

Israel started to sing, "It's a holly jolly Christmas, it's the best time of the year-"

"Oh by golly have a holly jolly Christmas,"

"This year..." But it was a melancholy Christmas carol, sung more like a choir of misfit toys than angels. And they could hear something in the distance, the buzzing of propeller engines as they came closer, and closer, and closer. A zeppelin! Israel could see it and it was wound with strands of brightly shining multicolored Christmas lights. FaerieLightsÔ ! The only kind of light that would stay lit in this weather. Israel’s heart hit her stomach, and she quickly spat the rest of her chocolate over the side of the boat.

"Chester!"

“I see it!"

"It's so-"

"Beautiful," Chester finished, his round dragon eyes reflecting the myriad of colors the airship offered.

"They're so brave," Israel mouthed, but she wasn't sure if she'd said it out loud. The zeppelin loomed nearer still, so close that Israel could see the lights inside the cabin, and people moving about. She reached a hand to her cheek to find it wet with tears. She hadn’t seen people in so long. Well, not live ones anyway.

“C’mon Chester!” Israel said, sitting up. She began to rummage around in the pillowcase. “We’ve got to get their attention somehow!”

“Have we got flares with us?” Chester was looking around the boat.

“No!” Israel cried, distressed, “I didn’t think to put any in,”

“They’d’ve just gotten wet anyway.” Chester pushed the bag aside.

“What’re you doing?” Israel asked, and then, “Oh!” She scooted off to one side of the boat as Chester unfolded his great wings with a flap, droplets of water falling to the wood beneath him, and pushed off into the sky, beating the air. Israel watched him fly upwards toward the zeppelin, approach the cabin and bang his body against the siding. The FaerieLightsÔ flickered in the drizzling rain. And then someone opened the door with a loud clang. Moments later a rope ladder was rolled out, snaking its way down towards the waves.

Israel was standing now, one hand clutching the pillowcase the other shielding her eyes from the onslaught of water as Chester flew back to her. “Well?”

“They want us to board.”

“What about the boat?”

“Leave it.”

“What?” Israel shouted.

“They can’t take it! There’s no way to lift it up, and it’s too dangerous for them to come this low.”

“I'm not getting stuck on a zeppelin’s cruise, no way! That’s death what they do! I like our way better!”

“Israel! Think about it! We can’t do this forever, we already play our luck to the last with every storm that comes up, how much longer do you think this boat-?” But then Chester was blown by the wind, beaten across the air and thrown into the water.

“CHESTER!”

But he didn’t move and his limp form was already starting to sink into the sea. Israel shoved the bag down the front of her dress and plunged into the water. It was ice cold. She looked around frantically, thrashing her arms and legs to stay afloat. She dove into a wave and opened her eyes under the water, searching, and there he was, slowly dropping towards the brightly lit cities below. She pulled herself across and snatched him to her chest as she undid the fastenings on her coat, biting the pillowcase between her teeth as it fell away. Then she shot to the surface, barely keeping herself afloat as she brought Chester’s head above the water.

“Breathe!” She screamed at him, though her voice was muffled by the cloth between her teeth. “Breathe!” Then Chester coughed out a stream of water, his eyelids fluttered and opened.

“Grab the rope.” He coughed.

Something soft hit the back of Israel’s head and she reached around behind her to get a steady hold. “It’ll be ok, Chester. Whatever happens next, it’ll be ok.” She held onto the rope ladder and pressed Chester to her chest as they began their ascension. Israel looked upwards towards the gaping maw of the zeppelin as it brought them closer, and thought it looked like a beast preparing to consume. Then she tumbled, tired and delirious, into the cabin of the zeppelin, where she was immediately enfolded by a white towel and cinnamon spice scent.

Rot

Mon, 12 May 2008 21:00:30 GMT

When I wait for him by the river's edge, the things I've forgotten resurface in the corners of my mind, playing at the edges- half in sight, but diving beneath the surface when I turn my head. Like shoals of silver fish they glint in the light of my almost understanding, and then, they're gone. It's always like that now.

