I Rise...

The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.- Cervantes

"You have to heat it to over 2400 degrees to change it to glass, you know. The sand melts, then you shape or blow it. And the chemicals that give it color as varied as a new box of crayons-"
"-but not the smell-"
"No, nothing has that smell. It has its own smell, reminiscent of ozone or brimstone, I don't know what."
"The phoenix rises too."
"Enough digressions, please pay attention. You add the chemicals, the insets, the gold leaf. Every color from purest amber, see the pale translucence here to most opaque sable."
"Nice. Sable? Not obsidian? Not hematite? Not jet?"
"All those too, but see, this is sable. See the trace of brown and yellow, like animal fur. Sable. So. Then you have something, something which matches your vision."
"I like the Tiffany stained glass windows."
"All good and well, but no more interruptions, please! There are infinite variations, flat, round, hollow, solid. Look at the internal bubbles, the varying sizes. Mistakes? Maybe. Maybe not intent, but see how they add to the reflectiveness of the piece, how they accent it, trace the length of it, bubbles rising like mist."
"Length of it?"
"Mind out of the gutter. Look. Look at the texture. Smooth here, rough there. The shape, waves, rolling waves echoing the sea. So we have the heat of fire, cold of the deep sargasso sea, sand torched to glass and bubbles rising from the foaming waves."
"As the phoenix rises from its own ash, purified and reborn."
"Indeed."
"You see all this in a glass sculpture."
"Oh, I see more, more than that. I see every moment of creation, every change that was or will be. Here. See where the color fades into another, the layering technique."
"I want you."
"Yes, sure, but don't change the subject. Look at this. You see the flecks, like bits of mica. Here, the curve and sharp edge in one. Round softness and brittle sharpness. A scimitar. It is shaped like a scimitar."
"When you get that look, I want to make love to you. I want that look for me."
She turns, surprised. "For you? You've not had it?"
"Not today."
She smiles. "Not yet today, you mean. Days not over yet. We have time." Eyes now shut, she kisses his cheek.
"Yes, you have it now." He kisses her still closed eyes.
"Hmm?"
"That look. It's all of you, the way you relax into yourself, when you're happy, when something gives you pleasure. That's your fascination, your glamour."
"Hmmm..." She kisses him again, this time on the mouth. "2400 degrees Fahrenheit. Changes everything. Takes less than that to change a person, to burn a person away."
"Takes one kiss."
"And two? And three? And maybe more than three? Sands of time. Heat shapes the sands of time, keeps them from running out."
"Nothing stops time."
"Pauses it. The pause between heartbeats. It's all we have."
"Yes. It's all we have."

Feet of Clay

Staring at the table
knotty woodgrain
harsh blue stain.
Glare of sunlight on
reflected hurt.
Or perhaps it was the tears.

Another cup of tea?
Leaves, read the leaves
from the burst teabag.
Is there a future here?
A future where no one hears?

His reign was ended.
No longer an issue,
no worship at his altar.
He was washed up.
Golden calf shattered
Fatted calf slaughtered.
Sacrifice, one quick cut.

Photos shredded
they flutter
confetti from the 12th floor.

i wonder what the queen has been doing this week

the past week, ten days i have been...distracted. yes, i've been writing, obviously i've been writing. to keep me from my pen and notebooks would be to starve me, i would shrivel up. but i've had to limit my typing time, ergo limiting my posting time. why you may ask have i limited my typing time? too many other real world obligations, avoiding truths i have to face, not wanting to revisit my own insides or the turmoil that knots my guts.

but this weekend i am spending at the Florida Writer Association Conference. and if that does not force me to sit down at my laptop and use both hands to compose what will?

so far, (this being early early sat am) the seminars have been...inspiring. and it is at one of my favorite hotels, disney's coronado springs, where i had the privelege of attending the IRS tax forum back in september. another three days of heaven! why is it that eyes glaze over when i riff on taxes or writing?

time to wash/dress/drive.

later, my friends!!!

Recipe for Success, Recipe for Disaster

They are perfect. Ripe, succulent, perfect. And I've never done this before, or at least never done it successfully.

