Sangrinora

juice me
Start with the ragged fleck of skin from my slender finger
pulling slowly, like a runner root
Let the fresh air be introduced to dermis
wet with it’s raw awakening
Shuck me like an onion
shedding layers and forcing bleary tears
.
Disrobe my entirety, freeing me from the suit of my bearing
divorce the connective tissue
My fluids and nectarous pith
are ripe like summer’s last plum
Get at that rind like a kid on Christmas morn
for I can sense how great your thirst
.
Cup that sanguinal fluid, wring each limb thoroughly
careful not to spill a drop.
Feel my plasmatic liquor
soak your every last cell
Juice it dry, so you can preserve and later savor
that which deserves to be kept in a bottle
Published in: on August 28, 2009 at 11:39 pm  Comments (3)  
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Dumpers and Intruders

corn and sky

These long, hot days, at the back door of summer, make for an altered landscape that mystifies me. The corn gets so tall that country roads, normally open with vast views of the smoggy horizon and distant subdivisions, become halls, decked in emerald paint, with only a view of the sapphire sky and the onyx mirage of carpet.

I can see why corn is such a fulcrum for a great horror movie. A farmer only has to water it until it’s time to tear it down. God only knows what can be going on inside that dense, short forest during that time.

When I was passing by a field the other day, I saw a dirty, run-down, brick colored Taurus parked along side of the road. The man was forcing down the trunk lid, and some eerie thoughts crept into my mind. I suppose farmers find a lot of freaky shit in those corn fields once harvest comes. And I’ll bet over the decades many a bloated body has been found within . If I were a killer, I suppose a corn field might buy me some time. So I guess one could say this is their favorite time of year.

There’s never been a body found on my father’s farm that I know of. There’s been trash dumped, some vandalism, theft, drunk drivers running into things, and a few break-ins. It’s a mystery how the drunk drivers got there (more than once). The farm is situated on a road that no one would travel unless they lived thereabouts. It is not a thoroughfare by any means.

Strange how a country home can be broken into more than a few times, but I have never once experienced a burglary for myself. We never lived on that farm. We’ve always lived in a neighborhood. I can imagine the sense of violation that occurs when somebody has had their home invaded.

But I am stepping outside of conventional thinking to wonder why it feels so bad to be violated.

Is it privacy boundaries? Is it fear of bodily harm?

I  understand a loss of possessions causes a disturbance and inconvenience, but what I am scrutinizing is the feeling as if someone has crawled inside and ripped out your confidence. Or the feeling that someone is still watching you.

How is the feeling different if a family member sneaks into your room and goes through your things, or if a stranger goes through your things? The first elicits anger and betrayal, the second, a foreign feeling akin to rape emerges simply because you don’t know them and they don’t know you.

Chances are, they were not looking into your stuff as a means to know you better or gather information to plan a character attack. No, they just wanted your “stuff”.

So why does it feel so weird? It is merely an uninvited guest, who helped themselves to all your most expensive things.

Does anyone care to explain with great precision and more excellent wording than I can muster, the feeling when your home has been burglarized?

Published in: on August 26, 2009 at 5:42 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Coming…

Now that things have settled down in my little crumb of the universe, I am back in total control of my thoughts. No longer am I consumed by the robotic motions and seemingly endless stream of preparative thoughts that have cycled through my brain all summer. There has simply been too much to do, and now I’ve hit the brakes. It’s my time.

I am back to having my usual cacophony of random thoughts in poetic tones. Between the megastores’ removal of school supplies and replacing of Halloween props and the changing of the seasons, the giddy antsiness is welling up deep down within me. Already, the air is thick with the farmer’s harvest dust, which brings on the grand, red magnified moons. I have 3 ripe pumpkins. We had our first break from the sun today. Folks, I am hatching plans of my own accord. The sense of contentedness is washing over me like a rogue wave.

Moon

Published in: on August 23, 2009 at 10:48 pm  Leave a Comment  
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libation, vivation, celebration, consummation

 13 Years of Grand Bliss!

I guess we’re a little dab of quirky quaint as a couple.

Lucky 13 was a monumental day for us. I had lost the diamond from my ring earlier this year. Because we’re both sentimental softies, it was quite a blow. I went without my ring for several months waiting for the time, money and gumption to get it fixed. My grandma came through with the lonely diamond earring, saying I should have it since the other was lost. It was the exact right size. The setting belonged to my husband’s mother. Now that is has been set and repaired, I have a wonderful blended family heirloom to prove my fidelity. I did not tell him she had given me the diamond, or that I took it to get fixed. We went to about the swankiest restaurant in our area, ordered whatever we wanted, lobster, wine, dessert wine, you name it. We really maxed it out! I gave him the ring and had him put it back on for me. Finally, I feel complete again! We danced, laughed, played bocce… It was like falling in love again for the first time! I love that man, and if God has any mercy, he will allow us a lifetime together.

vivation

Published in: on August 23, 2009 at 12:43 pm  Comments (3)  
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Thee Olde Ruddy Myst

myst
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Like a cat on the piano
in the dead of night,
It is the startling,
waking fear.
 
As scarlet as treasures
for which men have fought,
drenched with the bloody loss
of our adored buccaneer
 
For dreamt foggy conjures
of heavens and breath,
It is the thing that moves
across skin in the dawn
 
The scent in the mist
luring, repulsing
infiltrates and stifles
the lungs with it’s brawn
 
Pinned down eyelids,
imagination hijacked,
cold wash of prickle pain,
paralyzed in silence
 
You’re some sly reaper, myst
grazing my gray matter
with your own ghastly brand
of quiet, subtle violence
 
The cap’n in his rum-soaked slumber
perversely oblivious,
will wake in the balmy morn
To the softest shell he’s ever seen
Published in: on August 23, 2009 at 1:00 am  Comments (3)  
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Tonight, I dine on dessert first

 cake
 
The waft of sweetness beckons me
riding inhalations to my delirium
The rising heat from this virile treat
unfurls the knot in my gulch
On this soft plate, I mash it flat
mapping the course from first to last
A gush drowns my mad, ravenous tongue
my fingers already flexing spasmodically
to devour at last and shed the hunger
 
In heaping mouthfuls I blissfully savor
the delectable sum of morsels
Every cell surges euphorically
confirming the firming of this regale confiture
Enzymes deliver the slow reception
of assimilated joy to meet my throat
Eclair, hair, oh rapture, ravaging
the buttery crust, I lust, lust, lust
 
Into the gooey center I prod
diving, delving demiglaze deluge
blitz from blintz, sugar pulse head rush
syrupy sanctity, saccharine sanctuary
The angles of my wide smile, soiled sticky
so satisfied in the most comatose pose
I repose
Published in: on August 18, 2009 at 11:33 pm  Comments (1)  
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