Wednesday, September 30, 2009

no hands for you.


ripped apart.

what was is no more.

my coin for you.



suspended in time and space...

__I woke up alone this morning.
Thoughts of you descended from my eyes
to splash and die in an hot tub of oil
with my eggs, sunny side up,
____and I burned my biscuits.


She offered me her hacky saw,
to lay some eggs
and a dozen roses.

I offered to milk the cow,
to shear the sheep.

So we did.
I miss those times.


She used to visit me nightly,
look up at me with big blue eyes
that took up half of her face,
begging to crawl in beside me,
sometimes hiding,
waiting for me.
I knew words
that would make her leave,
but they also made her cry.
I usually let her stay.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Proof and more for the proper persons.

She had been asking for something to believe in. Here it was. She wanted to know whether or not this society was willing to tolerate sickos but not the people who are disgusted by them. Would the decent lawmakers talk with her?

She added a note to remind them that she had been minding her business and left the other battles alone. This was her business, but it should be everyone's business. It is never okay to mess with peoples' kids.

She apologized to everyone else for her outburst, for she had learned that this was not how to handle things. Even situations like this one. She would have gone to the cops, but she did not know where they were. The first time she called, they had only tried to cover up stuff, even hers. There had to be others who would do the right thing.

She had solid evidence, and she was sure no one would doubt that she would lose her temper like that over speculation. She had uncovered things much stranger and less likely than an old flame whose obsession extended to her daughter.

She was sorry, and she expected no sympathy. She did expect other more important laws to be enforced. One thing that had not been explained to her was why the petty laws she had broken seemed more offensive than the serious law. She was ready to follow the rules, but only if the lawkeepers would show everyone that they were for real.

She was never against rules, and she was finally beginning to understand some of the basics. In her statement, she never tried to deny her own shortcomings. She knew mothers would understand. She hoped the fathers would understand what it was like to find out that someone had been net-stalking their baby.

She promised to listen to the authorities who she was sure had to be somewhere. The authorities who were just as concerned with the spirit as the letter of the law, who were concerned with felonies and not only misdemeanors. Her husband knew that she had not been misled by recent misstatements and that she had decided to abstain from further wars of words with her former employers. She did not want any more trouble with the law. She really needed their help. If they would.

She did not care how much he would laugh at her for being gullible.

She would never be a sicko like him.

The proof was there, and since it was public,

IT COULD NOT EVER BE ERASED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

She had thought she knew all the nasty, dirty filth that she needed to. But this simply fell into her lap like the telegraph one never wants to receive. She 'guessed' the most jealous person was also the most angry. He had never gotten over her dumping him all those years ago. Now, he was jealous that though it took her a lot longer than most to get through school, she was doing alright. He still thought he could mess things up for her. Heck, she was 'easy' mentally, so trusting. At least she used to be. She had changed. But why follow her daughter online? Was he hoping the daughter would struggle like her mother, so he could sit back and watch? Or did he have even uglier intentions...


20 years of seeing a friend

like the girl you 'guess' is 18,

now you are a fan of hers, too.

Psycho or Sicko?


Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Side to side
along the court,
chasing slices,
back and forth,
sprinting for drops,
watching winners fly by,
the mixed scents of summertime
grass and sweat
a mild distraction,
but I focus on hitting it over the net.

Maybe I was born yesterday,
but I was reminded today
of a Triple Good ad I read a few months ago.
The man was saying what a special day
to hold a newborn and look into its eyes.
What faith!
Tell me, tell me what precious souls
to care so for the trust and love
a newborn can give.
What sacrament!
That the world should be overrun
by such communities
to be our example of the sanctity of kinship.
I am certain there awaits a special place
for such as they.
The great poets must surely lavish
generous heaps of praise upon their heads.

Woke up from a dream late Saturday night, or maybe it was very early Sunday morning. Anyway, I had this song in my head. Hadn't listened to it in a while, but Bruce is always a good listen.


A roaring flash from the clearest skies
smote you to the ground.
Fear you had never known
toppled the boyhood 'king of the mountain.'
Home expects you to remain the same
you have always been.
Walking around with others,
they say they understand,
but they cannot,
and you live with this thing
that seems best killed
or at least tamed
by compassion.


