The HeartEaters

hearteaters
halt words and no more
out of nowhere
characters with mid-placed
capitals and myths
 
thumbing thru
death and other such
biological graffiti
split cell toss
available for tramping as final act is still smarting
 
selfish destruction
pose for what you
trump suit slut,
fold to fantastic theories,
shelf life is forced hand
 
carry clutch
wont answer with nonsensical
poetry from abandoned climes
of industry, encroach numbing waves
naked expression saves.

***

For dVerse Open Link Night…check them out.

Cork and All

forsooth
flat tire hero
you roll me to zero
with pity, you find me
drunk
on crisis wine
denying its a sign

in the light
in the dark
a glowing mark
a franchise un-love-matched

crush me
like calcium
shell-lacked
cup
into fabulous plastic waste

squeeze out my taste

leave me withered and whence
you came, quiet and lame

surrendered the soul jar
cork and all—

***

For dVerse weekly Open Link Night…check them out!

Back To Being Dead Behind the Eyes

I can barely muster the energy to continue this climb. How dramatic of me, right? I feel exceedingly tired, like I am carrying the largest of burdens and the saddest of futures is waiting on a bloody horizon of my own design.

Big Daddy always said I demanded rescue of him.

Is that a bad thing? I’ve been strong an awful long
time.

Just What Am I Obsessing Over Right Now

This time last year, I was probably checking on more than 80 blogs a day. That’s the way I do stuff, I get toooootally obsessed and immersed, then drunkenly emerge from the obsession. Sometimes my husband has to kindly ask me to emerge a little early, if things got a BIT too intense. Sometimes he doesn’t know what the obsession is, but recognizes all the signs. OR at least I think he does. I’m not him. I just maybe wonder if he wouldn’t, sometimes I feel like my skin burns and blazes with the betrayal such obsessions amount to…

I’m reading Horns, by Joe Hill and I think it’s fucking me up. He is an incredible writer who only resembles his father, Stephen King, in the way that I CANT PUT THE BOOK DOWN.

So, big surprise, still obsessing over Mr. Alder’s lovely photos. I know I haven’t done the Buddha Rocks Project in a while, but its not due to a lack of new photos. That man is a machine. I just don’t have it in me. The flow of words is much slower lately. Sometimes the riverbed is exposed and bone dry.

DVerse Poetry is my only hold on the blogging community right now and I remain grateful that each week I can post, read and be read by such a diverse collection of poets and writers, including Orangeuapoet.

Libby has been writing her love/life story for a while now. Each post cuts and kisses.

Lastly, Steve Schultz. Otherwise known as Fractured Phrases. People? Rise up and demand he publish. He remains the only blog/blogs I read on a daily basis since forever. And his kids are so damn cute. He takes amazing photographs and isn’t afraid to be himself.

That’s all.  Because I will certainly not admit to playing Castleville rather than anything else right now. I am certainly not some geek, definitely not some Survivor-watching loser. I’m always being creative and mysterious and shit.

Love.

Mini-Rant II

I would be a whore.

You know what’s funny? Money. I don’t mean in a ha-ha sense, but more in a what-the-fuck-ouch-that-hurts sense. It means I eat and do drugs to forget I don’t have enough of it. That I can’t pay the bills and skate from late notice to late notice. The fact that there are people around me who have way more and I don’t have enough to survive. And yet I do. How socialist of me, to ask that things were a little more evenly divided.

Why should I pretend I’m not angry about that?

Because it’s tacky.

And against the American belief that anyone can achieve greatness. The decks are not stacked against us. There are no societal boundaries or class prophesies. There is no deadend cycle or morose pattern. Anyone can achieve greatness.

And if you don’t, well. It’s because you don’t DESERVE it.

So yea, I’d be a whore. I’d do anything to lift this boulder weight of worry off my chest. ANYTHING.

A Thing Forever

I don’t feel like this is over. Or I do, but how can I go forward? I can only go to the side. Big Daddy still owns me.

He still owns me. I still wear his mark, so proud and even when we parted; it never ached and felt out-of-place. It feels right still, and it means I am still his.

I know when he designed my mark, he made it deliberately innocuous. He made it to signify to ME ALONE that I was his, but to the world it could look like it meant something else. And to him, in his head, I think he thought it meant something else too. Like he had tricked me into doing it, he appeased me without trapping himself.

We are speaking again, but it’s not easy. The waves of love still wash over, pound and crash. Like in life, he, so far from this sea and me, by the shore feeling all the pain. 

I miss his words and his encouragement. I miss him saying my name and I itch like a junkie to call him by his.

His demeanor hasn’t changed. It’s still the same Big Daddy, but we don’t discuss sex. We don’t discuss love and our relationship because all it is now is an empty kill-the-time friendship.

I don’t feel safe discussing my needs, the men in my life, my husband. I can’t tell him of my hurt places. They all hide behind the one, the place where I hurt for him.

