In a dreamscape reverie almost unreal, the ancient woman, whom until that very moment stirred a smile on my face every time I visited her cashiers window at the Handy J car wash, evoked a flood of emotion within me.
Rage.Angst.Hopelessness.
The grasshopper was pale green with eyes the size of prepubescent legumes and was desperately trying to escape out the horseshoe sized opening in her workspace, adorned with bowls of candy and old dilberts taped to the counter for patrons to imbibe in sugar and laughter. I waited in line as the man before me laughed at a comic she showed him, and then, as I too was grinning, I became alarmed at the transformation on her sweet old face. The morph happened in a manner of seconds, and a look befitting a psychopath adorned her crevaced face, as she proceeded to take her pencil and attempted to smash my little green friend with her eraser. She failed at first but did succeed in crippling him. I panicked and asked her what she was doing. Why she didn't push him out the window to free him.
She didn't care. She was on a path of destruction.
I wanted to run away but stood frozen, staring at the little bug's face as she continued to try and mutilate it. She finally succeeded by taking a piece of clear masking tape and taping his head to the glass window and continued to stab at the little fellow with a scissor.
I gazed in horror and handed her my credit card. I asked her why she didn't simply free him? She looked at me with a face no longer of a sweet old lady but rather a sick anger and said, "Why? Were you going to go home and keep him as your pet?"
For some people, there is no alternative to destruction. As I watched the mechanical arms wash my car, I felt empowered in my faith. I am happy that I cried as the brushes removed the soil and toil of this here world I live in. You don't have to cross the oceans to wartorn regions to witness destruction and war. It is everywhere if only one opens their eyes and ears to its presence.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Lent
Twirling swirling flag tails
Licking muscled calves
Splitting tuned muscles asunder
You!
Aghast and ablast and sanding
Deliverance beneath fertile soil
Thickened with exuberant life
Twisting its multi etched bodice
Gliding past craters and moons
Downward beckoning the cold
Elongated fingers clawing onward
Blinders binding blessings
Messy bloated ephemeral
Feral girl (woman?) sinking
Dream state calling forth
White horses silver stakes
God and all the saints pleading
To hear the one will true will
Ear wax deeper than an eternity
Oceanic universe coyly cunning
Its way toward the converse..
Licking muscled calves
Splitting tuned muscles asunder
You!
Aghast and ablast and sanding
Deliverance beneath fertile soil
Thickened with exuberant life
Twisting its multi etched bodice
Gliding past craters and moons
Downward beckoning the cold
Elongated fingers clawing onward
Blinders binding blessings
Messy bloated ephemeral
Feral girl (woman?) sinking
Dream state calling forth
White horses silver stakes
God and all the saints pleading
To hear the one will true will
Ear wax deeper than an eternity
Oceanic universe coyly cunning
Its way toward the converse..
Let It Begin With Me
Let it begin with me
I try and imagine what it was like when I entered the world on that cold day in February 1969 and although as a newborn I required the tender care from my parents, it still signified the beginning of me. Let it begin with me.
The process of creating and recreating me will undoubtedly be an ongoing genesis throughout my life; of this I’m sure. I liken my life now to seeking that perfect crème brulee. I’ll continue altering the recipe until it tastes perfect to me. (certainly not perfect in essence but perfect tasting to me at that very moment).
As I whisk through life and the days pass, I remember that my purpose is beyond self love, that it is to fulfill my destiny, yet, without the self love, I couldn’t possibly fulfill that destiny. My self love is my petrol. Without a car or map or destination, I am not living up to what these words mean to me.
I say this because I watched my Father die a painful death last year. My Father lived a life filled with books and isolation. It is an incredible eye opener to have your Father state in his last few sentences to you, his only child…that he isn’t afraid to die. That he has no regrets. That he loves me. That it was a good life. From where I observed all these years, it didn’t seem like such a good life. But that doesn’t matter. I wasn’t him. As I think of let it end with me, I hope that despite all the differences between my Father and myself, I can utter similar words as the me that started and the me that ends will feel this way. Self love. Purpose.
I try and imagine what it was like when I entered the world on that cold day in February 1969 and although as a newborn I required the tender care from my parents, it still signified the beginning of me. Let it begin with me.
The process of creating and recreating me will undoubtedly be an ongoing genesis throughout my life; of this I’m sure. I liken my life now to seeking that perfect crème brulee. I’ll continue altering the recipe until it tastes perfect to me. (certainly not perfect in essence but perfect tasting to me at that very moment).
