We do the dance
The dance that we do
Usually flawless
Rhythmic
Syncopated
Connected on a level
Transcending looks
You're not the prettiest
Not like Eileen
The nurse who took care of me
She was fucking gorgeous
You look nice though
That smile
Those lips
Your neck
Breasts
Hips
Gyrating to the tempo
I create
B Tribe
On an island
Looking into my eyes
It is a Siren I surmise
Dance little bird
Your looks don't matter
We are connected forever
Not to your looks
For looks go away
Looking deeper
You look nice
Not the prettiest
Conventionally not gorgeous
To me just beautiful
That's who or what they are
Now Eileen was a fucking gorgeous nurse
But us
We play
The dance that we do
Makes me want to go further.
Looks don't matter to me
They will go away
But you look nice
I look deeper
For I am attracted to all that is you
We dance
Even when we are not together
Or ever will be
The tango
The waltz
Swing
Wisconsin polka
Is there such a thing?
Whatever the dance
It is the dance we do
You go further
Encourage
I acquiesce
Looking deeper
You do
To me you are beautiful
To my wife you are a whore
Why dost thou act with undesirable sentiments my dear?
Thy chronic remorse kills you.
Tis time to make ammends.
Your mind is filled with dreary thoughts.
If you have behaved badly, repent.
One does not find Nirvana through
Constant degredation, self flagellation,
Or incessant brooding.
To transcend that which binds--the monotonous blanket that suffocates--the pale white winters obscuring your mystic charms.
In your absence, I am in a trance.
Filled with marred morality
Ordinary ethics
Political games
Committed and bequeathed
In youth of all ages.
Like the Savage, I know not what I choose--
Insanity in a seeming Utopia or
Sweet ecstasy in that which is primitive.
Armed with free will, I suffer, hardly amused by the dichotomy of hypocrisy vacillating between insanity and lunacy.
As I reach out, struggling to hold on, your fertility cult no longer screams of procreation. Instead, your patriarchal dominant ferocity consumes me, transporting me to another place. On the outside, this aboriginal enslavement seeks understanding and acceptance; inside, it seeks to create purpose, resiliency, and joy.
Transported to a vortex of sanity, where maniacal mutilation is not the answer, I seek that which is pure and uninhibited, longing to be free. I am conscious, aware, and presently exploring unimaginable horrors should I succumb to the frosty days that have so often frequented my soul. That collar you hold in your hands is my only salvation. What are you waiting for?
Today is a good day
I am awake
Alive
Mindful of others
And self
What is self?
I haven't known self
For a long time and now she is coming back To me ever so slowly
Along with her arrival
She sees you at the door
Hugs you
And instinctively whispers in your ear,
"I think we are going to get along just fine."
Wanting to be free,
She begins the journey
He is the one who remains with her
Every step of the way
And sometimes she stumbles
Degrades self despite her confident nature
Says things at inopertune moments
Making him question the ties that bind
He feels helpless at times
Wanting to do more
The truth is he has helped her discover self and rescued her from the pits that remain--in her imbalanced brain. Together they rescue each other from the torments of the past. The scars that make us question our very humanity
They lock arms together
Clinging not because they fear separation
Rather, they both embrace the joy each other brings
Finding in the other
That which sings within their own souls
Reflections of heart in each other's image
Soulmates.
I used to be a shiny coin
One she had taken from the whey protein change cannister her father kept in the bathroom closet, jingling in a girl's pocket ready for sweet candy on Main Street.
Now I'm a vending machine
Dispensing items that everyone wants: condoms, poptarts, coffee, marijuana, gum balls, plastic spiders, paper tattoos, and pornography. You can find me amidst the urban sprawl, situated among the dilapidated housing developments, in the vestibules of the tacky strip malls that line the highway. I see the congested streets trying to soil the idyllic backdrop of red rocks, obscuring the magnolia and cypress trees. They punch me and I am supposed to produce. I fight back, still hoping to see a sunset amid the whisperings of the forests of juniper and the ponderosa pines. I sit and wait. There is no button for what I want, and I can't even keep the change.
Her name was Sedona
The first post master's wife
Hospitable and diligent
Industrious and giving
A good cook too
Submissive
A pioneer wife
They called her Dona
Tethered to her pioneer chores
Canning and sewing
Always ready to serve
Without hesitation
But rarely finding pleasure
An occasional religious singalong
A family outing or two
Repressed long before.
The realization of her oppression
Came later in life
Though the lonliness ever present
She didn't dance
Or gamble
Or drink
For many years darkness
Descended from the red rocks
The vast canyon walls
And the cerulean skies
And the night covered the rugged cliffs
When her jeweled daughter
Pearl
I shudder
Became tangled
In the reigns of her pony
Trampled to death
A once thriving community
Morbidly depressed
They call her Sedona.
