The Dreams That Haunt Me, pt 1

The moon rode a dark cloud, and you
A broom, incongruous
Pre-Quidditch

The moon is a pale friend,
I said.
You called to me, "Fly."

The face of the moon made me tremble,
And its tidal pull surged in my womb.

I will fall.
I will drop, gravid, and you,

You will leave me for your genius
And compulsion and the
Way our lives are always parallel,
Even now.

A train track and a road,
But no whistle comes.

Your broom doesn't reach me
Just the moon rays.

"Fly," you insisted and I ached,
trembled to fly, to take
that step off
the ledge.

Fear slayed the moon.
My words bled from me in the pale pre-dawn,
And you flew.

Keeping Silence

That one time I whispered into the wind and
the wind howled my secrets to the fox.

Everyone knows foxes talk.

So now I go to the desert, far out in the clean open air and
I scream my truth to the sun and the sand.

Everyone knows scorpions don't care.

Rhymes from a while ago

I am not doing this thought justice, because it insists on coming out in rhyme. However, I'm capturing it for reworking later... don't judge me too harshly.

I am earth, you are air;
It's elemental what we share--
water, fire and spirit bright,
sparks fly up in the dark night.

Rooted to this place, a part
Of every tree's living heart,
Closed system energy flow
Through soil and green, and me, I know.

Above the petty fray, among
The clouds, the birds' flight song
You soar, unrestrained and out of touch
Above my reach and gravity's clutch.

Where we meet, mountain peak,
In the cyclone's spinning streak,
Among the leaves of a thousand trees, 
We are tied together, god decrees.

Tumorous

I'm sorry,
The doctors' whites bled into the bright light,
Their goggle eyes blinking at my aberrations.
The words are wrapped around vital organs.
They are firmly attached to your spine.
They can't be removed or
You will die.

The doctors know science,
Their shiny degrees frown down in Latin with wax seals.
I will die.

The doctors don't know that the words must come out.
They will come out.
They will grow, expand, pile up, push on my diaphragm
Till every breath is a belch of swallowed sentiment,
Every hiccup a propulsion of pickled, sour prose.

They will grow and leach the iron from my soul,
Absorb the toxins that seeped through my skin in
A long lonely soak in a mire of grey moods.

They will grow and squeeze my liver,
Wring out the lemon-scented melancholy buried under tequila,
The bile of tabasco-hot temper I never expressed when you stole my light.

The words will come out and I will die.
And when I awake from the torrent of trance-word explosive
vomiting death.
I will be whole, and light, and I will know the science of healing
Myself.

Things to stop

Stop biting your nails
Stop swallowing your words
Stop eating fat

(When you swallow feelings that you have half buried since childhood

How is it they in turn can devour you? Parasitic.)

Stop recycling passwords
Stop picking
Stop chewing with your mouth open

Do's:

Drink milk.

Eat greens.

Choose superfoods.

Stop drinking

(Never sip the bitter bile of the things you will never do in life, it's as toxic as hell. Live in the now.)

Stop smoking

Stop underachieving 

Stop caring so much

Stop being so fucking smug

(Just be awesome. Just do it.)

Stop hating.

Stop being angry.

Stop arguing.

Stop talking.

Stop being defensive.

Stop being crazy.

(Choose life!) 

Stop dying.

Process matters.

Process matters.
We live in the process
the process is the continuum
the process is now
there is room in the process.
For things that grow and change
like hearts, feelings,
minds and bruises.

Destination is a
two dimensional room.
No one lives there.
You see your destination only
over your shoulder...
After you've passed into
the next process.

elemental

A writer is a worm.
Crawling through the dark, devouring
Converting the bitter peels and discarded
thoughts to rich soil, Wriggling
in double-ended discomfort,
two heads always
Thinking in different directions.

A writer is a worm
Feeling the way through dead rotting flesh
To the heart within that still holds
A charm, a blessing, a kiss.

A writer is a worm in the apple
of time, browning syntax to squirm
into a pentametric rhyme scheme,
Rotting away with a barrage of
metaphorical dismay and
outrage.

A writer is a worm.
The spice must flow.