I walk clumsily in your shoes now,
Doubt I can fill them,
But I step high and carry their weight,

I step high

carry the weight

Others cannot see my invisible giants
dragging under me,
pulling at my legs, making me stronger

pulling at my legs

making me stronger

Others walk ahead,
call back to me,
refuse to wait, extend their hands

refuse to wait

extend their hands

The secret had to unfold,
she knew,
since they thought she told
an untruth,
had already gone back
on her word,
fell off the track,
"she's absurd."
In the capital of "food processing"
where many for more than fun are pressing,
she did not want to fit
another statistic --
in the also capital of "I'm sharing our lunch with someone else so our 'contract' is void."
To play,
but not that way, ha HA!
That messy, dirty business
is not
what she meant to express
another thought.
Not another thought of talking
or emailing with him,
never again.
Keep walking...
The right person knew
what she meant,
read all of the hints,
got the point of view.

Eight Inch Figurine

Few knew*
the broken doll,

the blond girl,
head still in one piece,
pink smile,
spring bouquet
poised porcelain,
her cornflower blue dress.
Alone on the wall,
she observed
four of them
from her pedestal.
blasted through the screen,
possessed his body.
The demon foot lifted,
sent its force upward,
obliterating her presence.
The demon fled the room.

*Actual event that was not funny at the time. The doll had sentimental value, and the demon-possessed person was genuinely sorry. But the look on everyone's face is everlastingly funny!

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Lying near me,
not completely asleep,
quietly breathing,
waiting for me to hold you.
You cannot breathe deep
unless I hold you.
In the morning,
you will want to wake me,
but you will leave me quietly,
completely asleep,
to wake later and find myself
buried under the covers
where you lay.

I tried to fix a misunderstanding by posting a poem about the broken doll. Sigh. It was very innocent, lol, and literal.

Twenty seconds to reflect.
The past looks nothing like I thought it would
The present not like I dreamed,
But near my assumption.
The dreams I used to dream
Not the plans that I make.
Mostly not.
A few cling desperately to my hopeful inner child,
An all but faded caricature on a coloring book page.
“Do not leave us!” they cry.
“We will die if you let us go!”
Tears flow in rainbow rivets
Leaving pigmented footprints just beneath the ripples.
Life springs eternal, but dreams live or die
In a constant battle of circumstance and will.
Twenty seconds to confirm or reject
The notion that life is what we make of it.
Is life what we make of it,
Or does life make us?
The ones who like Lewis rose to the top,
Then saw the other impossible mountains to cross,
Sat down and cried.
Did his heart or his team force him forward?
Or was it the mountain already behind him?
Was it will,
Or was it circumstance?
Many mountains he crossed with his brothers…
Alone at the end.
Twenty seconds to rejoice
The small things,
The taken for granted things,
The big things that come ever so often,
The surprises…
The shared…
The solitude...
The living of life.
Twenty seconds is twenty more than we had before,
Cannot be relived, respent, reserved for the future.
Twenty seconds…

Oh yeah, part of the game is being misunderstood...

Will she ,won't she
tell us what she knows?
I do not care
what gossip blows.
Just give her a reason
not to hide,
not to hide her trust.
Never wanted to share,
so why are you scared?
I think she thinks
of other stuff,
lots of other stuff
that would get on your nerves.
Is she listening, eavesdropping?
She said she would follow them,
but was that just her defense?
I bet she knew it would make
no difference after all.
After all,
no one likes to hear the howls,
the pounding feet of chase,
though some mad souls pursue
an endless race.
Would she be on our side?
I know for a fact
she is loyal to strengthening values,
to values that cannot be bought
with money
but with the heart,
the soul.
She is loyal to freedom of the mind,
to err, to learn,
to face the truth of imperfection,
of regret, of rising above.
She is loyal to understanding,
to forgiving even when it hurts like hell
to let go of the pain.
Does she think she is better than we are?
What do you think?
Her mistakes made waves,
exposed weaknesses in herself,
not just in others,
showed her ignorance.
She lacks what others have,
communication skills.
I think she is simply there, now,
not helping others so much,
not trusting others so much,
not fighting so much the things
she could not see.
The things she could not see,
like the whale.
No, perhaps she was fighting
the man in the boat.

