The Two of Swords

I am the vixen;

you desire and you

slurp the pestilence

from my fingertips.

You miss my madness

massed by mitosis.

A glistered gyre

of dysfunctional

fraudster families

and of faggetry.

Jilted and jaded

I have gorged the blood

of those I ‘ve known.

Gnawed on their hearts,

until submission.

You, passionate prince

You spirited soldier

(Sought after my core)

nearing this succubus

Posing in slumber.

You’ll submissively

swish against my jowl

and tumble on my

tempting, sultry tongue

and when your flavor

loses piquancy

I will retch and retch

depleted remains

into a hoard of

carcasses, leaving

me penurious

and lascivious.

Sprawled now on my

Bed of solitude

I weep over my

Want I had for you.

Hope and Defiance

As I was ringing up a customer on July fourth of this year I had a sudden cold pulse through my veins and found it difficult to breathe as I had an abrupt revelation of mortality. Not so much that I could die tomorrow, but that some day I could grow old and live in fear each day of my life. I have not had these fears since my father died when I was a young girl. Mom and I laugh now as she loves to remind me of the time I humiliated her at a family reunion when introduced to my great grandmother. The wrinkles in her skin sagged in such a way that it seemed the ground had some kind of magnetic force, clinging to her and pulling her down within it. My tiny voice wailed in fear that this woman might drop dead at any moment, and I would be the witness of it, “Is she going to die?!” Mom says luckily great grandma was hard of hearing, but I spent most of my childhood after that avoiding glancing in her direction. I regret that now. So much I could have learned from her, and she honestly loved me despite my fear of her. It wasn’t until she approached me at my father’s funeral, called me by my correct name and smiled at me that I realized she was obviously not the symbol of death but unconditional love and forgiveness.

It was probably the near loss of my grandfather this past February that reignited this. I would sit by him and tell him how great he looked, but solemnly he’d look at me with that screaming fear in his gaze and say, “I don’t feel better.” I would have twinges of the pain that I remembered from childhood. My empathy would feel his vibes of defeat and fear of not seeing another birthday or Christmas. I would talk to Uncle Robert about how much better Granddaddy was looking, he would shake his head, “kid, you gotta realize it’s all downhill from here, there will be no more okay.” I would act unaffected and numb to his words, but I was so full of the realization that this fear I had as a child is a real one that I wanted to squeeze it out through my tears.

My fear is not of death itself, my fear is living in anticipation of it. It makes me anxious to think of growing old and not having control to jump back. I would rather just end it then sit around and wait in this torture. So all of July I reflected, until the words of my most recent fling bounced in my head. I looked over at Stephen, “Can people really work themselves to death?” He looked at me as if that was an obvious ’give me’, “yes”. I nodded and said nothing, but my brain began calculating, this was all just too good to be true. All my life I had looked at the deep ditches or high hills I drive across and thought of just driving off, but I was too afraid of surviving with more stress than I had then. I thought of shooting myself, but I didn’t have access to a gun, and quite honestly I wanted to go out in a more original or notable way than that. I thought of going the Plath route and gassing myself, but then I remembered the story of the lady who came home to her mobile home, which unknowingly had a gas leak and blew up, and I couldn’t put Steve or my animals at risk like that. I also thought of how it could hurt my animals or Steve regardless with all the fumes that will linger. I thought of hanging myself, so beautiful it would be to go out dancing and swaying…well in theory, then I think of the idea of the pain if I don’t break my neck immediately.

As for a suicide note, what to say? I’ve had writers block since college; I’d sit down and stare at the blank page and have nothing left in my stead. I know for Stephen I would leave a check for my entire bank account, down to the last penny for what I would owe him for screwing him over on rent (I even discussed with Jim our financial advisor and friend on making Stephen the soul beneficiary to my mutual funds should something happen to me). To my mom, a simple I love you and you did a fantastic job; for I know she would find a way to blame herself. To my brothers some quote of encouragement and inspiration perhaps? To my step dad I would write a thank you for sacrificing his life to provide an amazing upbringing despite the odds.

No, instead I decided I would just work myself to death. Just work until I collapse. This way it wasn’t necessarily labeled that I killed myself, so none of my loved ones will be in remorse with guilt. Most importantly I would go out doing something I was passionate about, just like my father who died of an arrhythmia while scuba diving. I also would be giving my team and the company I work for everything I had! No one could call this selfish.

I didn’t necessarily have to go out of my way for this as almost immediately after I launched this plan I was volunteered for a ton of travel and overtime in stores other than my own. I could not be any happier to volunteer those hours and then some! Quickly I began to lose a significant amount of weight and my eyes began to sink into my head. At night it became difficult to breathe. When my boss gave me days off I spent them in movement, traveling and participating in unhealthy activities. Since I became sober May 2009 I had not taken in as much alcohol as I did these past few weeks.

