Merry Christmastime and Happy Winter, and happy whateverthing you celebrate that may or may not revolve around lights and fruit and family

Happy Pole and festivious for the restofus. If you are going to be running around all over the place like me remember to bring good cds and lots of water, candy and paper.   If you have 18 year aged scotch please bring it along.  I am thirsty and am probably not the only one.  Who doesn’t hate a dry mouth around the holidays?  Well, you don’t count.   

 

 

May the light and love be with you strangers and friends alike. 

 

 

Peace 

 

 

p.s. slippers with fussy insides and hard sole bottoms are addicting.  so bring them along too

 

 

P.s.s.  don’t forget the kids. yikes

End of the road out loud

coughing on the pavement

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                               coughing on the pavement

                     with whiskey and crispy apples     

 

                                                        by

                                                 annie   e    burie  

                                                                                          

 

 

 

 

 

 

(an epic poem) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grace looked at the pavement

in her body a cold tremble took over her movements,

she began to count to herself to

control her breathing.

in — out.   slowly Grace focused on the man.

she had never met him before

but his face was one she remembered

 

at the age of twenty-three Grace had a dream.

in the dream she was in a small room

with two men in black suits.  in front of her was a tv.

they were forcing her to watch.

in her dream there was two of her.

one in color watching her being forced to watch the tv,

and the other watching the tv. 

stoically she watched her

black and white self being forced to watch, crying. 

herself in color had no idea what was on the screen.

only that the other self was young and cocky,

and still crying

when she woke up from the dream she was terrified.

as though it was the beginning of something horrible.

Grace never told anyone about the dream,

as though to speak it would bring it to reality

The dream was to Grace

                                                          a  payday

                                                                                                          time travel

                         

                          a cold wind

                          foreshadowing

                        

                         a bloody wound

                         from bad cop/ good cop movie

                        

                          like intuition  gripping                  24 hours 

 

 

now at age 24, on Washington St.

 Grace saw one of the men from the dream.  

 

 the child inside her grew. Grace walked past Grant

into the coffee house.  breathe.

 

 

lately Grace had been sick.  very sick.

   her head would separate from her body.

   she would lose sensation of her feet, her legs.

   her hands, everything tingled. her breath short,

        as though she had just climbed Mt Olympus

 

 

worn and dizzy    Grace’s thoughts became clear

although her body was breaking.

 

 

 

her vision was something

of a peculiarity as well. 

at times Grace would see

tiny silver shining objects pulsating

and rotating around her material world

 

 

now as Grace tried to make sense of the dream

and the man Grant, the sickness took hold of her

 

the pain started in her stomach

 

she almost fell over as the pain

grew in strength

bending her over

 

Grace felt like meowing.

 

ME-OOWH—

 

her face contorted into grimacing pain

she looked up and saw the

proprietor of the coffee shop staring at

her

 

Grace smiled and said ‘hi’

 

did he see the pain?                          she sat down

     shaking inside, her head was burning up

 

Grace started to pray, ‘god, if I die         oh help me

I don’t want to die

  

her teeth were on fire.  her gums were numb

 

and now this. 

 

—her friend Liz asked if she wanted to go to Orange Rock.

         Grace heard yes come out of her mouth.      ‘why did I

just say yes’            Grace pondered silently. 

  ‘let me finish my coffee first’

   Grace pushed out with all her strength.    

 

 

Liz stood looking at her impatiently

 

Grace rocked back and forth in the blue and white

chair, sipping the freshly roasted java.   Yum.

 

Grace looked down at her cup, empty.  time to walk

back to Liz’s house.  Grace brought her cup back

             inside the coffee shop.  she placed it in the

sink.  ‘thank you,’ Grace mumbled. 

 

outside the coffee shop

Grace saw Phil, an oddball local.                          he wanted a hug.

she gave him one

reluctantly.   

he smelled like a dog.

 

Grace wanted to ignore him, but the kind part of her

asked how he was doing.  Grace tried to focus on

what Phil was saying. it was something about logarithms

and words.  she had no idea, numerology,

a myth science, but interesting. 

                                                                       in the corner of her eye Grace saw Grant

   one minute now.  ‘I have no minutes.

   I have nothing’ Grace pondered

   as her hands scrambled around

   in her pockets

 

Grace gave Phil a wave, and walked off. 