All I can think about is what it would be like to sever his tail from his body. I imagine it would be incredibly satisfying, like burying your arms deep down into the mud of the marsh, only more so. You only have to watch them to understand what I mean. That tail is what propels them through the water so fast that catching anything, even a six year old boy, requires no effort at all. I think that maybe if I can remove the tail, I'll stop dreaming about the leftover pieces that I kept finding for days afterwards. Maybe I'll be able to stop thinking about alligators.

Maybe I'll even move on, but I doubt it.

I want to render him powerless. As powerless as I was when my voice and breath caught in my throat- nowhere to go but back inside of me strangling my heart and darkening the outer edges of my eyes. As I watched those jaws snap shut, I froze. And for years, that was all I was. Years and minutes and moments and nothing but stretching time- seeing nothing more than water stained with what had been my son.

But I am not frozen now. And all I can think is how will I catch him, how will I get past the bone, how will I feel, once it's over? Is there a release- will I feel sorrow, and not just ice flowing through my veins?

Or will that darkness come back to take all of me this time? Will it push me down to rot beneath the mud and silt?

Since then I've been watching from the shore, waiting and planning, until finally I'm ready. I've made a spear to slow him, and I don't doubt the strength I'll find to pull him from the water. An axe sits upon the shore and I check it one last time before I slip into the river.

The light is high, and I have nothing to hold me back.

I wait along the river's edge, holding onto roots to stay in place. With the water high above my head I surface for air only when I remember, I'm so lost within the water- lost but waiting. Time now is the same as always- it stopped for me so long ago.

I wait until what I think are just shadows and the difference of darkness and light, quickly turn to limbs and claws and jaws so powerful my skull can feel the threat. From the mud and silt of the river bed, my feet slipping, heart pounding-

I do not lunge.

Instead, I shrink in awe of his presence passing above me. The late afternoon sun shines down on the water and silhouettes him- so that his eyes, brown but still so clear, catch the light and fragment it back through the current. His tail pushes him lazily along, and I watch, entranced and powerless by what I yearn for. As I watch him go, my breath grows short, and I rise slowly to the surface knowing that it's over. I let my spear fall and for the first time in months, I feel warmth spread through my body as I pull myself by reed and root up onto solid earth.

And lay here panting. Satisfied, and digging my arms deep down into the mud of the marsh and crying and gasping and underneath it all, overjoyed.

The Eggshell Theory

Fri, 02 May 2008 23:08:38 GMT

It's harder for us real girls. The ones made of flesh and bone, not saline. 100% real, no additives-ever. That's me.

We used to peel hard boiled eggs at the sink- cracked porcelain- washed our hands with an old bar of Ivory soap, like our mothers taught us to scrub real hard, peel real carefully, so we wouldn't get cut on the egg shell. Hard boiled eggs and coffee so old it stained your tongue and your memories. Hit your stomach and made you really think. Made me think about an egg shell protecting a universe, my universe. Made me think about girls, think about me, think about me and girls and how my mother never taught me anything useful.

I sucked at the cut on my finger and washed the blood and tiny white shell pieces down the drain.

It's easy to pretend you care when you don't- sort of like crying when you cut up an onion- except the onion's optional. Love is tricky though. It's not as easy to pretend you're in love with somebody. Not like cutting an onion, not even like peeling an egg. It's much easier to get hurt.

When we felt like being bad we'd take off our pants and eat fried chicken on the couch. Toss our jeans to the floor and wiggle our toenails- painted different colors, depending on the time of year and what type of moods we were in. I always felt like my eyes lingered a little too long on her-

feet.

I am a real girl- a girl who drinks days old coffee and eats hard boiled eggs in her underwear, a girl who combs out her hair right after she gets out of the shower and wonders about what color to paint her toenails that don’t need to be painted, because no one will ever see them, except her. A girl who is capable of falling in love- but who would rather cut onions and think about an entire universe contained in a single white egg.

I am a 100% real girl.

And I have never been lonelier.

