[06 Jul 2008|05:21pm] luvmybabers Shiny Skin all a glow headed on a road that no one knows the stump of life that has cracks that we sometimes fall into Always climbing out to climb some more A lizard's path in life one I would love to know. *okay, so not my best work and plus, i put it as a stump... I couldn't think of anything with a green pole... I am going to work some more on this. Any suggestions?* 1 comment|post comment

10 - The Big Bad Wolf [12 Jun 2008|08:07am] faerieariel The big bad wolf has secrets his brother was a half-wit, eating paste and hiding his shoes beneath the stairs. He didn't start out bad, caught with the wrong crowd, ruffians and hooligans who taught him how to hide behind tall trees, to shake down little girls with shiny buckled shoes, and take away their scones. They taught him how to track down ailing nanas, break and enter their charming cottages, the ones with a single plume of smoke rising from their chimneys. He choked on his first, but eventually learned if he relaxed his shoulders just so, nana could be swallowed whole, in the blink of a moonglowing eye. The big bad wolf wanted to be good, he dreamed of curling up by the crackling fire, letting a toddler snuggle into his warm winter fur, resting his lollipop head against the wolf's beating heart. And so he tore out the pages, rewrote the endings, joined a 12-step group and renounced his sins to Jesus. This campaign he repeated, over and over, until the light of another midnight moon, reminded him of where he came from and all the other things that would never change. post comment

peccatrix [26 May 2008|08:37am] sarahsmiles sinful thoughts and sinful wishes play upon my lips and tongue while I watch the sinful missives play upon my pen and paper sinful thoughts of deep delight are memories I warmly cherish language moments of slight respite from Monday morning's dishes night time crawls on bended knee in search of favors dark yes sunlight shows for all to see the marks of my good night post comment

[13 May 2008|11:15am] luvmybabers sometimes the hardest things are often the easiest but hard for us to see what it means to other people to do what you got to life is a survival game a game of chance and one of skill a million blessings but not one god to fortitude trying my life at a lottery wheel scratching off that winning ticket and it wont reveal my true prize of solitude my josie is my winnings and i am gambling with my life to bring her happiness in this unbearable world a million blessings but not one god to fortitude. 2008 Paulinerose Evans 1 comment|post comment

At the border poem 31 [31 Mar 2008|08:22pm] sarahsmiles [ music | Satie: Sports Et Divertissements - Le Golf - Les Courses - Le Pique-Nique - Le Water-Chute - Le Tang ] At the border, on the waterfront, on the beach, a calm salt surf kisses our slippers of brocade and gold thread slightly damp from the cool moist sand. We stand together, three of us, looking out across the water towards a far shore that is without more than an image in our memories of two, and a storied fantasy for the third sister, conceived at home but born after our journey had begun. We hold her between us, our youngest, our sweetness, our treasured hope and worry. The sisters, we three, muse to our own survival, stalk these shores in the evening and again in the hours before dawn, searching in those magic moments for a way across to take our child home. post comment

Desire and the Inner Derelict, poems 26-30 of 2008 [25 Mar 2008|08:20am] sarahsmiles [ music | Sanctuary - Natalie Imbruglia ] The Harrow Inside -26 Razor-wire wrapped buildings crush my spirit from the outside, sharp steel fetters cut and burn the soul without marking flesh. The prisoner's dilemma, an awkward gambit in a single roll: to die on the inside from the infinite wound of timeless captivity; to fight the metal machine harrowing punishment into flesh. Sweet oblivion, succor breast of numbing nullity. There is no crime that can justify a soul destroying fate. Kill me, if needs must, but killing my humanity is an evil greater than whatever crime you think I've just committed. True Final Love -27 There is nothing to call into question, action, thought or deed, recollection or half-whispered memory to come between us. It just doesn't exist... that thing to tear us apart. We are wedded body to body, hear to heart, our soul is whole, indivisible: Gloved flesh and mirrored sighs, never we're apart. Brain waves and smiles, syncopated bliss replete. Gestured affection matchless, violent ruthless intimacy. So close, yet so far, I know longer know you are there. I cannot feel your touch, or feel your breath on my skin. We are only one, now and there is no other to break the immeasurable sadness of our lonely steps that will never be echoed by a lover's foot falls, or be caressed by a new lover's first touch. When lovers are one, there is no one to love. Get it on! -28 Get your learning boots on, and stop fucking surfing the net. You pornformational sluttery and data whoring must cease, along with your random access attention deficit shopping. Give it like it is. Say it as you want it tattooed on your ass in a nudist colony... "This is who I am!" Right here and now. Get it on, sweet sister, get it on. And make your ramblings meaningful. Without purpose, your sorry ass is just a heap of pale processed GMO protein in gelatinous soup-base. Forever never dance with only your finger tips, soft flesh, when you can dance with every pore of your skin. outstanding desolation -29 Flat flat land upsets my sensibilities, as blank canvas to painterly desire, promise both unrealized and perhaps to be forgotten. Desolate winter unbrushed by rampant spring lies mute upon the brown scrub earth mute testimonials; nothing to be done to save the past, only hope for the sun to ignite the green fire hopefully to smother the stain with life. The Gypsie Run -30 There's something that I've never forgotten since I was first struck, how the train from Syracuse to New York is so similar to the train from Budapest to Bucharest, and perhaps the same again from any two points on a forgotten landscape. Burned out and derelict, windows smashed, brick crumbles as the train rumbles leaving each vista to its own fate of post-war industrial rationalization and consolidation. Forgotten unloved industrial monstrosities beached after some gothically cataclysmic conflict unresolved. Signs of life scurry at the edges, forced fences and broken barriers hint at a new life within unforeseen by architects and captains of industry though the Roma, Europe's gypsies, hang fluttering clothes drying in the windowless frame like America's dreams. post comment