So tonight was the night. Tonight I will do this, make this and it will resonate.

I place them in a plastic bag, walk to the register.

"$3.84," said the cashier.

Handing her a ten, I notice that the woman behind me has that new instant chocolate dip in her basket.

"It's a fondue kind of night, isn't it? Does that stuff work?"

"Yes, just cold enough. It's real easy, melts in the microwave."

"What are you going to dip? Pretzels, marshmallows...oh you're getting strawberries. Lovely. You are going to have such a fun night."

"Yes, we will," the woman replies, still making goo-goo eyes at her girlfriend. I envy them. They're together.

Buck up, girl. Only 8:45. He said he'd be over about 10, it takes that long to drive. Gives you time to make fondue also if you're so inclined. And then you will have all night together.

Placing the bag on the passenger seat, I drive home, eyes flicking from the road to the bag. Do I have everything?

Red wine, blush wine, sugar. Should be easy. I'm not even going to consult foodtv.com or epicurious on this one. They'd not helped me in prior attempts, so this was going to be a strictly seat of the pants attempt.

Cutting board sterilized, knife ready. Remove the labels, core and seeds. Thin slices. Before I can poach them, I have to prepare the poaching liquid. Two cups red Bitch wine, one cup Arbor Mist Tropical Fruit. I have only the finest of wines in my kitchen. One cup sugar. Stir over medium heat until the sugar dissolves. Layer the slices in the poaching liquid. Add one half cup water so the slices are covered completely by the liquid. Lower the heat to a simmer and place the lid on the pan.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Remove the cover. Lovely pinkish color, perfect tenderness. I'll try one. Wow. I've succeeded. I have made perfectly poached pears.

Now to plate them. A spiral, using the asymmetry of the pears to best advantage. On a fine, white china plate. Let the poaching liquid reduce. Drizzle the intensely purple syrup over the pears. Set the platter on the table, atop a contrasting place mat.

Bzzz! Bzzz! My cellphone dances on the counter. I smile at his face in the tiny screen and flick it open. Twisting a lock of hair around my index finger, I try to keep the purr out of my voice. "Hey. You done yet? Getting late, mon ami."

"Um, look sweetie? Something came up. I'm going to be stuck here for a while, hon. Maybe I'll catch up with you on the weekend."

"Oh. Okay then. Bye." I look at the carefully constructed tableau. And throw it out.

Conditional Clause Pt 2

Honeyed sweetness drips from your tongue.
How sharper than a serpent's tongue
it is to have yours slither over me.
Trussed with words, tight, they wrap me,
my throat,
trail down my torso, my breasts,
my waist, my back, my pelvis,
and slide between my legs.
The lies we weave are so easy
so good.
They feel so good....
I want so much to believe.
The noose is a caress.
I lift my chin, exposing my throat.
Your thumbs stroke my windpipe,
our tongues dancing to the music of lies.
I press against the noose, revel in it
as you bite the nape of my neck.
Every kiss a lie.
Lies disguised as promises
slide down my arm to my ring finger,
size 5-1/4, I do. I do.
Does not take many.
One. Two. No more than three.
And I will believe.
Oh, I will clap hands because
I believe.
I believe in fairy tales and happy ever after.
I want so much to believe.
I want the lies.

Hands

Simplest form
altered by human hand
all altered.
Human hands change everything
cannot come in contact
without affecting a change.

Your hands have changed me
mine will shape you.
My hands, I cannot stop them
do not want to stop them
reach out
pull you to me.
My hands hold you
closer.
Press you to me.
I do not act.
I do not.
It is my hands that do this.

They never have enough of you
of your skin
of touching you
of being warm with you
I can lay here all night
touching you
just...
My hands love you.
No matter what I feel say do
my hands love you.

42 Days Late and $32 Dollars Short

Staring into the mirror, I wonder. How long? How long before he notices? Already been three days and he hasn't commented, hasn't said a word. How could he not? He sees everything. How does he not see this?