~*~

“Do you want some gum?” I asked her- that day on the beach was windy with a fair amount of rain- the occasional burst of ice cold precipitation that would just blast you on the back of the neck, long enough to make you wish you’d brought your jacket, short enough to make you change your mind about going back to the car.

“What kind?” She asked me, but before I had a chance to answer she’d grabbed my hand and opened it to check for herself. I loved that about her, that kind of intrusive intimacy that added so many layers to our relationship.

I forget what kind of gum it was, or whether or not she had had any. But later on, when I kissed her, down by the water’s edge, her breath tasted sharp and cool- like peppermint.

Her name was caramel melting in my mouth and her skin was soft underneath my calloused hands. I used to trace circles on her stomach as we lay in bed. Of all the girls I’d ever been around, she was the best at being soft. I talked to her about the universe a few times, but she wasn’t really interested.

There was this one girl who sang all the time, even though she wasn’t really good at it. And another who knew how to build a fire in all kinds of weather. There was one who could take things apart and put them back together, another who could peel an apple all in one peel. There was even one girl who knew how to make true darkness by putting her palms over my eyes. But I've only ever known one other 100% real girl.

Girls like her are few and far between. Girls like her eat fried chicken half naked on overstuffed couches and know all about eggshells, and stained memories. Girls like her are pitfalls for people who’d rather not fall in love.

~*~

I remember a time when everything was vintage, but we didn't call it that. When I was twelve, I spent the majority of my time at my mother's boutique, where everything smelled like lavender and even the air appeared to be purple. If there was ever a woman in the world more feminine then my mother, I hadn't met her. My mother reeked of femininity, which of course, smelled like lavender.

I smelled like summer- dirt and sunlight, grass stains and clean laundry.

I got my first kiss when I was twelve. That summer we were all down by the old Pepsi-Cola sign, it was a dare, more accurately a triple-dog dare, and no kid in their right mind who doesn't want to be labeled chicken for life refuses a triple-dog dare. The darer was a grungy kid, I'd picked that word up from my mother, dirt under his finger nails, hair that hadn't been washed in weeks- this was the kind of kid who never ever washed behind his ears.

"Kiss her." He said, pushing me.

"No way!" I had to protect her. From him, from me.

"Kiss her! C'mon, you guys spend so much time together anyway, you might as well get married!" His voice broke into that sing-song-y style kids our age used as emphasis, his mouth puckered and he made kiss-y lips in my direction.

The bastard.

"C'mon, I dare you."

"Go away!" I yelled, my fists raised. I could feel her trembling behind me.

I couldn't kiss her! Such an action surely meant humiliation for her. It was a different situation for me, I'd already been labeled the tom-boy sort, I'd only be in trouble if I refused the dare, but for her, it was a lose-lose situation.

If I kissed her, than she'd be the girl who'd been kissed by the tom-boy.

If I didn't kiss her than she'd be the girl who couldn't get kissed.

Such humiliations weigh heavily on the shoulders of twelve year olds. Little did any of them know that I'd been wanting to kiss her for a while. But not like this. Not in front of everyone. Not when she was standing there in the dirt, her sundress wrinkled from crawling under porches, tears streaming down her smudged face- her eyes so blue in the summer sun.

"C'mon, I double-dog dare you!" He smirked, hands on his smug little hips, as his cohorts whistled in awe behind him, their eyebrows lifting, eyes widening as the stakes were raised.

I grabbed for her wrist behind me- I knew what was coming, and I was getting us ready.

"Triple-dog dare you." His voice was strangely calm now. He knew he had me check and mate. I'd have to be out of my mind to back down from this one.

"Come on!" I yanked her arm and we took off running. We left them all in a cloud of dust so big when it cleared they were wondering whether or not it had all been a dream. At least that's what I hoped.

I led the way and she, brave, loyal soul that she was, followed me blindly, with complete and utter trust. I was, after all, her 'best' friend. Such a title carried with it more than just broken necklaces and slumber parties. I was her leader of sorts, in that summer of scraped knees and tadpoles, I was her teacher and I had one more thing to show her.

