...May, she threatened...29may12...

tHe calendAR staRed back.  Her slate blue eyes didn't blink.  They didn't waver from the heavily fortified serif text that was woefully lined to perfection underneath the forgettable color sketch of a perfunctory city hall.  M-A-Y.  It had too many lines.  It relied to heavily on the serif.  It yelled serif.

Her blond hair was pulled back, the remnants too little to work with: a spit of a tail that barely made it out of the band.  The frames of her new glasses were thick, and black.  They looked like a punctuation on the edge of her nose.  And she still hadn't blinked.

THe nUmbERs.  How slow they felt, different then the face of a clock.  A clock's numbers seemed to jump and play.  The calendar was lacking anything than INFORMATION.  It TOLD you the number, not introduced it behind the dance of the hands.  It was static and sat, and sat, and sat...

She smelled her breath.  It was a bad habit, but she felt, all of a sudden, she had too much time and too little to do all at once.  She breathed on the back of her hand, right next to the soft of the back of her thumb, where it met her wrist.  Then she sniffed.  It smelled of rancid taffy and mashed potatoes.  The latter was from dinner.  The former was what she kept near the bed.  Saturday morning bad breath blues.

The sun was well ahead of her.  The blinds indicated that she had wasted a few hours already.  She pulled back the left part of her lip back toward her ear.  M-A-Y.

I may go over to the record store and listen to the new 45 of Bobby Darin's.  I may go over to the dress shop and look at the white tea dress with the lace fringe over the silk weaved cotton.  It had a black ribbon for a belt.  I may just sit here and wait until Monday and die.  [She didn't even know she over used the word much too often to mean anything anymore.]

She thought of Derek Krause, even though she made a vow with all her might to put his stupid antics aside.  But his stupid face and his stupid nape hair and all the stupid smirky...ugh.  He better not say anything to her again, after what he joked.  Jerk.  It took five minutes, but Derek Krause finally made his exeunt.  She turned over on her stomach and took in a deep breath, realized that she was holding it too long.

This is what May is going to bring me.

...tipsy bloggin...19may12

Ain't nothing wrong we do if we have the heart behind it to make it so. Love is all in the end and you have it or it's escaped you. Just love and be loved and revel in those that seek to love you. At the end it will be to what you will cling. It is what we are when we die and in perishing release that love for those that continue on and on and on. I would be naught but for it, give me excess of it fill me shape this vessel to suit the amor of the world. To those that hate, peace. Your cup shall be filled with what you spew forth. But to those that truly love your cup shall be ready filled. Your eyes will be filled with tears of joy and the might of the moment art your beck and call. This is true art and what will allude the foolish mind no matter the haughty course pursue. Assail thyself on rocks that you have laid for others.

...solace...18may12

I have found the profound in your shadow
and the memory of the air where once you moved
the scented air from on your skin
and the touch of sun light warms
what was once only where you stood

and I'll find blessing on long forgotten footfalls
that I can steal from moments long ago
that weaker minds would long forgot
but I will not
for they rest in here with me


the smile was incidental
yet e'en trivial not meant for one
as trivial as I
for I am shadow upon shadow
the dark that you cannot see


and from this forgotten corner
in the recess of the world's most weary halls
I bleed dark upon dark paper
with tears that appear
as if to fall from night's inkwell


the smile was incidental
yet e'en meaningless but not for me
as meaningless as I
for I am dark upon darkness fell
the shadow that you cannot see



Don't remember me, I am unworthy
of even that
for I am satisfied to live in shadow
and cling to tattered dreams
that once were sails

What mast shall I cling when my mind fails
and I cannot upon you lend
the paper's thin promise of
my sleepless nights
and wear away in lightless ever

the smile was incidental

yet e'en trivial not meant for one
as trivial as I
for I am shadow upon shadow
the dark that you cannot see

...Miss Kitty "Utterances Incapable"...

"It is this wild longing - it is this eager vehemence of desire for life - but for life - that I have no power to portray - no utterance capable of expressing." - Poe, Ligeia


It was for Miss Kitty that I took the leap into poetry.  And not only a brusque interpretation of the theme, but I took upon the cap and feathered pen and fully understood poetry in one early winter's night.  Only because I could not find expression, as limited as my education was to that point, did I find the flowered words published in my otherwise ignored An Introduction to English a dawning of sorts.  Here I could pound words from the clay of my heart's unmitigated tempest (or as I first wrote, 'shit') and at least have a point.  It has been a curse and power ever since:

"A thread of gold leads to your heart

and I could not (by my soul) win its prize

among the ruins of my trials

meaningless supplications to impart"

The yellow pads were stared at long enough to give a reddish hue to the world around me once I emerged from the trance.  I was, in effect, attempting to define what I saw in her, the first transcending woman in my memory. To hide her well, the moniker Miss Kitty came as a bit of subterfuge.  The appellation was a homage to her taunt musculature - the curve and shape of her hips as they led past the roll of her supple estremita to the curve of her back - reminded me of a feline stretching.

"Would they weigh much to one like you?

As I'll never fit those expectant sighs

that comprised your loving light's rise

though same in effect, fail to be construed."

I left a note, of many.  There were larger envelopes and a stationary that was unique to Hallmark at the time, when letter writing was at least an option.  I would leave my imprimatur on the face of it.  So, by the second one, she must have known.  How foolish I once was - I laugh at the pitiable, purposeless waste I was back then with a lip curled in derision.  Especially, when chancing her finding one of these notes in her locker, she immediately...[x].

"The golden thread was but lost art

and as I enjoyed the sport just the same

lingered much to late on the game

walked from the whole, but cannot of its parts."

I wish I could say that high school had its moments, but, aside from the darkness that intrudes upon the children of this age, I have no good memories.  MK was the culmination of those moments, where my heart was ground to dust.  I may not been able to verbalize at the onset of what I affectionately call the prison, I was able to give utterance to my sentence.