 

‘good bye Grant’ said Liz.  Grace hid her horror, ‘how does she know him’ Grace deliberated silently.  Grant waved back.   Grace walked away to hide her sweating face.

breathe

Liz started to complain about not having a boyfriend as she caught up with Grace.

 

   Grace   couldn’t imagine. 

  ‘the possibilities are endless,’ she said

  ‘all the cute boys bobbing about.  look, there’s one.’

 

Liz sighed at Grace—it had been 2 million years.

Liz wanted a relationship, a someone special

to go to the beach with or bike riding.  someone to

fuck, and talk about the ridiculousness of greed.

 

a cure for loneliness.

 

Grace wanted to sit down and tell Liz to go on without

her.  but she didn’t, something akin to pride kept

Grace sliming her way to the top. 

 

Liz wanted a long-term relationship.  Grace told her

to enjoy her freedom.

that’s typical thought Liz. Grace had a boyfriend.

 

they walked up the huge hill. Grace’s thoughts became

desperate.  Grace felt like she was on acid.  the sky

was bright, oh my god, this is a beautiful day blue

a few white clouds,

stories were meant for days as today,

  ‘could we stop for a while?’

   Grace tried to express.

 

Liz was still thinking

about her next boyfriend. 

Grace asked if Liz would date a short guy.

Liz said

‘it didn’t matter what he looked like, as long

as he was hot.’ this made Grace laugh. ‘so you would

date a short guy?’            ‘yes Grace’  Liz said,

puzzled at the direction Grace was going. 

‘so you want a hot short guy?’ Grace

snorted out, laughing

snot bubbling

 

‘I’m short’ said Liz.   

 

‘so am I’ said Grace.

 

‘so you want a short artsy hot guy,

 that sounds simple enough’ Grace choked out.

 

 

‘a musician as well’ stated Liz as she rubbed her thumb and pointer finger together.

 

they walked in silence as they made it to

the church parking lot adjacent to

Liz’s house. 

 

Grace wanted to sit down, and cry, but she kept her

composure, and continued in the reality at  hand.

 

‘you’re too picky’ Grace said, slightly annoying Liz

‘I am not’ Liz said as her spit hit Grace’s sun burnt nose.

 Grace poked Liz in the arm, the spit still glistening.

 

‘I know, I was joking. you’re desperate for cock and balls’

Grace said in a flat tone.

 

Liz groaned as she unlocked the back door, ‘I am not.’

 

as they entered her house Grace told Liz she was a loser.

 

Liz had lived there for a little less than a month,

and already it had that special,

lived in appearance.  Liz’s paintings ordained the walls,

the bright colors, and abstract images of the familiar

made the house seem like an interior decorator lived in the pantry closet.

there were glass jars with dried beans, rice, spices,

  and flour on the window edge.  there was the smell

of incense, and freshly baked bread.

fresh mint drying, hung carefully by string on the key hooks

there were little place mats on the table with

 mauve and green muted flowers. 

 

the house was neat and orderly, it reminded Grace of her childhood home. 

Grace knew that any man that dated Liz would

be lucky. 

she was hard working and highly talented.

Grace lightheartedly envied

Liz’s potential.

 

her flowing skirt, her soft figure, her golden hair,

her easy smile

Liz didn’t know it

but she was a keeper. 

 

 

‘I don’t have my swimsuit’ complained Grace

 

 

‘you can wear one of mine’ said Liz

 

 

 

Liz handed her a dark blue suit with a pair of shiny black shorts.

 

‘these are ridiculous’ stated Grace as she held up the shimmering shorts.

 

‘why, you can fit them?’ Liz asked. 

 

 

‘they are too slippery’ remarked Grace as she pulled them over the swimsuit.

 

‘this swimsuit is awesome though’ Grace told Liz.

 

‘yeah, I know, my sister gave it to me’ Liz replied. ‘you can’t keep it.’ 

 

 

 

Grace sat down and rolled two cigs, she gave one to Liz.

 ‘are we ready?’    they both asked,   ‘jinks’ they

said at the same time, smiling at their

childhood-like dorkiness. 

 

with towels, bottled water,  tobacco, and raisins the ladies started on their journey to Orange Rock.  they climbed into the car, tossing their belongings into the back.   the wind had picked up but the sun shone on with purpose. 

