Today, my hairdresser said something interesting to me. It further proved to me that some of the most enlightening of thoughts germinate in common interactions between everyday folk. Either that or the foil solution made me high.
We were discussing what to use in my hair on the days when I dont wash it. (It is actually better for your hair to not wash it every day, so my pervasive laziness is doing me a favor in this respect.) And she said, Well, it depends and then she posed the following question:
Are you a toucher?
A what-er??
She explained that the type of product one uses in one
I have not a word to say.
I have thousands, maybe millions,
and they have all tripped over one another
to get out of my head.
And they lay in a tumble at the tip of my tongue,
all a, b, and c's
and x, y, and z's,
climbing over one another to make sense
of my thoughts.
And they spill out often in
an alcohol-fueled flood -
combustible sentences join hands
and hit my shoes while I look down;
they make no sense,
like the letters in alphabet soup
swimming in the broth
oily and greasy
and growing cold.
I looked to my right -
bored with the drive
and the overwhelming silence.
Silence that was growing,
and malignant.
To my right was an ancient car
strategically held together
with bits of twine.
The man driving was not old,
but appeared to be driving there quickly.
His beer can,
a cherished lone passenger,
was tenderly placed
between his thighs.
The slightly open window was
stealing wisps of his white hair
to wave at passing cars.
Except for the piece waving at me,
his hair hung limply
around his head.
He stared straight ahead.
His mouth turned down as if
reaching for the next sip of beer.
He did not turn to look at me.
The first thing I noticed was his neck. It seems to have diminished in length under the weight of his deflated face. His head rested so close to his shoulders that I had to take a second look to make sure that his neck had not been eliminated altogether. Not far above this truncated space between head and shoulders was his mouth, permanently set in a downward curve. It is not as if he is frowning so much as it appears that the southern migration of his cheeks has pulled his lips to their current position.
Each time I have ever passed him in my building, I do not see a change in his expression. I wonder what might make him throw his ene
dreaming of hope,
drifting
destiny drags me away
hurtling towards tomorrow,
my sight firmly
locked on yesterday
but yesterday,
mercifully
deserts me where I stand
and takes with him
all the baggage
that I clutched in my hand
so today, caught,
tantalizing,
every moment, takes me someplace new
every breath, every color
vivid in this world
dangerously desiring everything you do
still dreaming,
longing,
as desire often regretfully leads
to breathless, grasping
need to stay
within past delightful deeds
will i awaken
searching
and leave life and love to chance,
felled by fate's fickle finger
hopeless and helpless,
a
.
and so he spoke
running away at the mouth
and I followed at top speed
asking questions
where there were no answers
his hands were etched maps
of where he'd been -
each line a route traced
through a wilderness
of human creation
the air between us
carried the sounds of decades,
and screams of men at war;
foxhole camaraderie spawned
memories, out of shaken fear
I leaned slightly against
him, knowing his stance on contact –
closing the gap of years
and allowing his hand
to close on mine
.
.
"Well, go ahead and leave," he says,
with anger choked on tears.
I think that he means this.
My chest feels swollen, and burns way down deep,
as if impregnated with the child of his anger.
As my throat constricts to give birth to this rage,
tears come to my eyes.
"Okay, then I will."
I do not think that I mean this.
The door slams;
echoing his quick temper, but without the sting.
Familiar tears falls down,
marking the scene of the crime.
They drop with purpose that I am unable to possess.
They remind me that I am still here,
And he has left.
.
.
I slide my finger into my mouth,
instinctively positioning the nail
between my teeth.
I run my tongue over
the edge of it,
enjoying the slightly dull-razor feel
of it's manicured curve.
I taste this nail that, moments ago,
dug red welts into your back.
I longed to pierce your flesh then,
just as you penetrated me,
to see if your moan would get louder
and your grasp tighter
with the outflow of blood.
But I do not taste any coppery claret,
only salty sweat, yours and mine,
intermingled.
On the second pass of my tongue,
I notice an uneven, coarse
portion of my nail,
to the side, only detectable by
searching, tasting, sof
.
A wind sweeps the dry leaves up the street.
Russet husks left entombed with
dead grass
under quiet snow,
now scuttle noisily
across tar,
driveways,
and porches.
Chimes hanging sound the bell for this movement,
and I sit near the window
vowing silently to clean out my closet.
A rubber ball bounces
at the hands of emerging children,
stretching their limbs
like still wet wings.
Moving stiffly with caution,
they seem not to trust the current
of air to stay warm.
My cat, however, sits
still within this stirring world,
taking in inviting scents
that promise
sunny spots to lay in
and naive birds to chase.
.
There are not many photos of you and I
together.
I have one
taken at the foot of a hill
in front
of a festival stage.
You sat behind me wearing a green shirt.
Your hat obscured your face.
My raised hand obscured mine.
The curve of my mouth is visible.
Your arm touched my leg.
We were happy,
like those who tumble down a slope
rolling until
they get dizzy
from seeing the ground
and then the sky
over and
over.
We were together and happy
until we realized the tumble hurt our heads
and the music had
stopped.
.
When I turned to my right,
I saw the fox.
Sitting still like the rooted trees,
he seemed to say,
"This is what it is to be calm,
to be self-possessed,
within your skin."
My skin
buzzed lately
from turning around
and
around.
My efforts to succeed stirred currents
like storms. Dropping
cognitive debris,
I was sent into motion
with thoughts of where
I am going
in life.
I had passed a lake
before the fox.
It had sensed my unrest
and sent a message of its own,
"See my calm waters,
your thoughts should reflect serenely, as well."
My thoughts
rippled with
vibrations of dropping stones;
the desires that
Current Residence: ManchVegas Favourite photographer: Derek Favourite style of art: messy Wallpaper of choice: NIN Personal Quote: Life is too short to waste time.
I need to find my focus and my center. I can feel myself flying into different directions, as if blown apart. I cannot stand that feeling. Maybe I need to meditate?
I went to a sleep therapist and they said I don't get enough sleep. They also said I am slowly destroying my health because of it. I guess its true what that song says, "I'll be mellow when I'm dead!"
Hello Heather! Thanks for the wonderful compliment on my latest work. Just stopping by to leave shine and wishing you a 2007 that brings health, happiness and joy!