, Navigation:
the key I can never find
my way from here to where you are
calling me
I miss you, too.
Suicide notes,
cutesy totes,
faces to the walls,
painted smiles,
experimental trials,
a chick with bowling balls.
painful stares,
childish scares,
erotic offering plates,
a bully's fist,
truth in the mist,
what jealousy creates.
lined pockets,
assassins' rockets,
an expedition to Mars,
jobs for twat,
values are squat,
More internet wars.
Mind control,
spiritual toll,
battles for the soul,
Freedom rings,
truth ugly sings,
A ton of shit to roll.
Friendship patches,
securing latches,
unsettling undertones,
Cleansing guilt,
New homes are built,
New scars adorn our bones.
If I had listened to my mother,
I would not have seen a leprechaun,
Would have put aside some blueberries
had I listened to the ice cream man,
Would not have chased unicorns
if I listened to the news,
So it hurts that there were few
who did that for me, too,
But that was yesterday.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Tribute to Jimi

Jimi Hendrix died September 18, 1970. Could he have gotten much better?

How Not To and How To

The guy had never met the other dude but had tried to steal his girlfriend. After school, the dude and his friends jumped him from behind and beat him so bad he ended up in the hospital. The beaten teenager lay in traction for weeks. When the others got out of jail and finally went to see him, it was not to call a truce. It was to demand an apology. The laid up guy wondered why his punishment was not enough. Thought to ask why the other had reacted so violently. But he already knew the answer. Hurting him had not done anything to ease the dude's pain. He still wanted an apology.

The guy considered his blood transfusion and broken limbs. He pondered his own situation. What would happen if he went after the guys his own girlfriend had been messing around with the way this guy had come after him? Sure, he blamed those guys, though not as much as he blamed her. Some were friends of his. A couple were very close friends, and verbally trashing one of the dudes had made him feel better only briefly. The pain was still there.

He had tried to finally take off the rose-colored glasses where she was concerned. He threatened to break up, but she would cry and beg him not to, professing innocence until he reached his breaking point. Then she would claim to be a changed person. This last time, when she came to visit him in the hospital, he thought their relationship might have a shot.

He should not have messed with this dude’s chick, but at the time he thought they were both experiencing breakups. The guy knew how the other felt, though. Probably worried his chick would continue doing the same things she had been doing. Both chicks thought they were getting by with stuff. Maybe they had. But not everything.

The guy asked everyone to leave except for the one. He wasn’t sure an apology would be good enough. Yet he understood the other really needed some peace. He looked up from his bed and said “Look, I’m sorry, dude. No excuses, no double talk. I’m really sorry that I hurt you.” He was surprised to discover that he suddenly felt a lot better. He didn't know whether the other could tell, but he hoped the dude knew that he meant it.

A dream of dreams,
unusual polarization,
new meaning,
confused interpretations to unravel,
abject frustrations,
prostrate remediations,
unintended ramifications,
diamond-cut gold chunks
spinning like tops,
skyscrapers amaze an atom.

Gonna Party Like It's My Birthday!

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Her past apologies,

her explanations ignored.

The scarlet woman understood

some would always feel


even though she had refused

____________________to sip their wines.

Their children to feed,

their bills to pay immobilized them.

The sacrificial woman knew

they were still


of the isolation that could visit

_____________________their sunlit rooms.

Grandmothers, mothers, sisters, aunts,

thank you for wrapping your quilt
around my shoulders,
for remembering I am alive.

When the heart is comforted,
the mind is free to remember
colors of the rainbow,
clouds of hope.
Unconditional love,
a prize no one can steal,
a cure-all for the torn spirit.
Your words have value,
like an eagle they carry me
over mountains, rivers.
I listen and learn.

Unsurprised that her gift was twisted,
Her attempt to make peace
with a few innocent,
or less guity
of her time in hell,
did not make it fake,
did not make it less painful,
did not make what the rest did okay,
but it was her nature
to forgive,
to let others make mistakes, too,
to try to learn from each other,
to support each other,
and there would be those
who would claim
that none meant harm.
That there were so many like her,
unsung warriors,
brave survivors,
poor souls lost in the fight,
they were the proof.
Would they also claim
that in other acts of genocide
there were none who spoke
from the sides of their mouths,
moved their lips,
to try to save others?
Would they also twist the words
to add themselves to the small group
who felt helpless,
guilty for not doing more?
They would,
it was in their nature,
in their soul
to not accept responsibility,
to try to crawl under the blanket
of comfort that was not meant for them,
for their vileness.
And everyone,
even themselves,
knew it.
She almost did not reach out
to those few,
knowing this,
but she knew that they would always be
waiting for her to say something they could use
to slough their filth,
but they only glisten the mud.

