Tag Archives: life

If I Were to Lose You

 

if i were to lose you

 

it would be in

handfuls of plums

from the fruit basket,

the last piece bruised,

but worth the keep.

 

i’d hold it in my hands

the tiny tender heart

i’d take a bite

and then

another.

 

and after i’d made it

to the pit

i would crack every tooth

because you told me

once:

 

that every thing

i’ve always

longed for

is buried in the

hardest parts

of me.

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Terminal

if there was a payphone

for the other side

it’d sit unassumingly

on a broken city sidewalk

taking numbers,

taking calls,

no takers

 

but I’d shimmy up

grab the receiver like

I’d been expecting

someone,

balance it like

precious crystal

between one ear

and one shoulder,

gifted as a

trapeze artist

 

two deep breaths

a signaled hello

tell me,

I’m cringing

shaping limbs into the

mildest of philosophers

 

is it as

barren

as in

my dreams?

 

the dial tone

answers back

straight shooter

 

this elegant thing

it’s sunrise

it’s terminal

start breathing

stop dreaming

 

 

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The Forest

ages ago she’d shape

grand predictions

in the flour snow

her mother poured out

onto the kitchen counter,

 

so ready was she for

the screaming loss of

the world to pack

sand between her ears

 

she plotted

by a dulling flashlight

in a

nylon fort

on her mattress boat,

waded excitedly in a

toy box cauldron

stuffed with undressed dollies,

 

she was studying the future.

 

her eyes shifted like a prisoner’s

from the single mesh window

out into her bedroom

that was switching landscapes

purple to honest brown, to realness

 

take it back she sang, frantic

she tried to scotch tape

the

flimsy doorway

but the truth kept coming in

 

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Unremembered (Part 3)

If you haven’t read the other installments, click here for part one and here for part two. (This story comes in small increments!)

 

Days, weeks, months later we were still intertwined; her toothbrush stood stoically in the holder on my bathroom sink, remnants of her hairspray textured the mirror, soft threads of her hair stuck quietly to my pillowcase. No cigarettes. That afternoon on the corner by the bar, when she’d searched my face and struggled to remember, had faded to the black smoke of a dying fire, dreamlike.
When Lily moved in the cardboard boxes that held her belongings sat like an Egyptian pyramid for days in the front hall. She’d move from one to another when she needed something, like a hair brush or a t-shirt.
“Why don’t you get to unpacking those?” I mentioned one morning, pouring coffee into my favorite chipped mug while she sat cross-legged in one of my work shirts. “I’ll help, you know that.”
She flipped her hair to one side of her perfect moon face and peeked at me from behind a curtain of brunette. She said nothing, only smirked in some wicked, confident way, and went on leaving coffee rings on the kitchen counter. Ever smitten with her abruptness I peeled opened the refrigerator, grabbed the carton of eggs, and cracked open my uneasiness in a mixing bowl.
Lily loved me, I could feel it. I felt it in the warmth she left behind in every room of our home, in the steadiness of her breath at night, when there was nothing left but us, darkness; I inhaled it in fresh pots of coffee and the sweet, familiar perfume she seemed to wear permanently. So when she came to me, months after she’d moved in, and told me she needed to leave for a few days – she mentioned the ocean, vastness, something about meditation – I focused on the way she cupped my hand in hers instead of the idea that she was leaving me. My smile and nod had proven as heavy as the signing of my own signature, and from there our life continued in that perfectly stitched, undulating way that unspoken secrets between lovers allowed it to do.
Lily with her weekly leaving, me with my faulty, stubborn unknowingness.

***

Click here to start reading this series from the beginning.

Click here to jump to Part 4!

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From Birth

Her father was raised

on a fire licked stage

of concrete and

streetlight discipline;

Hail Mary was stuffed in

dirt caked boots,

for nights when

only milk and potatoes

sat like church folk

on the dinner table.

 

Her mother worshipped

neon lights,

cream based vanity,

sex in lace and satin;

skin on skin

was tactless youth,

not nine months

of crater weight

in tight jeans,

tight skin.

 

From birth she

couldn’t quite explain

those empty hallway feelings,

like still air in a hurricane;

her smile spread

as thin as her ankles,

maybe as thin as

her own

more than fragile wonderment

strung up in the hallway.

 

Life twisted through seasons

of apple pie and

fragile temperaments

wading in the boiling pot;

freedom was

nothing more than

elbows on a windowsill

or else the impossible genius,

breathing deep and blowing

starlight on the doorstep.