As I whisk through life and the days pass, I remember that my purpose is beyond self love, that it is to fulfill my destiny, yet, without the self love, I couldn’t possibly fulfill that destiny. My self love is my petrol. Without a car or map or destination, I am not living up to what these words mean to me.
I say this because I watched my Father die a painful death last year. My Father lived a life filled with books and isolation. It is an incredible eye opener to have your Father state in his last few sentences to you, his only child…that he isn’t afraid to die. That he has no regrets. That he loves me. That it was a good life. From where I observed all these years, it didn’t seem like such a good life. But that doesn’t matter. I wasn’t him. As I think of let it end with me, I hope that despite all the differences between my Father and myself, I can utter similar words as the me that started and the me that ends will feel this way. Self love. Purpose.
Beefy Bullets
I was a kung-fu master and was revered by all througout the planet, both the east and the west.
I formed an army and was its General.
General i,pepe!
I rallied my people and instilled within them a loathing and anger toward the likes of pretty much anyone. they were each handed a loaf of meat (the variety of meat escapes me but it was imbued with shades of mauve and ginger) and an old fashioned monster sling shot. If you could have seen the lighting of the sky as my army of many fired its loafs of meat your lips would purse in bewilderment and awe! confusion ensued as my ukase was to fire at anyone (because i figured a loaf of meat couldn't possibly kill someone and would probably taste fine once the fleshy sting slap subsided) and my minions began to fire at one another. i laughed maniacally on my mountain perch. stupid people!!
Sincerely,
General, i pepe
I formed an army and was its General.
General i,pepe!
I rallied my people and instilled within them a loathing and anger toward the likes of pretty much anyone. they were each handed a loaf of meat (the variety of meat escapes me but it was imbued with shades of mauve and ginger) and an old fashioned monster sling shot. If you could have seen the lighting of the sky as my army of many fired its loafs of meat your lips would purse in bewilderment and awe! confusion ensued as my ukase was to fire at anyone (because i figured a loaf of meat couldn't possibly kill someone and would probably taste fine once the fleshy sting slap subsided) and my minions began to fire at one another. i laughed maniacally on my mountain perch. stupid people!!
Sincerely,
General, i pepe
Sofi's (Choice)
I have drifted through certain elements of life with the precision and planning of a mottled leaf picked up by random surges of air current.
Certain elements. Intentional ambiguity, certainly far from the planned and precise module of the stage I have chosen.
To make a buck. Returning to a certain uncertainty, reeking-toiling.
Placed before me, presented to me.
Place a blue bucket before me and dare me to see it. As blue. As a bucket.
The candyland maze is hemming and hawing with overgrown grass, shimmering assortments of wayward flowers, hulking giants planted firmly beneath the earth, towering over cracked pavements far long after he and I have left this temporal place.
From your lips to God's ears. The curious and ethereal beginning from an end; tossing aside machinations that could skew the truth.
Dreamy gauzed light protecting their circle, I crave forwards and backwards for the filtered mask to be unearthed.
Certain elements. Intentional ambiguity, certainly far from the planned and precise module of the stage I have chosen.
To make a buck. Returning to a certain uncertainty, reeking-toiling.
Placed before me, presented to me.
Place a blue bucket before me and dare me to see it. As blue. As a bucket.
The candyland maze is hemming and hawing with overgrown grass, shimmering assortments of wayward flowers, hulking giants planted firmly beneath the earth, towering over cracked pavements far long after he and I have left this temporal place.
From your lips to God's ears. The curious and ethereal beginning from an end; tossing aside machinations that could skew the truth.
Dreamy gauzed light protecting their circle, I crave forwards and backwards for the filtered mask to be unearthed.
My Grandfather Joseph Wasn't a Nazi
My Grandfather Joseph
My grandfather was a soldier with the german army during wwII (he was not a nazi-the young soldiers that were drafted were simply soldiers and not nazis...one had to join the actual nazi party to be called a nazi). He was twenty years old when he was forced to fight with the german army and was sent to russia where he was shot within two weeks in the gut on the russian front one cold january morning.