Poems 19-25 of 2008 [25 Mar 2008|08:19am] sarahsmiles [ mood | pensive ] [ music | You Will Be My Ain True Love - Alison Krauss ] This has not been as much of a different year's beginning as I thought it might have been, and we're 84 days into the year, and all I've come up with is 30 poems. How could this be, when in past years I've killed one a day for more than 6 months. WTF, that's the way it goes. Words come and words go, and only some words actually stick. These have stuck so far, for good or ill, and I should be happy to have any poems at all. The Seasons - 19 My voice is fractured by the cold, frozen in darkest night, and later thawed with spring's bright rain to summertime's delight. The summer bakes me sexy tanned, languid lazy days past, then the fall with a death's head moon puts me to rest at last. [Appreciate the 8/6 meter] Desire - 20 I feel my lips ripping from my flesh, unwilling to leave you, even for the moment it would take to smile. I want to smear your body with my blood, every pore and wrinkle of flesh bright red and oxygenated with my heart's desire. I would adorn you body with tufts of flesh torn with my finger nails from bone. My tears would anoint you, and the sweat of my burning brow will make you mine. errant - 21 I am on a quest for unspoken mysteries of my heart, to find lost wisdoms I might have known. Thoughts from where, thoughts lost of purpose and meaning, I might find a new beginning. My quest among forgotten memories like landscapes take me past all I never knew I once knew of fictional hopes long abandoned of supposed lovers' unnecessary tears. My journey will be over when the prize is won and the daylight has meaning once again. Daily Dichotomy -22 Each morning it begins again, impossible juxtapositions that obsess my mind driving thoughts into fanciful apprehensions I cannot escape. Should I want to lose the fires of my imaginations? Sunny Days -23 "Ain't nothing better in the world, you know, than lying in the sun with your radio..." Too early to call it spring, the warming sun has returned with storied memories that speak to skin and bone, soil and air, plans and rain.. rhizomatic evocative messages signaling the return of the divine light that is seed to new beginnings. Write of Spring -24 Sun softly singing month before spring's crawling green invasion speaks soothing apologetic regrets, a lover's returning from a bitter absence, again, with new promises without assurance that she won't leave again, yet offering a season of new life warm forgiving enticing embracing again I take her in my arms. Another thought, a paused regret awaiting on the rocky steps up from the beach looking back over right shoulder at the path just taken and the panorama left behind spreads before me my life in a view in a moment of a day, micro-epiphanic revelation: though I return as spring, offering "sweet delight" I'll take you with me when I go. Administering Love -25 There is no question of your marked fidelity and your acceptance of all obligatory gestures, observed and completed. Each and every gesture demarcated, documented and conspicuously displayed for each and all to see according to plan. Each caress workshopped and methodologically sound, conveying every appropriated nuanced meaning, according to plan, vigorous and sincere heart felt and without reproach, according to need and duty without fault or complaint. Such a happy duty is your love, crying forth and announced, according to plan, truth and meaning a public pronouncement. post comment

9/100 The Dream [16 Mar 2008|10:05am] faerieariel I can hear the soggy leaves of grammar and arithmetic folding under my feet. I shuffle through the abandoned schoolroom, past broken desks bent sleeping or toppled like toddlers unattended on the cracked and porous floorboards. I walk to the front of the room where the paint is peeling from the walls, where a map of the world is balanced between two chairs, my fingers landing on a dusty edition of Gray's Anatomy. The book surrenders, revealing the neck  and the musty smell of molded paper,  short lines point silently: the jugular the trachea the larynx. I hold my own neck to protect it from the exposure, and wonder if all the missing children found their voices before the schoolbell  stopped its ringing. 1 comment|post comment