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the meaning of life

9ad6ic

 

 

time is trivial

for the girl who crashes

like so many waves

on the borders

of her own skin.

 

knees locked,

still as a r t

her eyes scale buildings

breath and life,

from behind

the collapsing

smoke screen.

 

drink her in.

 

she is the framework of

curious endeavors.

her static lips host

gatherings

on the meaning of life.

 

back inside she

kneels in the foyer

bows her head

at the mirror

takes off rain boots

like delicate jewels.

 

suddenly

it’s morning,

and she is nesting

in the feathers

from the pillows

she c-sectioned with

a butter knife.

 

the living room is

pale

like winter

and she is b r e a t h l e s s .

 

on hands and knees

she armies to the kitchen

puts on a pot of tea

gets back in bed

listens for the

high-pitched whistling of

solitary

life.

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my gorgeous sanity

well

 

 

life had once been defined by linears and absolutes,

.                                                                                             those

oh

so

determined

swatches of        time .

 

stacked like   esteemed leaders

in golds and blues

 

once, i’d been able to

drag them to the

middle

of the living room,

fan them out like

beautiful tarot cards,

.                                        close my eyes,

choose some wonderful thing

at random.

 

then one morning the

sun

came

up

but everything           was

.                                        dull,

gray like rain,

still as death,

and i was                 barren.

 

i ran to the closet

.                                   in the hall

tore past

coats

board games

orange rain boots .

 

but they were already         gone

my gorgeous sanity

 

those delicate

patterns

of some life.

 

The Speakeasy #151 is open!

I hope you enjoyed my post – click the link above or the badge below to learn how to participate!

speakeasy2

 

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My Sanity Has Three Phases

Thanks, Pinterest.

Thanks, Pinterest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I feel as though my life has three phases, each lasting for a steady week or so before transitioning to the next.

Here they are in no particular order (except normalcy is never ever directly followed by another week of the same. that’s just crazy talk.):

Phase One: Normalcy. 

You know, just day-to-day whatever-ness. Work, food, wine, maybe a stubborn coffee ring on the cheap kitchen counter that needs a good scrub with a Mr. Eraser. Nothing to make me want to pound my head against the refrigerator.

Phase Two: Absolute fucking chaos. 

Just as phase one is winding down, I arrive home from work to find out the small dog has pissed on our couch in smelly revenge when husband took away her rawhide. Well played, asshole, well played. Cue us lifting it onto a snow pile on the front lawn. At least I’ll be getting a new couch out of the deal (Until then we squeeze onto the loveseat. Not romantic when two dogs are trying to squeeze in there, too). Perhaps something else is destroyed, a customer calls me a name, we get another eighteen feet of snow. Things continue to snowball until I am in the fetal position ripping out tufts of hair, probably with some kind of injury by now (to top things off), and likely doing shots of vodka before noon.

Phase Three: A refreshing stream of good luck. 

Like, laughter and rainbows and puppies that don’t piss on couches. That’s like heaven on earth in this household, people. In times like these the zoo doesn’t wake the household until at least 9:30 AM. The coffee maker doesn’t take so damn long to brew my cup (the Keurig is dying on us). I have three days off from work and we actually get the Christmas decorations put away before Valentine’s Day.

I love to see others smiling, having an awesome day, that kind of day we all wish we could have ALL. THE. TIME. Yesterday was that day for me and I’m still smiling.

Ah, refreshing. 

Yesterday morning I woke up and checked my Twitter for the first time in several days; The Daily Post had shared my piece I’d written in response to the Weekly Writing Challenge. AWESOME!! Being recognized by WordPress twice within just a few months made me hold my head a little higher. It feels pretty damn cool to say the least.

Then Joe and I headed into NYC last night for a taping of That Metal Show. With a little help I’d managed to score us free tickets and it was an amazing experience. I’d never been to a taping of any kind before, and the entire process was very interesting (clap here, look here, nod here, now laugh). Even better? We were seated right by the area each guest entered through, Myles Kennedy grabbed my hand, and I’m pretty sure my giant noggin will be all over your television screen this Saturday night. So if you’re a fan of the show (or if you just want to see me trying not to look awkward on TV) tune in to VH1 Classic this weekend at 11PM!!

Some highlights:

Myself and Mark Tremonti of Alter Bridge!

Myself and Mark Tremonti of Alter Bridge!

The set!

The set.

 

It was a great time and a very energetic crowd. The cast and crew were so nice.

Hosts and guests mulling about after the taping.