God, I miss him so much.

And if I am only to be owned by him, then I become unrequited. He does not want the job, does not want me as his possession.

The worst, very worst part is he does not feel my loss. Just because he is ok doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss me, that’s what he said as we stumbled towards separation. That’s what he said. But how can he be ok? How can he not miss my obedience, support, love, and dirty mouth, willingness to give, give, and give?

I would throw myself at his feet now. I do not think there is anyone else. I want to beg and plead. I want to weep and scream. I want to kick and demand. I can HARDLY hold my tongue, please Big Daddy…

I am marked now. And despite all his attempts to protect me from permanence, he hasn’t.

Surprisingly, I’m not sad all the time. I have the Builder, who is so much more than Big Daddy ever was with his loving phone calls, emails, twitter. He is ever-present and so supportive and I have managed to not fall in love with him. But he isn’t dominant. There is no ownership. I can’t call him Daddy. It would feel wrong and inviolate to do so…

But my master is a Daddy. That’s the name I need to speak, that’s the love I need. Big Daddy had this love so easily flowing out of him, like 2nd nature. But no cell phone, no alone time, not even computer most of the time. He liked his limits, they protected him.

Or he never loved me.

How can I consider that a truth? But how else could he have cut me loose, carved me out, cut his losses? A simple quick swipe for him, and that connection was gone. For me, it has become a permanent binding, thick as the wrist that bears his mark, throbbing with vitality, pulsing with a life-long need for him. I have been waiting since birth for him. HE IS THE ONE.

I would still go back to him…

He just has to utter my name…

The Reassurance of Plain Jane

the problem
with loving
the Builder

intimacy deep ends on honesty

inevitably
other projects
set him free

gifts like
pussy

after all

don’t win
the prize

unless

the prize=alone

what a
lash out
jealous bitch

I take words
everywhere-
places
I know I wont like

he reminds me~~~
I’m just a child

you told her my name
and it wasnt
your baby

but it sure was plain
so thank you
just the same.

Provident

The tracks thrummed with energy as she raised her arms to feel the sun. Roderick was behind her, trembling like the gravel, but Vanessa held her ground.

“Nessa?” His voice was frightened. She tasted his doubt and in her head, pronounced it delicious.  What she would do? Slowly she lowered her limbs and turned to him.

“Rod, calm yourself.” She said with cold calculation. The hurt look that crossed like cloud winking sunrays gave her more burn, more fury.

“Let’s go. I’ll take you to Patterson’s for shaved ice, my treat.” Cotton ball puffs appeared first, happy puffs that made Vanessa scrunch her toes up in a clinging gesture, as if to defy gravity.

“I am going to do it.” She hated the plaintive tone in her voice, hated to sound like a pouting child. “You don’t believe me either.”

“I don’t WANT to believe you, Vanessa. I want to go home.” She decided to calm his fears, sensing she was pushing him too far. She needed him to witness, Craig and Trey wouldn’t just take her word for it. But they think Rod is a sniveling baby, she thought, and not above lying for her. She felt weakness, like an animal wrapping its round, warm body around her brain

The train blew its whistle to indicate its approach to the station just over the hill behind Vanessa. No faces filled the early evening windows, the surrounding mostly rent-a-rooms and boarding houses. A knot of doubt started to tighten in her belly.

 “Rod, it will be fine. I promise. “Rod glared at her with wet eyes, then turned and started to walk away. Then he surprised Vanessa by sitting on the rocky ground.

“Fine. Do it then.” A new look, one of defiance filled Rod’s whole persona. Her stomach dropped. Bottom floor, time to get off. She turned back towards the approaching train, her heart thudding in her throat. The glass bid a final farewell to the reflecting sunset. Silhouettes of mild slopes and tucks, clapboard dresses on classic America cookie-cutter domiciles; she hated the finality of it.

“Okay then, let’s go.” She stepped off the tracks and reached out her hand to help Rod up. He was kind and said nothing.

At Patterson’s, she got lemon and he got watermelon. On him, as promised.

Dearborn’s Backyard by Eric Alder

BlandState

you leave your shoes
when you go out hopping

between her and me and baby makes three
swimming the grey puddle betwixt

its amazing fur stays fixed, murky white after your nights
you leave your shoes

cant say I’m bothered by the silent
on my porch, at two or three

cuz when you’re with me, its dirty
not the fluid putty pile

that makes me, her and her smile
you leave your shoes

by the bruised tile mile
then you usually float a while

and baby usually rocks a while

***

for dVerse Poetics , gorgeous painting is by Borg de Nobel and its called Dreamhopper.

Lighter

Sometimes
most times
isn’t it about
falling
no
jumping without a net
below you
believe enough
in yourself
to jump
without a net
below you
I believe
in my strength to land
safe or
crash well
or pick myself up
or
fly.