He would never speak

with her

Her eyes opened,
she gave him one last chance to be


He thought he would pull from her
what no one knew,
he would control,

He was not who he

______________________and would never be.

She debated whether to tell
his statement
_________in context.

Then she let slip the mirage
___________________that was him.

She could not help but love them,
Though their fear kept them bound.
She understood the nightmare,
Cold, hungry winter,
But she saw that seasons
continued to change.

He misunderstood.
She owed him nothing,
Not for being dragged kicking,
Screaming into their world.
No contact,
Not allowed.
at the top of the upside down pyramid,
the hell where “poor and happy” are crushed,
He chose the road that splits souls,
Turns love against friendship,
Breaks bonds.
She had been mistaken.
What she thought was a bogus ticket to heaven
Was in reality an instruction manual,
“Bike Trail Navigation”


According to the lever, nothing in the kitchen was level. The master carpenter had not inspected the finished product of his workers. The woman had paid a lot, a lot of money for top quality handiwork. Something was not right.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Lluvia's Bedtime Stories 1

Some people wanted to be her friend but didn’t know how. She knew more about how they thought than they knew about how she thought. Or so she thought.

Anyway, not thrilled at the idea of opening her chest cavity just so everyone who wanted to could throw more daggers, she decided to believe that maybe they, like her, had learned some things about life.

Actually, she changed her mind. But then she realized that some of them had tried to call her. She had taken her phone off the hook. They pissed her off by telling her to mind her own business – after they had nose-dived into hers.

Still, they seemed to be willing to meet her half way. There were some things that they needed to know. Life did not wait for her to catch up. It left her behind, waited for nearly 40 years, and then viciously grabbed her and did not let go.

She decided to tell them stories.

Story #1

Imagine a boy who always made good grades but never quite fit in. He had a quirky sense of humor, but he got laughed at for not getting jokes. His joke comprehension did improve over the years. Slightly.

He remembered nearly every conversation, every gesture and facial expression, even knowing glances and exchanges between other people right in front of him. No one thought anything would come of his ability.

One day, he made a mistake. Some people were going to ruin his life. Fine. He would take them down with him. He did not know there was a joke.

By the time he figured out the joke, everyone and everything had gotten out of hand, even him. When he realized that he could understand when they spoke, every file began falling from the ceiling in his head. A raining jigsaw puzzle crashed like boulders that dropped with a cloud of debris just below an invisible surface, piecing itself together, not on the floor but in a plane that sloped in one direction but really in another direction. And then it made a sphere with all the pieces strung together inside.

And then it exploded.

He had to figure out which parts of the puzzle were actual pieces and throw out the junk that his closest friends and relatives had tossed in.

He still has trouble with jokes. And he still has his ability to remember stuff. And he knows the difference between real friends joking and fake friends joking. Sometimes. So he hoped his real friends would not leave him hanging ever again.

Story #2

There was this teenage girl. Everyone liked her. They thought she was cool. She thought everyone else was cool. She did not realize that her matter of fact statements sometimes sounded like put downs. That cost her some friends.

Story #7

A daisy grew by the sidewalk. She loved the glorious rose bushes, but they hated her. They did not see that the gardener paid them all his attention. He always walked past the daisy without a glance.

Story #8

Once there was a nearly 40 year-old ostrich who, except for the existence of a few assholes in the world, thought that life was even odder and more hysterical than she had known. She pulled her head out of the earth, shook off the dirt, and ran to shake her tail feathers with the rest of the bootiful birds.

Story #13

There once was a truly weird chick
Whose friends played a truly dumb trick
They all showed their ass (the chick, too)
None of their class
But the swine flu did not make them sick

Story #9

Once there was a group of lady co-workers who thought a jewel thief was on the loose. They got together and decided that it must be the woman who never wore jewelry. Since she did not have any, she must want theirs. When they realized she meant to purchase her own ring, they all had a big laugh. She, on one hand, was glad that she would not have to get a manicure just so her hands would look good enough for such expensive jewelry. They, on the other hand, didn’t know who should be more embarrassed: themselves for making such a fuss, or her for not having the world’s most beautiful hands. After a couple of margaritas away from work, none of them cared.