When we finally stopped we were both so out of breath we had to sit down on the pavement and drool for a while, squinting in concentration trying not to throw up. A few minutes later we looked at each other, our faces split with goofy smiles, tears in our eyes.

I leaned over then, and kissed her. On the lips, where it counts. I was no chicken and she and I both knew it.

Of course, that was the summer before I learned that kissing girls is not allowed.

My mother came hurtling out of her boutique trailing streams of lavender smoke like purple fire behind her. In our haste I'd brought us to the one place I thought we'd be truly safe. Instead, I ended up stuffing more bags of potpourri that summer than I'd ever hoped to stuff in my life.

I didn't see her again until eighth grade started that fall. But when I did, she didn't seem as happy to see me as I was to see her.

Life's like that.

My eggshell was more fragile back then.

Over the years I've built it up to be stronger, better. Tougher. The only downside to having a thicker shell, is if it breaks, you'll get cut worse than you ever got cut before.

And if you break- who'll be there to pick up the pieces?

~*~

I met her in one of those culture markets downtown. The kind that refers to everything as fresh and homegrown. She was buying coffee and cigarettes, my kind of woman. Later that night, back at my apartment, she and I smoked cigarettes and drank our way through two bottles of red wine before we realized, life was nothing like either of us had expected.

We made our way to the shower and I realized she was gorgeous, even more so with the water cascading around her shoulders and breasts. She leaned into me to turn the water tap to hot, and as her hands slid down my back she whispered in my ear-

"Nothing is ever what you expect it to be."

She was right.

I used to know a girl, who was 100% authentic. I kissed her once. But the thing is, people change, and nothing is ever what you expect it to be. She's probably not 100% anymore. Come to think of it, neither am I.

An Acceptance of Us

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 19:12:54 GMT

 
There's something here that's always
been. And saturates the air. 

What lights upon our lips-
ashes. And years of what's been 
lonely in the night stains our shadows 
black with soot.
 
Darkened floorboards have remained 
unspoken. So graciously receiving weight 
they bend and creak.
 
So long have they longed.
 
What vines that twist themselves around 
the body of our beast, through broken 
windows creep and strain to reach the center.
In ten small steps we overtake a year of progress-
concentration. 
 
A curtain smolders. Rustles in the wind. 
There is no smoke here. 
Only memories. 
 
Whispers at our ears and 
fingers through our hair. On tiptoes stealing
through the house. A glint of sunlight simply
isn't. But we are satisfied to know 
we'll never be alone.
 
There's something here that's always
been. And craving more than shadows on the wall 
it creeps across our floors. Outside the clouds 
are dark and filled with rain, and inside-
something waits. And something listens. 
Something watches us and speaks our names.

Hard On For Candy

Fri, 18 Apr 2008 23:04:22 GMT

I don't know if you realize that we've been living
a sugar coated life. It goes well with your sugar
coated cunt. I feel like Laffy Taffy while you parade around-
cotton candy hair and Hershey Kisses tits- your cartwheels send
pieces flying through the air, be careful.
You could start a riot.

At night we gorge ourselves in caramel lust. I’m
trying to avoid your cherry center but we both know-
it won’t last long. And you, your tongue so
well rehearsed at searching every crevice for any
sweetness left unfound- like those
candy soda bottles, you melt my wax exterior and
quench your thirst on what pours forth.

And I’m falling in love all over again with your gumdrop ass.
There’s toffee in your kiss and syrup
blankets everything we own, but that’s just fine.
Our sugar coated love affair will serve me well-
and if you leave I’ll drive a pixie stick right through
your strawberry heart, and watch your filling spread across the floor.

But you’ll never leave me, will you? You’ve grown
dependant on my face.

You’ve got a sugar coated craving only I can
help to take away and
nothing to offer but a mouthful of rot,
from my sugar coated crotch.

Fragments From My Neon Love-Affair

Sat, 05 Apr 2008 10:25:42 GMT

There's something to be said
for that leftover bit of human
essence that accumulates,
unwanted at the bottom of gutters
and in crevices less acquainted
with the light. And I can't help but
notice how pieces of you seem to
fall away as you walk.
Like the scales of a fish they
catch the light and fragment it,
thrusting it back up into the
atmosphere. Like how we thrust
into each other last night when
all the light had been swallowed
up into our aching crevices,
burning images into our skin.

