Weeps

Crying
The poor painted lady weeps
Her palette
Dry
As she falls asleep,
Dreaming of colors
Blue
And violet,
She thinks of last week
So much time had passed
It seemed not that long ago
The cat
Inadvertently
Knocking over the yellow
And then the red
It was an accident
She was angry
Her two year project
Commissioned by the Met
Ruined
Poverty her constant companion
She stopped painting
Shut the doors to her studio
A dilapidated shack
Angry and bitter
Melancholy
Sacrificing her passions
Slumping into despair
Why me she asked?
It was only later
Years later
After her cat had died
And her bungalow up for foreclosure
Did she revisit her studio
The scene of the bad
And the project
Strewn in the corner
Did she find
A sunburst of orange
For years she knew pain
Suffering
When it could have been worse
She was lucky
She had lived
And her painting
More valuable
Than before

Soon Sir

She closed her eyes.  This curious night was as all other nights one in which she would wake up alive in the morning.   It was her anniversary.   Her husband's foot got in her way, brushing up against her wearied body.   She moved over to the left side of the bed, to a little corner where she felt safe and happy, if one could call sharing a bed with this stranger happiness.  His loud breath kept her awake most nights, an incessant snoring she had never grown accustomed to.  From time to time a train rumbled in the distance,  carrying with each vibration a hope for escape, even if that meant death.  In time she would fall asleep and dream of another man, one she longed to know more than she did.  The scent of his breath, of his body, of his hair, reminded her of days yet to come.  They consumed her, and she could do nothing to shake the powerful urges from her soul.  Tonight she would remain untouched and unsullied, but her soul would dance behind her closed eyelids wishing that the child with the white woolen winter hat belonged to him, the grey fox she called Dad.  Shyly, she had let the man have his way with her and secretly she took pleasure standing naked on the brambled path as he lifted her skirt.  That night she became his.  Tonight, she would have to take pleasure envisioning the man who was capable of awakening her with his roughness.   With any rape fantasies tucked aside, the woman was slow to sink into the depths of sleep.  In her dreams she placed her leg upon his, trembling,  her cheeks wet with tears, waiting and wanting to come home. 

Tangled: Chapter 2

It was a good day.  It's even a better day when reality is pushed down in favor of surrealism or esoterism.   Hell, I might even dance with some of the other isms-nihilism, existentialism,  sado masochism, agnosticism, Buddhism.    You name it.  On the surface I am open and articulate, upbeat and motivated.  But the other part of me does not possess a sense of clarity or decisiveness but rather a strangling tightness.   The hypocrisy we live with in so many ways is deafening.   The ism that is forgotten is eroticism.   Fabricated from fragments of lust, it calls me like so many others to question that which  falsely surrounds our being.  It is the essence of humanity, urging us to be present within ourselves.  Dizzy with immediacy it calls us and our trapped spirits to soar.   I smile embracing for the first time ever, or at least in a very long time, a lyricism of the highest intensity, climaxing and embracing the possibility of impossibility.  The radiance of life consumes me.   In her fervor I celebrate today.  I no longer gasp for air in the confinement of that garage in Arizona.   That would be garage of that would be life among the scorpions and the saguaro cacti.  I'm breathing peacefully now. Let's wait until tomorrow to be suffocated again. 

Tangled: Chapter 1

I've been cleaning the garage all day and quite honestly I'm tired of it.  Now at least the weather is conducive to garage cleaning.  In Wisconsin I hardly notice if I haven't drunk my eight glasses of water.  Now if I were in Phoenix this time of year this scenario would play a little differently.   First I probably would not have a garage.  If I did I wouldn't be able to bare more than ten minutes in it without feeling sick to my stomach, lightheaded, or something worse.   I'm glad I'm not in Arizona.   I wonder if they even have garage sales in Arizona.   They surely wouldn't have yard sales this time of year would they?  I'll have to ask Jeanne the next time I'm there.  So here I am sitting in my living room, showered shaved and trimmed.  I have on beige silky underwear, grey tight shorts, and a bright red tshirt sporting an electric guitar.  Millie is laying at my feet on top of my fuzzy cheetah blanket.  She's getting ready to bark at me.  Lately she's been barking for seemingly no reason.  She has food, water, and treats. She doesn't need to go outside.  I don't think she's in any pain, though for a 97 year old dog what do I know.  I guess we will all find out soon enough.  Her hearing is going.  I think she senses stress in my marriage.   Animals know when one is sick or sad or stressed.  Perhaps she's just picking up on what's not being said.  So here I sit.  Today was a good day.  Everyday I am alive is a good day. 

The End

My deepest desires
Submerged in my soul
A life wrought with lies
Now taking its toll
What can I do
When all has been lost
Bill had been right
With the Tempest that's been tossed
I'm losing me an inch at a time
I'm losing me an inch at a time
The circus tent is all in tow
The lion tamer erect and ready
The elephants depressed and looking sad
The fat lady baritone and heady
It's not a choice so don't blame me
As I'm sitting in the stands
A hazy film wafts over me
And you may get angry and not understand
I tried to get help
And fight all I could
But my freak family didn't support me
And love me like they should
Chains of sorrow
Plagued me every day
Cortisone wreaked havoc
In each and every way
The chemical imbalance
Situational indeed
Escalated
Like your predilection for weed
There's no way out
The tent has come down
And the circus train
Rolls on to the next town
Life goes on for the lucky.

Lamenting Moon

I had been dreaming
Knew from the moment I woke
My sleep wasn't restful or serene
Even with jet lag
Tossing and turning
Tearful
In some reverie
I had been painted blue
Circles up and down
My legs
Imprints of henna
That never would fade
Not like the love
I thought I had
Long ago
When the sacrament
Was christened
And the nature worshippers
And the Buddhists didn't get invitations
Only the white Catholics
Or so it seemed
No Jews
Hispanics or Hindus
Muslims or Blacks
Native Americans
There may have been two Methodists
Now that I remember
It was so long ago
I didn't know you then
And you hadn't looked into my soul
I hadn't fallen in love with you
Had I known
I would have howled at the moon
And danced in your gaze
Instead I ate vanilla cake
And walked down an empty aisle
Of regret
Please forgive me.