 

‘what you wanna listen to Grace’ asked Liz.  ‘anything’   Grace replied with her head leaning on the window.  Grace still felt sick.  the pain had lessened but her body felt like an old lady’s, shrinking and brittle, mothballs and cobwebs covered her essence, her limpidity.     the dream draped Grace’s mind, she bit her chapped-bottom lip, felt the peeling skin on her tongue.   ‘ ha ha    a deadline, that’s what I need.’ Grace said as she clapped her hands together.  Liz ignored Grace’s sporadic villain laugh and display of zealous spirit.  Liz had other dreams floating in her nose, you know, the old in-out;  gentle man, thirsty woman.   Grace fixated on the idea of a deadline, the more she thought about a deadline, the more the pain in her seemed to dissipate.  Grace crackled, hooted, yelled ‘a deadline’. she held her mouth, and then let out an uncontrolled snort.  ‘he can’t play video games, not all the time’   said Liz.  

 

              on a bicycle they passed a middle-aged man with brown lacking hair. 

‘a hottie!’ Grace yelled with her head hanging out the window.   as Liz checked him out she made a disgusted look.  ‘he forgot to take the comb out’ said Liz.                        Grace said,  ‘What?’  mouth left open ‘too flashy for you?’

Liz put Sigur Ros into the player.    

 

 the music carried them to the parking space. 

they spilled out of the car in a trance

as if they had just exited solitary confinement. 

 they both shuddered in loneliness

unaware of the other’s gaping silence.  

they followed their feet down the 

pine needle laden path,

 over roots and sticks,

 stones and sand. 

there were little green and brown acorns.

an assortment of leaves. 

  the path went down, then up, and back down,

it giggled to the left, and then yelled to the right

walking fast they spilled over onto the large rocks

of the lake’s shoreline.  some of the rocks were

 jagged and rough. some were worn smooth

 

the scene looked like something in a fantasy movie,

the enchanted land and vast fresh water told a story of

magic and mystery.  the lake was said to never release the

dead. the cold water crashed and the wind

blew hard.  the waves looked enormous

 to the two women staring down at where they would jump

 

 on the

top of the rock there were orange lichen

the surrounding rocks were black.   

when    ever Grace stepped on the lichen she felt a tinge of pain

the soft sponge colony, and her, their clad foot destroyer.

 

Liz discarded her backpack, got ready to jump, she looked

back to Grace and asked her if she is coming.

 

‘no’ said Grace

 

‘come on’ and with that Liz jumped.

  15 feet below Liz’s splash reached Grace’s fevered face.

 

the cold water rushed to hold Liz in its greedy hands

as if to say, ‘feed me, die today’

 

the waves pulled Liz, and cold made pings of pain

radiated over her once sweaty flesh.

 

‘how’s the water’ Grace shouted down

 

‘its warm’ shot back Liz

 

‘You fucking liar’ said Grace.

 

 

Liz wore a child’s smile, dove in and did a flip

 

Grace watched joy expand

 

then realizing it was her turn, thought about

smoking instead.

 

Grace was tired, and in pain

but the cold water

 reached its hand out

to her hot stinking body

 

‘jump and I will heal you’

it whispered

 

 

Grace looked down at the large waves

crash over the rocks

 

a need grew, trying to overtake her

 

 ‘Fuck it’ said Grace

and jumped

 

 

the water swarmed into the crevices

of her body

 

it’s fuckin freezin’

 

Grace tried to make it back to the

rocks

her limbs ached

 the lake checked out her olfactory glands

tasting the back of her throat

 

as Grace pushed the water, the waves hit her

from all directions

 

for a moment Grace felt like she was going to be another what not to do story.

 

Grace couldn’t breathe, and her body would

not follow her instructions

 

 

she leaned her head back, and let her feet reach the surface.

breathe

Grace recalled the stories of sea monsters, and the myths that

surrounded kitchi gami.  gray shadows darkened underneath, the water ripped and lengthened.  The sun parachuted through the water establishing depth in some areas, and skewing perception in others.   

 

Liz thoughts were pace-less, and free.

her arms moved her body with ease unto the rock.

 

Liz jumped back in, this time feeling refreshed rather than the

earlier shock. 

 

 

Grace pulled against the rock, heaving her weakened body

she lay breathing and waiting for the pain to end.

 

the sun hit their goose bumps; the air raised the water to another

dimension

 

Liz stood with her butt to the worlds largest

fresh water lake on the rock 20ft above,

‘you ever see me jump off backwards?’ she asked, as kid would say ‘watch me.

 

 

‘Yeah, and you’re crazy’ said Grace.  