Hosts and guests mulling about after the taping.

 

 

We went to bed all smiles last night. And this morning? I woke up to this.

I’ve been waiting months, hoping Offbeat Bride would feature us, and they did. Best day (and a half) ever

So, cheers to Phase Three. I’m dreading the end of it all; by this time next week I should be buried under my comforter with an empty bottle of wine.

What’s the best day you’ve had recently? 

P.S. – That awesome banner up there with me all half-zombified? My extremely bad-ass friend Adam over at Chowderhead made that for me. So if you’d like to spruce up your own page with a fresh look, please click here and hire this dude to get the job done. You won’t be disappointed.

 

 

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Something I’m Afraid Of

 

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My grandfather died just before I was to be married. He was sick, very, very sick. I didn’t see him just before he went, but when my mother told me he looked like a different person then, I was glad I only had the memory of a big, burly man to hold on to.

I love(d) my grandfather, as I love the rest of my immediate family; but the truth is, we rarely see each other. As a child, there were more gatherings, more visits, even dinner at someone’s home. Then things faded to holidays, and when I moved out, to nothing. Phone calls are rare now, except to say “Happy Birthday” or “I’m so sorry”; the “necessities”. And then, there’s barely that. At my grandfather’s funeral, the photo collage by the front door included a picture of me on his lap, young and plump. Nothing within the past…ten years or so.

We headed to a cigar bar after, for food and drinks and cigarettes. I’ve quit smoking, but I bummed one from my mother. It felt okay to indulge after the stiffness of the morning. As our shoulders loosened we shared stories. I smiled, laughed, and then I considered how each story I played a part in happened before I ever knew who I was. I was just a child. A silly, moody child that said all the wrong things, still scolded for making mistakes. Every scenario my aunt recounted involved a time she’d been babysitting while my parents were out with friends. She was still calling me “kiddo”. If I saw more of these people in the present, would they realize I hadn’t been frozen in time as a forever-twelve-year-old? The Jack Daniels in my hand and cigarette in my lips wasn’t enough to break the image.

Maybe I’m digging too far into things. Or maybe, just maybe I’m onto something. Now that I am twenty-five, a full-fledged adult with a husband and a house, I realize my part in it all. Communication needs two  outlets to work, and I’ve come to realize mine needs some rewiring. But then, so does the other side’s.

Life is too short; taking nothing for granted; cherish your loved ones; etc., etc. All of this is true. But who takes the initiative? Me, perhaps, since I’m the one considering it all, here. But when you’ve been hurt, do you bother? I’m good at holding grudges. (Not a specialty I am necessarily proud of.) While there is a lot of love in my family, there is also a lot of hurt. Every family can relate to this.

My grandfather died just before I was married. Death happened, mourning happened, recovery began. Several people once close to me – still closest to him – were invited. None came. Fine. This is the hardest of times.

None acknowledged. Not then, not now, will not, likely, ever. I am hurt. Am I selfish? I don’t know. But I will not feel bad for feeling hurt. The time of calling for the “necessities” has come to a solid, grim end. Death happens, we hurt, we heal, life never stops.

So now I slink backward into my hole and think, every day, about whether or not I am right, about what it all means. I don’t even wish to be right, I just want to know why things are how they are. Is this love? If we don’t celebrate our milestones, then how do we define this dynamic? I want reason. I shimmy back and forth between anger and sadness, all the while not doing a damn thing about it. Not speaking out, not making an effort to yell, to ask “how are you?”. For me, now, it’s pointless.

Some who may get a hold of these words may be upset by them. But then, if they are, they’ll only feel that way if they were the ones who ignored the most important day of my life. I’ve never posted something I was afraid of. I didn’t need an audience – a man died, an important man, death shadowed everything, how can one celebrate a new life when one had only just come to an end? But words – so important. One word makes all the difference. Congratulations. Instead, nothing.

There may be some form of love there, but still, we go on in damaged silence.

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she’ll stay

Margarita Georgiadis (Artist)

Margarita Georgiadis (Artist)

 

she reached in and pulled smoke

from where her heart should have been.

 

she blew rings of

transparent

laughter

that went down,

down,

down

and disappeared behind her knees.

 

she is always

wondering

what                      holds it all together

when                     there is nothing there to hold anymore.

 

a half empty cavity of star dust

existing only to

exist

colors aren’t colors when

her

 

head

 

has gone gray as

a

television screen.

 

if Death is just as dull

she’ll stay

 

counting the tiles on the kitchen

floor.

 

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