His name was Joseph Richter. He was an artist and created beautiful hand carved violins and was purported to be a wonderful violinist as well. They put boys like him that didn't have a clue how to fire a gun or fight in a war on the front to serve as the outer disposable rim. he was apolitical and was an artist that only cared for his music and his young love, my grandmother. my mother was but a mere three month old fetus in her mother's womb when her father was killed. my grandmother hated the nazis for taking her country where they did and for ultimately being the blame behind the loss of her young husband's life. she was almost imprisoned many times for refusing to salute in honor of the fuhrer and was tough as nails. Her name was Magdalena Richter. she especially loathed the party because her sister had a disabled baby. back then they didn't have the medicine we have today to prevent pre-eclempsia. needless to say, my mom's cousin was taken away by the nazis and put in an institution for the mentally impaired where they were all gased to death. there are records of her death. this child's name was Christine Richter, named after Saint Christine. God rest her young four year old soul. my mother ate flour and water until the age of eight or nine and was considered lucky because her grandmother, my great-grandmother Anna, worked on a farm 25 miles outside of town. Anna would ride her bicycle to work every day and was a laboror on the farm. Her name was Anna Weiss. She was paid with eggs. Thus, my mother's family was lucky because they not only ate flour and water but also had the luxury of eating eggs. I have been feeling sad lately when I imagine the faces of these young soldiers dying in Afghanistan..not because they are any more or less important than anyone else in this world whose life ends in a grotesque fashion, but because I yearn to have known my Grandfather who was probably their age and probably just as clueless as to what he was really doing on that cold winter morning in 1941 Russia.
My grandfather was a soldier with the german army during wwII (he was not a nazi-the young soldiers that were drafted were simply soldiers and not nazis...one had to join the actual nazi party to be called a nazi). He was twenty years old when he was forced to fight with the german army and was sent to russia where he was shot within two weeks in the gut on the russian front one cold january morning.
His name was Joseph Richter. He was an artist and created beautiful hand carved violins and was purported to be a wonderful violinist as well. They put boys like him that didn't have a clue how to fire a gun or fight in a war on the front to serve as the outer disposable rim. he was apolitical and was an artist that only cared for his music and his young love, my grandmother. my mother was but a mere three month old fetus in her mother's womb when her father was killed. my grandmother hated the nazis for taking her country where they did and for ultimately being the blame behind the loss of her young husband's life. she was almost imprisoned many times for refusing to salute in honor of the fuhrer and was tough as nails. Her name was Magdalena Richter. she especially loathed the party because her sister had a disabled baby. back then they didn't have the medicine we have today to prevent pre-eclempsia. needless to say, my mom's cousin was taken away by the nazis and put in an institution for the mentally impaired where they were all gased to death. there are records of her death. this child's name was Christine Richter, named after Saint Christine. God rest her young four year old soul. my mother ate flour and water until the age of eight or nine and was considered lucky because her grandmother, my great-grandmother Anna, worked on a farm 25 miles outside of town. Anna would ride her bicycle to work every day and was a laboror on the farm. Her name was Anna Weiss. She was paid with eggs. Thus, my mother's family was lucky because they not only ate flour and water but also had the luxury of eating eggs. I have been feeling sad lately when I imagine the faces of these young soldiers dying in Afghanistan..not because they are any more or less important than anyone else in this world whose life ends in a grotesque fashion, but because I yearn to have known my Grandfather who was probably their age and probably just as clueless as to what he was really doing on that cold winter morning in 1941 Russia.
Royal Fichus
royal fichus
the tinge of a whisper
morning sun briefly plants
delicious golden rays
surrounding the sinewy fichus
sentries protecting the protector
life's labors reconstructing harmony
the art of the smile
mechanical motions set into play
water, feed, till, re-pot
symbolic roots taking hold
sprouting newly minted heart
shifting winds sparking frenzy
intoxicating freeze follows one last dig
ebony moistened soil engulfing
dirtied and cracked hands
deft cedar waxwings circling ahead
almost out of sight
awaking chills furrowing creased brows
arm hairs standing at attention
burrowing into raised goose flesh
zero quiets the naïve daisies and cocky sunflowers
beloved guardians of deep secrets
somber good bye etched in brown
where verdant once ruled supreme
the tinge of a whisper
morning sun briefly plants
delicious golden rays
surrounding the sinewy fichus
sentries protecting the protector
life's labors reconstructing harmony
the art of the smile
mechanical motions set into play
water, feed, till, re-pot
symbolic roots taking hold
sprouting newly minted heart
shifting winds sparking frenzy
intoxicating freeze follows one last dig
ebony moistened soil engulfing
dirtied and cracked hands
deft cedar waxwings circling ahead
almost out of sight
awaking chills furrowing creased brows
arm hairs standing at attention
burrowing into raised goose flesh
zero quiets the naïve daisies and cocky sunflowers
beloved guardians of deep secrets
somber good bye etched in brown
where verdant once ruled supreme
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