 

 

‘just imagine if my chin hit the rock,’ Liz stated as though it

would never happen.

 

 

‘I’m never going to do that, not now, not after that image’

Grace said as she wrapped her arms around herself, and shivered at

the thought, gasping internally at the horror of such

an event, faithfully believing it would happen

within the next second.

Liz jumped, ‘yikes’ squealed Grace

 

 

Liz called up, ‘what did you say?’

 

‘Nothing’ Grace shouted like a drunken mouse would.

 

 

the two women soon tired of the cold water. 

Liz had forgotten her water shoes,

 and because of this labored to get to her glasses.

  without them the world was smears of hues and forms,

 symbols not yet given names. 

 

Grace picked them up and handed them to Liz. 

they settled on a worn rock, it was rounded and

 looked like it had been specially formed for the two woman throng.

they lay on the rocks for a thousand years,

and watched the sun settle over the trees many times.

  in their inner world peace and tranquility mounted their fragile shapely bodies.  Grace did not think of her deadline, and Liz did not desire a man.  they desired only the moment to be captured and strung on their necklace of life. 

 

time lay still again and

they pulled their heads off the rock,

gathered their things, and went backwards to where they began.

 in the car comments about food fell

out of their hungry mouths onto plates of how about pasta and basil.

 

 ‘I’ll cook’ said Liz.

 

‘lets go out to eat’ battled Grace.  

 

 

soon it was      dark

 and having full bellies,

and wine, they began to sing.

 it was an odd duo,

one sounding passion through a raspy portal

 and the other voice falling from the great expanse.

 Liz strummed the guitar delicately

 with smooth 7 beat riffs,

in perfect slide,

rolling gently on the ear’s yes spot,

 come on give me some more spot,

 heads nodding. Liz’s face was smooth, and steady.

 

 Grace’s face was plain and shaking.

 her eyes, dark blue noticed the details.

 she had a smile that smirked; it was dashing, and forgettable.

she looked like your friend from Ohio, or Maine, or Wisconsin

with her head cocked to the side,  and mouth slightly open.

when Grace smiled and laughed you felt like you were home. 

   there was something trust-worthy and good about her,

 underneath the corky jokes and bitter zingers.

 it was hard to put your fingers in

but worth while. 

 

‘I have to leave soon’ remarked Grace

‘where you going?’ asked Liz.

‘I have to wash clothes’ Grace lied.  she wanted to go home and get a good nights rest. She had to have her wits about her for the deadline. 

Grace ripped the hair tie out of her long brown hair, thinking to herself, another day of not brushing, as it snagged and ripped at her head.  thinking she should cut her hair Grace tightly wrapped it on the back of her head.

 

  Liz’s mind drifted back to a lover, a friend she had wanted to capture, with no luck, had slipped away.  did he know how she felt, weakened, Liz put herself back in his arms, and eloquent words, his soft touch, and patient eyes, they were like a lake. as many times Liz had looked into them they were never flat, never alluded to an end point, a bottom.  there were many layers she had not been able to see, although Liz had wanted to measure the time it took, she was not given the years. ‘You damn fool’ Liz told herself, ‘you are a day- dreaming stupid girl.’

 

Grace said good-bye and walked back to her one bedroom         apartment.

twenty minutes in the freezing rain, coughing and wondering where the rain

snuck up from      where the pain snuck up from.  

 

 a white-walled sanctuary where

 no one told her what do or how to live,

where Grace could expound into the night,

retrace the day-dreams that had filled the day

it was messy     smelled of stale coffee,        and rotting bananas.

after the ritual of tidying and bathing,

 Grace rested on the couch.

 

 a part of Grace wanted to give up on life,

on responsibility,

on breathing

 but there was also a part that would never concede.

 

 Grace was just worn out and tired, from the overload of sediment, caused by the dammed rivers, the over-tinkering of man. 

 

 Grace felt her self being swept away by the current and wind,

not enough of her left to grab a hold of;

 Grace was forced into displacement

and following the path of least resistance. 

 

at first it felt unnatural,

but as Grace began to accept it,

 warmth covered her, and in it she found a hiding purpose.

 

as Grace closed her eyes      she watched a stream of  p   i  c  t u  r  e  s

fly from her mind into the firmament.

getting rid of all the unneeded images that had cluttered her being,

 Grace felt refreshed, and at ease.

 she let slumber settle and expand through her limbs,

gambling on rejuvenation for the coming day,     Grace slept.

