Sangrinora

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

Dumpers and Intruders

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?

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.

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.

Thee Olde Ruddy 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

Tonight, I dine on dessert first

 

 

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