Story #3

A young man, 21, decided to find his father who he had not seen for 15 years. He had seen the name of his father’s birthplace on the hospital certificate. He got lucky. The operator gave him the number of his father’s only relative who still lived there.

For seventeen years, the young man was grateful to merely be a part of the family. He asked them for money once to fix the car heater. This was only so his children would not suffer on the six hour trip to visit them. They sent the money and told him that he did not have to pay it back. He was appreciative since the divorce had hurt his finances.

The second time he asked for help -

Story #4

Once upon a time, a naïve whore asked her pimps to explain why they kept giving her johns since she was really a long-haired seamstress. They threw her in jail.

Story #5

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater
Had a wife, forgot to feed her
Left her in the pumpkin shell
Her magic window had lots to tell
Peter tries to make amends
In hopes his married tale won’t end

Story #6

Once there was a little girl who talked with sprites and fairies. She loved them better than anything. Some nasty trolls were jealous. They locked her in the dungeon. She escaped and set out to find her friends.

Story #11

There once was a chick with a ‘tude
Who fought like hell with a dude
When it was done
She missed the fun
But hated cafeteria food

Story #10

A girl who looked like a boy (but not quite) started playing poker. She was not old enough to play poker, but she beat everyone at the table. She did not take their money. Instead, she tried to talk to them. She had never watched the Texas Hold ‘Em tournaments on tv to know that poker players don’t talk. They told her the scariest stories. When that did not shut her up, they started smacking her. Hard. They were really bad guys disguised as gentlemen. She stopped talking to them and showed them the finger.

Story #12

There once was a son of a bloke
Who liked to play lots of jokes
He better know how to take it
Or learn real fast how to fake it
Or she’ll send him up in smoke

Story #14

They had done the worst they could do to her, and she knew that although there was some true power playing higher up, a lot of it was just stupid mind games. They did not want any more of her canned goods. (Whup Ass Brand) So now that she knew this, since they had embarrassed her more than she could ever be embarrassed again, and she them, she did not see any reason to not have fun in life.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009


Love Disco!

Da dada da!

I love to sing along with this song. Finally looked up the word "haver," lol. I've done that. Shhhh! Oh, and yes, I try to sing with the accent. =)

Saturday, September 5, 2009


Desire is a dream,
a yearning, haunting
that will not let go.


What is forever-
Nothing as long as man lives,
Except for desire.


thirty-nine candles
long ago seemed like many,
now mist on the sea


your tower of words
created an avalanche
when it hit the ground


Write me your poem,
So I can feel the beautiful
Song that is your soul.

Yet I look at you
or anyone else in life
as I did before,
Ere I encountered
unfettered, scathing hatred,
unscrupulous wraiths,
envious banshees,
power-hungry, sewered souls,
Their insecure claws
gripped in a deathlock,
clinging to the appearance
of status and wealth.
Only nature’s things,
Not of men, remain unchanged
in their existence.
They still call to me,
comfort, reassure no man
will reign forever.
The precious gift trust,
once your possession entire,
now yours in pieces,
so hard to let go,
handed to you one by one,
pebbles from my wall.
My heart weeps softly,
as if each small stone a child
from within my soul;
As though I set free
a songbird to venture forth,
unclipped, immobile.
Silent wails are trapped,
echo endlessy inside
well-fortressed gardens,
Shaded banquet halls,
blanketed ‘neath verdant veils
of thick ivy lace,
where rays penetrate
few holes in the canopy
at my discretion,
at my own desire,
my will, my legislation.
country hidden,
invisible borderlines
To your probing eyes;
Your platinum tongue
Fails to coax open a door
To sacred heartland.
Safe from ravenous,
cannibalistic vultures,
from skeleton crows.
Free from auction blocks,
the Wall Street of peddled lust
for blind, numbed bodies.
Painted, masked faces
hide a young girl’s dream of love,
a fantasy man,
the one true lover.
Masks hide broken memories,
forsaken visions.
My sacred temple,
invaded, desecrated,
now hidden from all,
a new Atlantis.
You may search as knight for grail
if you feel worthy.
Then perform your deeds.
Mere intentions need not attempt
Uncover my myth.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009