 

 

Liz sat on her porch as the rain came down around her.  she was cold but she stayed outside, capturing the desire for warmth, Liz thought about a man she had recently met. ‘maybe he will come over’ Liz said out loud to herself.  Liz had invited him earlier that day, at the coffee house.  he had told her he was photographer. he was young and beautiful.  his words were generous and soft.  Liz doubted his interest in her.  she was not the pencil-thin blond, wearing pink that only thoughts were ‘how do I look. but now Liz wondered if she should care more.  Liz said ‘damn’ under her breath, while touching her thigh.  It was soft and smooth, but not a size 7.   her orange skirt glittered under the street lamp and from the street, if someone walked by they would have seen a vision of rare beauty that Liz could not find in the folds of fabric or the uplift of her chin.  Liz could not see the flash in her green eyes, or the outpouring of light that highlighted her being. Liz was giving in to loneliness, and desire as Grant pulled up in his beat up brown truck.  Liz became giddy and needy, nervous and steady.  ‘hi’ she called out with a wave.  Grant didn’t hear her, or see her.   as he came closer to her porch, he noticed Liz.  ‘hello’ he said with choppy strength. 

 

Grant’s hair was tied in ponytail behind him bouncing with the ease of his steps towards her.  they began to talk like old friends, like they were the other half of each other, knowing and understanding each others beliefs and ideas.  they could relate about family matters, and music.  greed and basil.

            the night stretched before them and laid at that their damp feet.  they had found their way into Liz’s house. they sat and drank coffee. smoking and laughing, their dreams started to unite on the sofa.  they made no comment about love or interest, although underneath Liz’s skirt grew a swirling.  in her beat a need.  she did not know what he thought of her.  did he just want to be friends, and how could they have so much in common.  it was beyond her.  Liz put her hand next to his hoping he would hold it.  he didn’t but talked of his brother who was into playing video games, and the incomprehension of how his little brother could waste so much valuable time.  Liz told of her materialistic shopping sister who had more jeans than Liz had paints. 

Grant noticed the way Liz’s lips parted when she laughed, and thought about touching her face.  he didn’t want to seem like a creep though. they had only met a few weeks ago, but Grant started to imagine her hands touching him.  one button, two button.  Grant refused to allow himself to act on his impulses, he had a job to do after all, and a brown eyed wife at home.   he pulled himself together, “what time is it” he asked. ‘3:30’ Liz said.  I better go he told her. as Grant got up he stretched out his arms for a hug. 

Liz readily accepted, and felt a tinge of pain as it ended.  Liz followed outside, the birds sang and the air was still cool.  ‘bye-bye’ Liz said as he pulled out of the parking lot.  ‘why did I say bye-bye?’ she asked herself,    ‘I hate me.’

 

 

     the alarm clock went off, Grace sluggishly opened her eyes.  ‘why did I set my alarm for seven?’ she asked herself, groaning and rubbing her bed head.  she lay in the bed watching the sun make vibrating patterns on the white wall.  she almost went back to sleep, but then sat up straight, and said ‘its go time.’ 

 

Grace made a cup of coffee with her press and smoked five cigarettes.   she took a shower and put on black pants and a black turtleneck sweater.  Grace put on her black hiking boots, and double tied the laces.   she brushed her hair.   in a black leather bag Grace put one white sundress, her white swimsuit and a bottle of red label whiskey wrapped in a white towel.  Grace started on her walk.  every couple minutes Grace put her hand in her pocket as she headed for her deadline.  Grace giggled at reality as her head swayed and body extended with each stride. 

 

across town, Liz woke early from the sound of the cars moving and going with passengers headed for the day.  she sang sweetly to herself as she painted Grant’s left eye from memory.  on the counter lemon grass tea brewed.        the morning wobbled between moments of extreme joy to deep doubting sadness.  what did he think of her,     could he also be smitten? 

she decided she would go to the coffee house and see if he was there. 

 

 

 Grace was fast-approaching the coffee house.  she was locked inside of her own mind.   pain penetrated her body.  she didn’t notice channel six’s van parked on the corner.  she didn’t notice the camera woman filming the downtown area for blueberry fest.  she didn’t notice the sun, or the way the birds sang.  she only knew that today was the day, and the tiny vibrating dots taking over her vision.  she climbed five flights of stairs with her head down and breath short.  she peeked over the edge of the building.  Grant was sitting there like everyday reading the paper and drinking coffee, slowly bringing a cigarette to his pretty lips.    ‘predictable thought Grace, ‘predictable and stupid.’ 