Then something happened. A wrench was tossed into the gears of my smooth running scheme; hope. A hope for a life with a house, kids, and a man that loves me, and a hope of a brighter tomorrow to live for. I hoped for a published novel. I hoped to see more of the world as I took in the breathtaking red rocks of Sedona, AZ. I found a quenching for a Pumpkin Spice Latte and the fall season of sweaters and colorful leaves dancing in the cool breeze it preceded. A psychic was the key. She told me so much of my life at present so accurately, and then started to drop hints of what to anticipate. One of which was a soul mate. It was a difficult concept, ‘you mean someone who loves me unconditionally? Someone who can know everything about me and love me for it? Someone I can love through life’s adventures? Will we just click?’ I looked at Clark’s parents and saw how in love they were. We spent an evening with three bottles of Sauvignon Blanc as they told me the story of how they met and how they fell in love. I’ve witnessed since my 18th year just how genuinely happy they are together. I want that. I want to experience that before I die.

At work I was offered all sorts of compliments not only for my work at present but for my dedication through the years. My life seems to be moving forward in that direction. I feel more fulfilled in what I do, and I know that there is far more room in my professional life to continue growing. I’ve even found myself in Sedona one last time. I want to see where I end up this fall. Where does this path lead?

Most importantly I am writing again. I started a blog as a way for those who have been shut out of my life (not on purpose but instead due to my rigorous traveling schedule) to gain insight of what a day in my life is like or who I’ve become. Instead as I practiced my voice on paper I very rapidly regained the voice I had lost years ago in my darkest of days. I really believed it was gone forever, but now I look to write a book. I will be published! But what should I write about? Next step is to rediscover my muse.

I told Stephen last week that everything suddenly seems to taste amazing. Every food I eat explodes with magnificent flavor on my tongue; even the every day edibles such as chai and potato salad. I looked at him in surprise, “I believe my depression has lifted!” I do believe I’m going to start experiencing more and stop putting off trips to here or there. I will wait patiently, in less than 13 months I could possibly come in contact with that man of mystery. Within 6 months my life could be completely altered in my career. And within the next two years I hope to be a published author.

I need to write more.

Gradaddy's Little Princess

The chandelier above the dinging table
cast its magnificent glow through the shutters
of the plantation which aged to perfection.
The six courses of delicious dishes were
traded before us, as you and I made
acquaintance with each stranger's face.
This night I was a beautiful Southern Belle.

You have taken me to witness wonders
only most young girls could dream of seeing
From the wandering eyes of Mona Lisa,
To the transparent blue shores of Wakiki.
I have found much inspiration and bliss
from such unforgettable ventures.

I recall the wooden ballroom floor as the
band played loud at the Confederate Ball.
All around us were the twirling and whirling
of couples with their own fairy tale
but in the midst was you and I.
For a night I was Cinderella,
and you were my Prince Charming.

With the tragic loss of my father
I clung to you in times of light and dark.
At family gatherings I sit beside You, my patriarch.
A man that showed me that dreams come
true, and witht hat I found the strength
to become the woman I ahve blossomed to be.

For: My Granddaddy Col. Wallace J. McKenzie
December 2005

The emotion, the empathy;
Dead, do they know?
Ther's no hiding,
Shut your eyes and they are still
lingering, lurking, haunting.

Terrors of the dark
she clutches her pillow
each night, alone.
Elders laugh it off as
a figment of the imagination.

Visions, terriying visions.
Facts of tragic pasts
forced into her tiny soul.
Her breath now holds
the secrets she must keep.

Nov. 2005

That Feeling Inside

I gaze into your eyes
as tears fill mine
to know that you
don't return that feeling
that fills me inside.

Every time you just walk by
my heart speeds up
as my legs slow down.
I don't know what to say,
I don't even know my own name
when you simply say "Hi".
All I know is that
feeling inside
is the best I've felt in
a long, long time.

2000
For: Austin Williamson

Woebegone --Draft 1

I long to be

numb, unaffected, stoic

to guilt.

We were alone.

The elixir

Waved in my mind.

Lured to him

I the coquette

He my cohort.

Talking, Touching, Teasing

With flirty whispers

We sit nose to nose.

Sexual tension

Pulls at my soul.

The warmth of his breath.

That sweet familiar smell.

I tilt my face into his.

He falls back and I on top…

Who is This Hero of Mine?

With the loss of friends and love,

Dawns the brutal darkness,

As I yearn towards the sky above,

Crying out for his intangible embrace.

How I long for him to be here today

How I long to have his protection

As this world I now set out to betray

How I long to know who my hero is

His death came sudden

His death came soon

His death came before

I could ever know him

Why do I idolize this stranger

This man I will never know.

As a child I found refuge in the

Wonder of his magnificent immortality

Now his colors are filling in the blanks

The more I hear of him.

He was not the man I see but

A man I will never know

How I long for him to be here today

How I long for his protection

As this world sets out to betray

My trust.