Your pants are too long. Your pants are too tight. Your pockets are uneven. The part in your hair is crooked. The cereals aren't lined up. Saute pan is supposed to be a few inches to the left. You already have shampoo. Fold it in thirds, then in half, never half then thirds. Ever.

There is a hair on the floor.

Paste not gel. Detergent then softener. The pot is going to boil over. You let it get cold. If you play with yourself, you'll grow hair on your palm. Germs. Who's on the phone. It's 2 a.m. There is pollen on the car. Dot the t's and cross the eyes. Always always cross the ‘I'.

You are using the wrong pot.

Big whisk, not small. Spatula, not flipper. Measure twice, cut once. Vacuum across then down. You left the light on. Another nail polish? Don't run the water while you wash. You are five minutes early. You'll go when I say so.

It's all about the fucking crackers.

Forty-two days late and thirty-two dollars short.

You noticed everything. You prowled the house with a candle and a feather. And it still took you six weeks to notice I'd removed my wedding band.

You see everything but you don't see me.

You see nothing.

Plotlines

beginning middle end
end
end
It all ends.
Sooner or later.
Everything ends.
So why start?
Why try?
If it all turns to ashes
why even begin.
Better to hide away.
Safe.
It's all status quo
of some sort or other.

A's status quo is self-righteous hermit
so lost in her long ago love.
B's status quo is triumphant bitch
just dare yourself to cross her.
C's status quo is perfect wife martyrdom
wearing a rhinestone tiara.

And mine?
Drifter
Lost
Aimless

Where is my anchor?
Where will I be safe?
Where will I be whole?
I can cry
buckets
rivers
oceans
and not be done.

I am blindstupiddeafdumb.

I am hurt
and
I am always
all ways
alone.

Choices

You ask me why when where they have gone.
I sent them away.
Far away.
It was them
or
it was me.
I chose me.

You make your own choice.

You can do anything
you will do anything
to please me
to maintain the status quo
but
it is not enough.

It has to be because you want to
in and of yourself.
For you.

I will not be resented.
I will not be the boundary setter.
I will not be the push-come-to-shove.
I am too proud.
Or perhaps,
not proud enough.

Roll up my whip, hang it on the nail.
Walk away.
The dead horse?
It will rot
in sunshine and in rain.
I'll not beat it anymore.

Barn door open,
one step into the blinding light.
My eyes will adjust.
Tears absorb the glare.
When they stop, soon,
they'll stop soon,
yes, they will,
world is washed clean.

Moonlight soft
I'll have new eyes.
Breathe in night air.
Clean my lungs.
Drink it.
Clean my insides.
I'll be new.
All of me.

Dorian Grey: Portrait of the Artiste as a Young What?

It is a pretty picture.
So symmetrical.
Nice. Very nice.
I hate that word-nice.
The pieces fit so well.
Nothing discordant.
Nothing special either.
The kind of picture
doting parents coo over.
I taste vomit.
Pass me a hammer
Pass me a drill
Pass me a sawzall
I will get myself out
if I have to smash it with
my bare feet.

Lights on Broadway

Half awake, I feel
your hand resting on me.
Turn, watch your eyes open,
open but still asleep,
inches from my own
and kiss you.

Cannot sleep
never seem to sleep
Lights from outside
flickering computer screen
cellphone
digital clock
all the electronic distractions
remind me
how alone I am.

You block the lights.
If I am still alone
with you, here, now
at least I do not feel so cold.

But I can feel it,
that metallic tang of ending.
The seeping cold.
Don't know when or why
but its hands are on my throat.

Make it stop.
I can see the valley, not the apex,
when I open my eyes.
Going downhill so much faster
than going up.
End will be here
too soon not soon enough.

You will end it with
histrionics, flames, broken crockery.
While I? I will let it die with
a whimper, sideways glance, silence.
Petty hurts piled up. Ego. Trivia.
It slowly ebbs away

Moon pulls up crashing tides.
White caps in the narrow loch
Slow disappearance of a river,
dammed and damned again.