 

Liz saw Grant sitting outside on the blue and white chair.  he looked like a sculpted god with sun shining on his long brown hair.  ‘Yum’ she thought. she felt excited and a puddle formed in her panties, I need to get laid she thought to herself.  she began to walk faster.

 

 

Grace pulled the mechanic god out of her pocket.  she turned off the safety.  Grace opened the barrel. closed it again.  Grace began to feel giddy and needy, nervous and steady.  Grace looked at the pavement.  in her body a cold tremble took over her movements, she began to count to herself to control her breathing.  in – out. slowly Grace focused on the man she had never met.

 

as Liz ran as fast as she could. she fell to the ground.  Grant’s left eye was hollowed and a warm sticky river left his body, splashing and spurting onto the blue and white chair his body rocked on.   he coughed on the cold pavement    with his head in her hands.  Dead.  Gone.  No more.  Bye-bye.  So much for love.  So much for life.

 

 

Grace stumbled as fast as she could to the elevator.  she changed into her white swim ware and dress.  Grace put the shiny metal into her pocket,   placed her clothes and boots into her black bag.  she let her hair fall around her. barefoot Grace walked towards the harbor.   Ha ha she had done it; the world was free of evil once again.  Ha ha. Grace opened up the whiskey and took a pull, and put it back in her bag.  ‘a deadline is better than  circumcised cunt’ she thought to herself, laughing and stumbling, laughing and stumbling, as whiskey dripped from her uplifted mouth. Everyone loves a payday she hooted out and fingered a check between her two breast that was now safe to cash.    

 

 

 

the camera crew had got the shooting,

 and the cops looked endlessly for the hit man who had done it. 

 

    Liz sat inside the police station, being forced to watch the shooting on a tv.  she was young and cocky and still crying as the cop asked her how she knew Grant. demanding answers Liz did not yet have. 

 Grace went to the police station, and stood behind the Plexiglas watching Liz cry.  there was one man standing there and pointing at the screen rambling, and accusing. she remembered him.  the cop was the second man in the dream.

 breathe

 ‘what do bad cops dream’ Grace mused as she looked at the man wearing black, coiling her hair around her pointer finger.  

 

 

 “Do you know who he was?”

  Liz said ‘no.’

 “He was an undercover cop.

  He was working undercover.

 He had been my partner for little over a year.” the man told crying Liz. 

 

 leaving her shocked and confused, the cop released Liz.  she got up and walked out of the small room.  Grace stood there    standing with a blank face.    

 ‘are you okay?’ 

 

‘yeah’ said Liz. 

 

Liz coughed out ‘I was falling for a stealthy pig named bobby.’

 

 Grace said a soft  ‘I know’ 

 with her shoulders bent forward.

 her words hit the pavement

               the leaves 

              a pop bottle and candy bar wrapper. 

 

 

 

they never spoke of Grant again, although from time to time their minds would travel back to the sticky chair rocking in the sun.  one carried a missed lay within her chest and the other marveled over the transcendence in her pocket, and they both knew all dream states require action for submission to follow.  the pain lifted but the sickness remained.     this was not the first  nor the last time  Grace’s submitted to her dreams. Besides they all became reality with or without a little help from god.  

 

 

as their feet stepped on Washington St. Grace said, ‘lets go to the lake.’

 

 ‘I need a boyfriend’ said Liz.

 

  ‘Look around, there are lots of cute boys, look at that little crispy apple’ said Grace. 

 

‘he is hot’ said Liz.   ‘want some whiskey?’ asked Grace, thrusting the bottle at the apple.  ‘red label?’ 

 

the young man with red hair smiled at Liz and Grace as he walked into the coffee house.

 

‘lets get coffee first’ said Grace.  ‘I want apple pie’ said Liz. 

 

‘macintosh’   the two women hummed as the door bounced behind them.

 

  

*

 

The Big Brain and Love

The big brain. 

What is it for? 

 Love.

What is it for?

The big brain.

What is it……

 

 

Ok, despite many different conclusions

on why humans are here on plant

earth and how we arrived in our

current form, an almost lit match arises. 

 

What is the big brain

for, and how did we get

it before we could put it to use? 

These greed questions stab the mind. 

 

The mind of humans,

which is the dreaming mind,

the lonely interior world

 wonders over complexities

and marvels. 