His death came sudden

His death came soon

His death came before

I could ever meet him

Out in the cold I sit again

But this time with out my hero

With out my friends

And with out a refuge.

I stare out my windshield at the tree above

And I cry, I cry, I cry

Sobbing as the gun lay in my lap

Never before have I gone so far

I’m drowning in my own tears

Sobbing loudly, but no one hears me

No one will pull me out

Allowing me to suffer my…

How I long for anyone to be here today

How I long to have their protection

As this world I now set out to betray

How I long to know who my hero is

My death came sudden

My death came soon

My death came before

You could stop me

Play Therapy

Today Daddy I had to draw death,

and do you know what I drew?

I grasped the black crayon

and with all of my anger I gave

the blank sheet a blanket of black wax.

Today Daddy we discussed my anger,

how do you think she knew about that?

It’s natural she says, I didn’t realize

my hands were around his throat

until the blue surrounded his lips.

Today Daddy I got to write a story,

did you know how much I love writing?

it reminded me of the tiny

story I wrote about you and I;

the one you still keep in your wallet.

Today Daddy I took my new dad

do you know I will never love you less?

I’m so happy he is here

mommy was so lonely

without you there to hold her

Today Daddy I wrote you a letter

do you know why you didn’t receive it?

I was to tie it to a balloon

and send it to heaven

but my counselor wasn’t there.

Dog’s Day

Silent like a creature of the night

Waiting, hungry, crouching

…tweet…tweet…tweet…

pouncing she flies, air rushing

SWOOSH!

The cage which served as home

Crash!

But the protector rushes

Pant, pant, pant

He glares at the predator and warns

Grrrrrrowl!!!

She dashes out the window

SWOOSH!

He scrambles to the catch

Scratch, scrape, thud, SWOOSH

The bird sings in joy

Tweet…tweet…tweet

Poetic Irony

A tear damp noose was around her neck as she stood high on an old unsteady chair. She took a moment to consider the situations that led to this moment then took the leap, kicking the chair out from under herself. The loud thud of the chair on the wooden floor sparked her dogs interest as he dashed into the room. Her throat was closing up as she didn’t gasp for air, her eyes held tightly shut, awaiting her death until she heard the sound of breathing in the room with her. She opened her eyes to see her dog, looking up to her hurt. She began to try to breathe, to catch a piece of life again. She pulled at the rope with her hands feeling the rope burn her neck as she frantically kicked and pulled. Cries of fear and horror of what she had just been doing tried to reveal themselves, but got caught only causing more suffering in her strangulation. Finally getting the noose semi loose she took a quick breath, and smiled at her playful pup as he leapt up on her skirt, his claws getting caught in the fabric caused him to yank at her body. “Get down,” she screamed in utter horror, feeling the noose slowly closing around her neck with every tug. At her command the dog quickly dove to the ground, still with her skirt in his paw. A loud snap was heard, as the dog lay under her feet. He looked up at her head hanging oddly against her right shoulder, stuck in a face of fear, her mouth and eyes hanging open wide. Her body hung motionless except for the slow sway from side to side with her feet pointed downward, much like that of a ballerina.

Fall of Commerce Drive

Flights of purple darkness

Fill Austin’s clouded sky

With its chilling finesse,

As ignorant tourists stand by

On the Commerce Bridge

Staring at the legendary bat

Flying towards a distant ridge

Where a dark figure stands, that

Appears to be seeking

His end. The police call

In a man, Colby, creeping

Towards his great fall.

Just as a common man he leads

This state to its own enmity.

Ripple Effect (first draft)

Sky chief looms Saturn

with moist halo lips

between his coarse palms;

the green leaves

quickly crisp and fall

and ripple the water

just like cold bread crumbs

thrown in this pond.

The kitchen is yellowed

from the cigarette’s smoke

but I still can taste

ice cream Thursdays with

strawberry soda

in smiley face cups.

I can hear his voice

It is sour to

The ears.

There is no grave or

monument on which

to water with tears.

The town home only

is left to my thought.

September 2007

In memory of Art Cochran Sr.

Modern Prophets (Very Rough)

I.
On a quest to discover her soul
left only with a radio
and the lull of rubber on the road.

From atop a hill she sees green
waves casted with shadows
of the rain clouds
which curl into themselves as if
God had the eyes of Van Gogh
or would it be
Van Gogoh possesed the eyes of God?
But how could he hear the prophecy?

II.
A voice of the past,
the words of her father
How could so many close their ears?
A herecti of the new age.
He spoke of peace, of love, of unity.

III.
Shows of dusk
refuse to shine
as she strums
the tone less her mind
swaying with spirits past
on rubled stone
burying at last
a 'coonskin' cap,
a crooked knife.
their essence dances
circles around a spectre
of flames while chanting
on and on to never forget
for which we did sacrifice!

Not for freedom
or land or gold!
But for unified peace;
from the rushing Rio Grande
to the Great Wall.