8/100 Falling Apart [16 Mar 2008|09:59am] faerieariel One afternoon, her hair fell out. Not in clumps, no, but gracefully, like water coming over a mountain in glinting cascades, landing noiselessly. in a matter of minutes, it was gone, her bleached forehead awakened, and then her hands began to tingle. They disconnected themselves  from the wrists, watches and bracelets clinking, scattered on concrete, and the fleshy spiders scrambled disappearing into dark gutters. The cracking sound in her hips and her back, like gravel under your feet, her left side jutting too far to the left, a tent with a broken pole, buckling. Shoulders and knees crash into eachother, the anatomical car wreck, and the way beads scream across a countertop when their wirey spine is removed. The legs turned to ash while everything else dissolved beneath her clothes. 1 comment|post comment

7/100 If I were a Poet [16 Mar 2008|09:55am] faerieariel If I were a poet,  I would braid the lines together, making nouns into verbs, and letting them tumble along like rapunzel's hair for all of you to climb. I would stop keeping secrets, tell the truths that must be told, and I would be willing to lose control, to burn things down, to disintegrate. If I were a poet I would travel the sky at night, gathering the light from every star and place them in a ceramic bowl, like a still life of poignant observations sitting on my kitchen table glowing like polished apples. 1 comment|post comment

6/100 Saturday Morning [16 Mar 2008|09:51am] faerieariel I can hear my brother in the living room, he's talking back to the television again. It's like this every time, me filling my warm bed with sleep, searching my pillow for another dream and knowing they are gone. I gotta let the world have another look at me, and then I gotta figure on how to look right back at it. post comment

the public vampire 18 [16 Feb 2008|08:08pm] sarahsmiles The whole notion of being a stripper has never appealed to me. Though I'm very happy that people want to take their clothes off in public for either praise or ridicule, I wonder at either the desire for acceptance or the need for exposure. A vampire is not that which needs cry for position if it still seek to adhere to the name. It is not an option or a lifestyle choice, is it? It is a sombre and reflective state of being that looks on the abyss and is dismayed. To Jerry Springer one's self seems antithetical, and I could imagine it easier to confess and placate the monotheistic god than to self-dissect before the world on people magazine's pages. post comment

15-17 poems about place [11 Feb 2008|06:01pm] sarahsmiles Pity the lost thrall Pathological individualism: the cult, the apogee of culture. Being as mono-maniacal mythology, ultimate mono-crop ripe for culling. Bulldozed social hierarchy of quality. Fettered and fetishized each sovereign in a room all alone. Choice without purpose. Gare de lyon Waiting. Waiting is divine relief. The train that has not come. The cab that brought me here. Time to kill as an infinite respite from doing, or being. Identity foregone in the silence. Being nothing, no one. Past and future erased, melded with everyone in mass transit. We are a species of our own locked in our own separate world, between here and there, leaving and arriving, apart from all others who are just where they are. it is a silent world, sounds without meaning where each disembodied voice merely announces possibilities to move into another state of waiting somewhere along the timeless continuum of being nowhere, yet. Faces in the station Composed and silent watching, conversations on topics of movement, schedules and delay, embarkation and arrival. Short term thoughts. Immediate intentions. Transient desires infuse the station with flickering candle light, illuminating nothing but the passing of myriad souls for charon to ferry away. post comment

8-12 2008 [27 Jan 2008|07:06pm] sarahsmiles [ mood | tired ] [ music | Satie: Gymnopédies - 2. Lent Et Triste - Angela Brownridge ] It's a beautiful day Just to wake up in the morning remember who I am; intake of breath and exhale. Feel my chest move, diaphragm relax, the air sing on my lips. To touch the world, eyelash moving air, lazy hand catching dust motes in the sun. A warm sigh showering moist breath. To wake up and realize that you have survived, again, one more night. It is enough, just to live, without dreams or despair, past or future; to worry the moment. It is enough, when faced with the alternative, to reserve judgement, forego questions or hoped for answers. Just to be a part of it all. It is a beautiful day. A new voice awakes me from slumbered contentment, compliant reverie, this passive repose of someone lost to expectation and desire. Man of Action A rumbled trust growls deep; barrel chested voice confident, unquestioning of variable truths or meanings; unconcerned with ulterior alterities or liminal 'facts. No paralytic notions elicit questions for reflection to deter the waking lion with a mission to fulfill. In this micro-maniacial moment you do nothing but say, "I see..." as you slowly awaken from an eternity-like slumbering repose , shaking dust and leaf from your beard, and fixing your good eye on the goal beyond the horizon, move to act. Nighttime Crawls From the moments after midnight, when the light of day is lost into a memory from sensation dead. Before the morning on pre-figuring gesture pulls the darkness toward dawn. The seconds lose their purpose and minutes lose their place as markers of meaning. Gone, all attachments, social truths, gestures and actions under many layered nothing that blankets all intention in a coverlet of sweet oblivion. It's not dying Cast off unacknowledged constraints and see for who we are as much your unaccustomed mind can without losing all and everything. It is not dying to kill within yourself something dear and destructive, that unacknowledged sense in self that now distantly mirrors a distorted re-vision of what you never thought you were and now realize you can not really ever be again, and are wracked with regret for a now hated past, fearful at a future. It is not living That "ever-fix'ed mark" that "alters [not] when it alteration finds." As change seeks change, like seeking like, a constant flux and endless reconfiguration of the self to the myriad others in the co-creation of matrices that sing and swing chaste around an ever-moving unseen center. A center that itself has no being except in that it is about which things spin. Location, that quantum fiction of static potential as of yet to be placed in motion has no more importance to life than the last exhaled breath to the living or the lived. And when will you, once beloved charished calm, find within that to be into the nothing until all potentials are finally put into motion. post comment