 

why am I thinking on existence and meaning? 

Where did this seed of life,

of knowledge come from, and more importantly,

what will it gain?

This is a good question:  Why do I endure? 

 

The answer “just because” is hollow

and the human dreaming mind

searches for the greater

 meaning and understanding. 

 

This big brain of mine is self-aware

but despite that, it is not complete.

 

This big brain has made love a necessity.

And love is very hard to unlearn. 

 

It is easy to act out on the desperate loneliness 

as though we are the only brain to matter. 

It is expected. The Gorilla kills

the baby gorilla that is not his offspring.

 

When did love become

a survival mechanism

like warm blood  and tits

 

 

It is shocking that we don’t always act

in fear or loneliness or hunger. 

 

Sometimes we act for others’ benefit.  

Sometimes we love simply because we can. 

 

 

That is the evolution of humanity, to love you. 

 

 

Our big brain is made to love. 

What will it gain? 

What is the point of a seed

planted that reaches

out and nurshishes others? 

Little raspberry kiss or milkweed touch,

why do you nourish me universe?   

 

Human that stops and looks at me,

smiles and is astonished at my beauty,

why do you do it?  What am I to you? 

Can I take away your loneliness?

Can I make your longing go away? 

What is this opening and shutting?

Why when we see a someone do

we smile at their beauty and potential,

or cry and mourn when their life

ends or their potential stifled? 

Why, deep in our body, do

we crave to end the suffering of others? 

Even if we are the one at stake,

we search our internal world

to love and help others. 

When we are in pain,

we think of others who have greater

pain and our whole being,

our body aches for them. 

 

 

Empathy is part of the human animal. 

 

 

Human children are slow

to develop and need parents

to take care of them.

The big brains need time to develop.  

Love is necessary.  It is evolutionary.  

we are the beginnings of love.

 Love is the reason we survive  

-Why our brains are big

 

We are pointless with our big brains, yes,

it is absurd and meaningless, and it is love. 

Despite, this all being very ordinary and mundane

It shocks the hell out of me. 

 

 

I don’t know why there is still war.  It hurts me

to think about it.  Human, I know why your brain is

big, and so do you.  Why do you make weapons to kill

other big brains when you love them?

 

Are some of you who

I think are human,

not yet human?

Are the Buddhists right?

Hug me, and then tell me,

you are not made to love. 

 

Then, I will know you

are a seed, and not

an Eve or Adam yet. 

Painting, work in progress: Brain Pose

painting: one power

I Am Hungry

I am hungry for a future

that evolves into a peace

of humanity.  I am thirsty for

scotch with a dash of tap water.

 

Instead Of A Poem

Instead of a poem, a dragon dipped

his head and slid his ass out

of my impressive mouth.

With the drag of  his massive tail

he knocked out seven of my favored

teeth.  His hind claw forked

my tongue and his scaled

wings scored my fluttering blue eyes.

With a bow and arrow and festered sight

I aimed at his left nostril

Full of faith in crucified righteousness

I killed the divine beast before

it found a mate and reproduced

little mysteries for the future.  

The Dream

Last night I read “The Dream” by Harry Bernstein.   I was at the library with my family and I stumbled upon this book, opened it up and began reading. And I did not put it down until I was finished with the book.  I have never read anything else by Bernstein.  Bernstein also wrote “The Invisible Wall.”  They are both autobiographical. 

 

I recommend “The Dream.”  Read it. 

 

 

Have you ever wondered what it was like for your ancestors to travel to U.S.A?   Or what inspired them to or what it was like?  Well, I did.  Although this is Bernstein’s story, it is a story of the American dream and the human dream for peace and abundance. 

 

I will not go in detail of his life because he does a better job than I could.  In fact he does such a good job that I wish he would have wrote a 100 books instead of two.  We like to hate America for the crazed actions of political leaders, for her dim and dirty streets, for lies of a promise of the American dream but my friends, the hope and dreams of our ancestors are the same as ours.  They wanted a house with a toilet and windows.  They wanted to be surrounded by nature and earn a living that provided for their families.   Of course most take it granted that they live in an apartment or a house but for our ancestors that is what they wanted.   So read “The Dream” and reach with your soft hands for a dream of your own.  And I hope that your dream comes true before you reach ninety.  