Afterwards, when I pressed
my face inside your chest,
I could taste the salt and
stale of you. And you tasted
like cured meat and the darkened
corners of alleyways no-one
goes into.

What Pools at the Bottom of Clay Pots

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 10:32:15 GMT

She made pots of black tea and left them sitting. Days later, just before the mold she would come back and drink it all, cold and stale. She said she drank it old because the taste reminded her of the way the earth felt under her bare feet. Smiling, she would pour a cup for me. I only tried it once, but the taste of time had left an imprint, and after that I sat and stared into the murk, waiting for something new to rise from the bottom.

Out in the yard, the air turning cold with autumn, I would concentrate on the sea and think about a time that came before all of this. I needed something to help me remember. Sights, smells, sounds, it all sunk to the bottom, sticking in the silt. Memories like stones, pebbles, tiny grains of sand. Memories swept under the couch, forgotten at the bottom of an old pair of sneakers which were worn by time and salt water.Things I'd forgotten would sometimes resurface in the corners of my mind, playing at the edges, almost in sight, but diving far beneath the surface the second I turned my head. Like shoals of silver fish they glinted in the light of my almost understanding, and then, gone.

My eyes got tired of it.

It was just too hard. And so I forgot, but I never meant to. I think, maybe giving up was just more make-believe than anything. Nothing was ever very solid, nothing, except the two of us.

I think she drank that tea for more than just the taste of earth. She drank because she knew that she too, could lose everything in just a moment. I should have had more of that tea- I should have spent more time with that smile, those feet whose soles were brown from damp soil.

For a while, I think she meant to help me.

Maybe she could, once. I can't remember. When she left, it all fell away from me. Over the cliffs and onto the rocks below, that was all it took.

What Remains

Fri, 28 Mar 2008 23:32:52 GMT

In living and in death, there so you are. In morning, tendrils curling, steam rising from your body as you step from one plane to the next. Our existence is divided- we walk along the barrier between the living and the dead. Your lips are pale- like the cream in my coffee and the maggots in the pantry who remind me that the food I’ve left alone, no longer want, is theirs. That’s fine. I consist on what remains of you. Living in the shadow of what you left behind, I'm fading, soon to be devoured by the earth, and your embrace.

Fascinated as I was by you, your body sinking in the moor, and strangled as your voice had sounded- I was so still. I could not steel myself to move or offer up my arms or any strength I did not have. I watched you sinking, while screaming inward at my every molecule to save your body from that awful suffocation.

You, who had always been afraid to pull the covers past your chin. You, who could not stand to be in any room devoid of windows. How terrified you must have been to see me, the statue that had loved you, then watched you die.

What is that thick and black that curdles in your throat and rasping, follows me from room to room? Your eyes, so dark, reflections cannot live- so heavy laden lids, and weighted, pressing down on me. But you can freely take what I have left. I am not much but what remains is what belongs to you. I’m begging. Please, begging. Take me, too. Together we can breach that great divide and end this thing.

We'll come to a forever falling.

Marzipan

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 22:23:11 GMT

Those lips, which parted, holding marzipan
sweet almond in her kiss and knowing
just how much I love the taste of her, she
leans into me, pushes her face to mine.

The rain outside becomes staccato in
octaves, echoing across the shallow space
of night. Her body lithe: a piano, a cello, a
violin. Certainly an instrument to my inventing
mind. But she does not belong to me.

Outside of our four walls the moon is
nothing if not so much of white. And
rocking our sleeping minds back and forth
like newborns, that plum dark sea
protectively embraces the idea of what
we might become if left alone.

Footprints

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 11:12:14 GMT

Midnight comes slowly stepping
through the parlor trying
not to wake the person
in the other room.
Silently the stars
whisper to themselves
about the day that came before the night,
and underneath the floorboards
the dirt scatters itself out
so that you can't see
the footprints of the dead.