5/100 The Argument [26 Jan 2008|06:19pm] faerieariel Icicles crash to the sidewalk, my words lie there shattered and glistening with gravity, too stubborn to melt. We wear a new silence like the dust on china dolls. My barefoot thoughts drift in the shape of a question mark swerving around us, resting beyond my name. Your face is a single word, typed in the center of a giant page, stark,  and unshaded. I reach for my crawling voice, nudge it gently toward my mouth. I want the blanket filled with holes to wrap itself around us again. 3 comments|post comment

4/100 America, the Carnival [26 Jan 2008|06:13pm] faerieariel Step right up, ladies, get a close look at it,  the wonder of suburbia: blacktopped roads, silver sidewalks, and a minivan in every driveway. This is the place where dreams are made, where your man comes home  every night at five fifteen, to kiss your cheek and lift your baby. This place is cancer-free, bankruptcy-free, and earthquake-proof. That's right ladies, you can almost smell the apple pies cooling on the sill. 2 comments|post comment

3/100 Al's Bar [16 Jan 2008|09:49pm] faerieariel On the corner of Third and Traction a bouncer checks your ID sends you through an unmarked door into a room  filled with spray painted missives, and gothic tattoos. The bartenders pace, their dodging heads and tired wrists in continuous choreography, set to the sound  of ice and loose change. On the corner of Third and Traction there's a bar called Al's, and at midnight on a Saturday, the women wear red lipstick,  play pool with cocky college boys, their tight black dresses stretched across the ash-stained felt high voices giggling, as the white ball hits the rails, missing every pocket. 1 comment|post comment

5, 6, 7.100.2008 [10 Jan 2008|08:58pm] sarahsmiles [ music | 10 - I'm Always Chasing Rainbows - Alice Cooper ] Counting Ten more minutes before the train arrives at the station, the terminus. At the one solitary point where I will find myself in ten more minutes. A journey will be complete. A passage that seemed endless, a travail that seemed pointless, after I realized that the assumed purpose what not what I'd expected with ten more minutes to go until my arrival, I want to go on. Flowing Narratives of ruthless lust and never slaked desire gush unbidden from the love abscessed pen that has forgotten the gulf between the tender touch and the ripped flesh, so lost in her own shame, poisoned b regret and yet still inside a young child cries without surcease. And the words flow forth on a tactless waste of white that would but wed the lovers twain when nothing would release the shadows and the shade by the spring at dawn. Prayer Let the morning sun shine around me, burn me, burn the terrors of the night that cling as hoary frost on the hem-- wind blown dust that haunts every crevasse of flesh--cling as sticky cobs that web my hair and halo this shrouded form. Let it shine and burn and drive these thoughts that rise unbidden from memory; distorted lens and subtle liar. post comment

4 Solitary Voice [09 Jan 2008|10:36pm] sarahsmiles [ mood | happy ] [ music | Los Hooligans ] Writing for yourself, each word carelessly placed, forgiving of trite contrivance, unworried, uncondemned, spelling out half hopes and stories no one understands. The voice is clear, full of half thoughts and contradictions, the dream of a drunken woman, I wrap myself in hope that I would never share were I not alone by a fire. My words please me, pleasuring my heart still uncaring of their eloquence or proper pose, meaning locked in the reader writer's soul. When I sing, naked by the pool, with the wind carrying scents of the world on my lips there is nothing but that mingling, and that perfection in and of a moment in the lack of any other listening is the when I ever say I still love you. post comment

2/100 unnamed [06 Jan 2008|06:56pm] faerieariel The street shines from night rain, her eyes land like the water on every sign they pass, her coat is stretched around her, a seatbelt reaching gracefully across her lap. Robbie's gas station, Mikey D's steak sandwiches, Wendy's, Home Improvement Specialty, A & P. Through the glistening windows she searches, a name for the nameless, a name for swollen promises.   The red light turns to green, the black and silent cave of night offering only heiroglyphic question marks, and fables of the future. post comment

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