January

There wasn't anything here to eat. What a sucky menu. Okay. Soup. Chicken soup. How bad could that be? Wait. Pretty bad. Hmmm....vegetable soup. Much safer.
He leaned back in the booth and stared out the window. Or tried to. It had filmed over due to contrast of cold outside and warm inside.
To say it was warm inside was an understatement. Typical, overheated in the winter and over air conditioned in the summer. Hard to stay awake when it was so hot in here. And I ordered soup? Should've ordered ice tea.
Nothing to do but wait. Wait for soup, wait for James. Wait for what? For a lifetime to start? Keep waiting.
He wiped off the window with his sleeve. No one out there. Might be a wait. James was notorious for not attending to the time, late or early as his mood dictated.
"Hey," James said, sliding into the booth.
"So?" He clasped his hands , the tension rising from him in waves. "So?"
"We got it. You got it. They signed you. Here's your advance."
And James, smiling, handed him the check.

Conditional Clause-Contrary to Fact

I lie here, awake,
thinking of lies.
So many.
Yours mine ours,
certainly ours,
lies hidden deep within ourselves.
We believe our own lies.
Well, that is best.
When the liar believes the lies
it is easy
so easy
to maintain the illusion.
But the veneer is ripped away.
Lies revealed.
Climb out of the boiling soup.

You'll say anything
I want to hear.
Talk.
I'll believe it
and you'll believe it
if you say it often enough
loud enough
soft enough.
Your words kiss the helix of my ear
as they travel to my insides
looking for a home.

Poverty Pig

They ask what kind of animal I am
and why.
Glance out the window
choppy grass yard
dead summer flowers
give off sweetness of decay...

I am an armadillo.
My nose is too long and pointy
and my tongue,
probing for tasty ant bits
hidden underground.
Tail a counterbalance
or perhaps
a Havisham wedding train.
You cannot harm me.
My armored back protects me
but
if you flip me over
my too-soft belly is easily gutted.
And, one day, I will be roadkill.

Cafe Deutschland or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love My Life

Inspired by the painting, Café Deutschland by Joerg Immendorff, 1980
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/I/immendorff/immendorf_cafeprobe.jpg.html

Hit me again.
I feel so good
I have never felt better than I do
right this minute
Oh yeah....
Look.
The ceiling is so far away and it is mirrored.
I can see myself!
Whoppee!
Can you see yourself?
Of course not, you are there outside the picture
Not lying on the floor with me.
Although if you were here
we could roll under the tables and
and
or
we could stand up and dance
I can stand, I can dance.
Play that funky music, white boy
Really. I can.

They are going to eat me, the dingos.
The mad dogs eat Englishmen,
knives forks spoons ready to go.
I am not cooked, how can they eat me?
Although I am a bit toasted, I think.
slide me onto a platter the other side of the ceiling.
But now its so much better
I will be eaten bit by bit
washed down with mugs of turkish coffee.

Smoke needle pills.
Just give me a hit.
The fiddler, he'll get me stuff.
Oh yeah..mmm that rush.
Maybe I'll grab one of those spoons
round spoons cup cup cup
My hands cup your breasts, pull you to me.
Burning down one night stands
grab a spoon and a candle-
(Is it candle lighting time?)
and melt it into my veins.

The dingos are in the mirror
As am I.
But I have no flesh.
Empty eyesockets refuse to see.
Laughing because I think I'm still alive
I'm not.
I've been dead for years
Inside.
Play that funky music, white boy.
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music til you die.

So dead, play the eulogy. Please.
I will crawl into the oven to be cooked.
I will be burnt and rise up
smoke trail to the sky.
There is no heaven.
Barbed wire
keeps me in this private hell.
Only place I know.
My private hell.
Hang it with Christmas lights
so no one knows
so no one sees
what I see.
The dingos are hungry and
They was dancin' and singin' and movin' to the groovin'

The flies, flies everywhere...
They eat the dead,
laying little maggot eggs
to finish the job.

The dead have true omniscience.
We see everything
and
you're not going anywhere.

Play that funky music white boy
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music till you die
Till you die
Oh yeah.