When I was a child

When I was a child my father never had a steady job and all his work was odd.  It was not the great depression.  I was born in 1980, the sixth child, the baby, and the only girl.   Like my brothers, I was born at home.  There was no doctor or midwife and so my father was my mother’s only help in the birth.  Which is strange now to think about because my father never treated my mother the way a husband should treat a wife. He was not a good father  -thus his aiding in our birth is strange and out of place. I would have not trusted him with the task and so I have often wondered how my mother ever did, and the only answer I can up with is poverty.  I am in debt to her and I will never pay it off.

 

Professional seshional

     First of all, I am not even sure I understand what the phrase “professional writing” means.  Does it mean you get paid to write, or that you follow a set of guidelines that gives the impression that you are intelligent?  If I have published my work, but didn’t receive compensation for my writing, am I still a professional writer?  If I spend my entire life actively developing my craft, can I be considered a professional writer?  The term professional is vague and does not apply to how I label myself.  Teachers write professionally.  Morticians write professionally.  Lawyers write professionally.  Do poets?  What about bloggers? Or blogging poets? 

     I could find employment writing for a newspaper, become a lawyer, a teacher, or work as an editor or copywriter.  I could write ads for TV and radio commercials.  I could write nonfiction books and articles on any topic imaginable.  I could do interviews for a mainstream magazine or small newsletter.  Maybe I could work for the government crafting propaganda to publish in the Iraqi fledgling press about the good intentions of the American government.  I could write for a nonprofit organization trying to make abortion illegal or write about techniques to stop employees from forming a union for a large corporation.  Perhaps, I could write for a website that deals with pet grooming.  I could write TV dramas and sitcoms, or maybe even a play about special needs kids. The possibilities are endless.   The need for writers will only continue to grow as our society becomes increasingly more dependent on information rather than a particular product.  As a patent lawyer, I could potentially make a large salary and have a house with a picket fence.  None of these options fit my goals for the future.  I know that it is naive, but I choose to write poetry.  I don’t care if it is in prose format or written in chalk on the sidewalk.  To me, it is all poetry.  To me, life is poetry.  I will not compromise my writing style in order to put food on the table.  That is why I am started a publishing company; others will have to conform to my standards.  I believe in clarity, and I think writing should have high standards when it comes to thoughtfulness, not just trite rules of language.  I think people should write how they talk and feel rather than conforming to stale sentiments that mean nothing in the end. 

     My friends and I enjoy debating about literature.  Most of the debate involves us coming up with reasons why contemporary literature lacks real thought and what we can do to improve the different genres.  Sometimes we find a writer that has talent and who pays attention to detail.  If we do, we pass the book around and talk about the intricate details of the piece of work.  We discuss why a certain poem works, or why certain nonfiction treatises are groundbreaking.  We talk about the propaganda that is spewed out by our government and mass media.  We criticize journalists for being biased and for misleading the public.   We talk about where we would like to see these genres move towards, and what is stopping them.  We discuss what we are currently working on, whether it is a poem about war, or an essay on Kurt Vonnegut articles.   

     If you want to publish an article for publication, you send a query letter.  In order to publish poetry, you just send your poems to the press.  If you want to sell a sitcom, you submit a treatment.  If you want to create an ad for a company, you send a synapse of your idea and how it complies with the company’s consumers and how it would increase their profits margins.   Basically, if you want to publish your writing, you need to concern yourself with the audience of that individual business.   Also, each publication has different needs and expectations that a writer must keep in mind.  One of the most important aspects for a writer who wants to become published is researching the venue they are interested in.  Another important thing for writers to remember is that they will be rejected repeatedly, and if they really want to be published, they have to submit endlessly.  Writers must also stay updated in their field by actively reading the latest published works. But the most important thing a writer must do is to eliminate their ego from the writing process.  

 There is a plethora of publications that deal with the topic of publishing, whether it be self-publishing or marketing your work to large publishers.  I think that if you are a writer and you don’t already know this information, someone has failed you.  Most likely you have failed yourself because you were too lazy to go to a library and check out a book.  If that is the case, I think that you are probably not a very serious writer.  As Samuel Clements once said, “Those who don’t read are the same as those who can’t.”

I’ve Made It

I’ve made it, almost

to the point of turning back

Socks without holes.

Two friends and a headache.

Did I mention the mini van?

 

The cold came before I could get in the

habit of wearing longjohns. 

I suppose the last thing

I need is a crispy donut.

 

Hey friend, what the fat is the matter? 

I cannot guide you.  One of us is dead.