Saturday, January 31, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Filling me up...
My hand cracking the icy shell through to the powder beneath.
The blood stains on the sidewalk of a faraway place.
The 4x6 photo of my twin nieces with its thick black frame.
The tall, black street-man who smiles at me through his babbling by the Farragut North Metro.
The low moan of my full-bred Dalmatian when she needs my attention.
The frantic screams of family members touching hands to the body being carried on a make-shift stretcher.
The waggling jaw of the politician, or athlete, or movie star, sending out his message.
The satisfying click of the equals button on my calculator, hit emphatically.
The boxed smile I offer to whichever glazed figure appears in my latitudinal line of vision.
The polite chuckle I sometimes force to avoid further effort.
The words spilling across the screen, endlessly.
The itching creeping up through my guts, threatening my settlement.
The liquefied brine behind my eyes, alert for its chance.
A moment to reflect.
I'm full.
The blood stains on the sidewalk of a faraway place.
The 4x6 photo of my twin nieces with its thick black frame.
The tall, black street-man who smiles at me through his babbling by the Farragut North Metro.
The low moan of my full-bred Dalmatian when she needs my attention.
The frantic screams of family members touching hands to the body being carried on a make-shift stretcher.
The waggling jaw of the politician, or athlete, or movie star, sending out his message.
The satisfying click of the equals button on my calculator, hit emphatically.
The boxed smile I offer to whichever glazed figure appears in my latitudinal line of vision.
The polite chuckle I sometimes force to avoid further effort.
The words spilling across the screen, endlessly.
The itching creeping up through my guts, threatening my settlement.
The liquefied brine behind my eyes, alert for its chance.
A moment to reflect.
I'm full.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
War
blue like cold, cold ice
ice like hearts of the blind
blind from walls, high into heaven
heaven only for the lucky
born there
haven't felt my face in weeks
your touch was numb
i forgot to feel
frozen hearts romp the earth
march in lines
line in the sand: do not cross
hurt flesh and hurt pride
the injured nuisance
count themselves lucky
ice like hearts of the blind
blind from walls, high into heaven
heaven only for the lucky
born there
haven't felt my face in weeks
your touch was numb
i forgot to feel
frozen hearts romp the earth
march in lines
line in the sand: do not cross
hurt flesh and hurt pride
the injured nuisance
count themselves lucky
I'll trade you a harmless devil for an innocent.
They said the non-shiny type was good for staying clean -- just a quick wipe with a wet cloth -- much easier than getting the shiny kind polished. As I watch the dusty black peanuts linearly enter and exit my line of site with the pendulum-swing of my legs, I wonder if there are limits to my laziness.
My morning walk is usually dedicated to the possible love-interests in my life. They are fantastical, yes, but one has to work with what one has, and, who knows? Maybe the News Editor at work secretly fantasizes about me, too, if he can remember my name.
But as I watch the white lines of the red bricks blur into pink underneath my shoes, my anger won't stop mounting until I feel the acid of my stomach creep into the back of my throat. I forgot breakfast again. But how can I eat with all the pale faces of almond-colored children filling up my head. Is that what the dead look like? Just a paler version of the living? I thought at least the eyes would have a white film over them, but, no: they're the same black discs of fright. Are they still scared?
"Maybe they should start looking at home for someone to blame!"
Yes, I suppose if they can have the same color eyes, they should be able to turn them to their parents, asking, "Why?" And I guess the parent should look into the dead eyes and say, "Because I failed you." And I suppose they do.
They drop leaflets in every town warning them of death. "Flee!" they say. But when they tell them where to go, they forget to tell them that that is the target. And when they don't, they mean to say, we warn you that death approaches so that you can die in fear.
"They have the right to retaliate!"
I don't know if you can call it a war, when one side is blocked in on all sides with weapons and military one-hundredth the size of the other. Not to mention they are blocked in with ten times their number in civilians.
"They're using human shields!"
Yes, I suppose, then, we should shoot through the children. Shoot straight through the black discs to the black hearts of the enemy. It's worth it, right?
My morning walk is usually dedicated to the possible love-interests in my life. They are fantastical, yes, but one has to work with what one has, and, who knows? Maybe the News Editor at work secretly fantasizes about me, too, if he can remember my name.
But as I watch the white lines of the red bricks blur into pink underneath my shoes, my anger won't stop mounting until I feel the acid of my stomach creep into the back of my throat. I forgot breakfast again. But how can I eat with all the pale faces of almond-colored children filling up my head. Is that what the dead look like? Just a paler version of the living? I thought at least the eyes would have a white film over them, but, no: they're the same black discs of fright. Are they still scared?
"Maybe they should start looking at home for someone to blame!"
Yes, I suppose if they can have the same color eyes, they should be able to turn them to their parents, asking, "Why?" And I guess the parent should look into the dead eyes and say, "Because I failed you." And I suppose they do.
They drop leaflets in every town warning them of death. "Flee!" they say. But when they tell them where to go, they forget to tell them that that is the target. And when they don't, they mean to say, we warn you that death approaches so that you can die in fear.
"They have the right to retaliate!"
I don't know if you can call it a war, when one side is blocked in on all sides with weapons and military one-hundredth the size of the other. Not to mention they are blocked in with ten times their number in civilians.
"They're using human shields!"
Yes, I suppose, then, we should shoot through the children. Shoot straight through the black discs to the black hearts of the enemy. It's worth it, right?
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