pistol whipped cheekbone
a bludgeon of eye
a smash to the jaw
(pops loose, hinged like the tin man)
bloodied teeth lacerate swollen lips
lolling then
pinpoints of consciousness
itch and twitch delivered as knockout
reflexive scratch with fractured fingers
drop to knees and pray
Is this all?
Is this enough?
I am come to warmer climes now. The smokes of the world subside. My grief for the Little Miss had led me to despair, for a time. I found that one cannot survive for long on frozen candy bars. Although the sky is a clear turquoise today, there are bright glints that I see, always peripherally, gone in an instant. A trick of the mind, I think. All is noiseless now. Stark in silence, windless. Waiting. As night nears, I curl up in a dried bed of reeds, their crinkling sound a brazen assault on this stillness. Even the crawling and flying things have abandoned these parts, and I sleep deeply, without fear. I awake in a morning chill, looking about stupidly and rubbing my eyes. It is just getting dawn, and I am on an island in thick fog. From my canvas bag, I pull out a sweater and warm socks, then my last bit of roast rabbit, a joyful thing to taste. I join the waiting world, hoping for an early burn off to the mist. Shouldering my pack, I set out once again on my westward trek. There are still small remnants of fog in the hollows, and it is hard to make out the lay of the land. Now comes the moment that will stay with me as long as I draw breath. I have been on a plain for a long time now, the land as flat as a prairie. Of a sudden, the brush gives way to a steep drop, down into a valley still shrouded in the fog. The gaining sun has warmth now, and I sit on a stump, guessing the valley’s girth. I make a fire, and boil some water for a precious cup of instant coffee. I sit and read from the stuck-together pages of an old paperback. “The King in Yellow”. Coffee done, I rise and stretch, and there, below, is a thing I cannot encompass. Above the shrinking mists, in the vastness of this valley, I see an army of standing ships, their chromium domes throwing silver back to the sun. In my short crazy life I know, for the first time, what awestruck means.
….to be continued
In this year of China’s moon,
there ends a life too soon.
On the cliff’s outcropping I stand,
not yet daring the mile-down view.
I wait for the scene seekers to disperse,
then pin this sorry note to the grappling tree.
You see,
I cannot shake them.
Like brain bees they buzz.
Dark stories they tell, without end.
All help seemed too busy with life.
Now, I will walk backwards,
fixing on the air’s horizon,
leaving no room for second thought.
I will count the paces.
Ten, twenty, thirty.
I will wait for the surge of crazy strength.
I will run, arms wheeling,
and be gone.
Good person,
I hope to make the river,
winding in the sun’s silver,
to spare you the sight’s abomination:
my pile of jellied bones,
entrails of pastel,
abalone membranes.
If the punctured eyes contrive a stare,
it is not accusatory-
only a mirror
of a hell that slowly did go by.
A short snippet…..my daughter combing The King.. turn sound on.
The pines of Dor-Lomin
The Baron Harkonnen
Lothlorien’s swan ship of gold
The shining Silmaril
A ride on a barrel
The sandworms of Dune to behold
The hero Estraven
And Poe’s eerie raven
The treasures of Smaug were untold
When Brandin was scolded
Isolla exploded
And they stood ’til her body was cold
Saruman’s tower
And Sauron’s great power
And Bombadil, oldest of old
The Nephredil flower
The hobbits’ great hour
And the soul that poor Sméagol had sold
The Eloi and Morlocks
The wizards and warlocks
Fair Luthien, Beren the Bold
And Moria’s door
And the Priest-Kings of Gor
And the stories that Tolkien told
Feanor’s Folly
The catapults’ volley
The Fellowship’s climb in the cold
And Yoda’s finale
The Jedis’ last rally
(This story is yet to be told)
You tugged me from the busy room,
zeroed in on my discomfort.
Surprising in your boldness
(I always thought you quiet)
(We were barely acquainted)
“I’m glad you’re here”
you said,
and spoke to me like lovers do.
Your drug was truth, and then
I felt my youth again.
You held me closely in the stillness of a night dance.
Kissed my neck (odd for a woman to do),
and when the partyers came out,
you were gone with a last glance.
I retired to some corner, in thought.
And, when I came back in,
you were going,
with your unintroduced husband.
Leaving me stupidly standing,
with questions, so many.
Aremyfeetofftheground 