Lost.

The only word that

Crosses the landscape of my mind

Lost.

An endless road

Through unknown space

Lost.

Amongst the vague

And unfamiliar

Lost.

The places I embraced

Leave me abandoned

Coughing and hacking again

Why must this be such a slow

And arduous death?

I ignore the strings

Pulling me like a

Fish hooked on a line

Toward a walking bridge

Passing over 18th.

Watching,

Waiting for the right time

The right vehicle to cross below

Slash the ropes

Tangled through my mind,

Moving my limbs,

No longer suspended,

I fall to a quick, lovely demise. 

Capitalism in the "Free" World

The point of detesting humanity,

Bitter because of all that's ugly

It's not all light and sunshine

We exist in darkness and the light

Just as our bodies cannot shed

Their shadows,

Neither can our souls.

How to make generalizations

Don't make generalizations.

Buy more, save more,

Penalizing those of us who just want one.

Pay more, or pay more and get extra.

4 credit class;

"Intro to Second Life"

Jocks and trigger pullers,

Well it's not so important

That they think,

You see, actually,

It's much better that they don't.

Listen, obey, don't think;

Your life may depend upon it

"Trust me" he says from

Behind an evil grin

With angel wings

The wolf in sheep's clothes

There is danger everywhere

You'd better beware

Anyone could be a terrorist

You, me, he, she,

Muslim, Christian,

Dangerous atheists.

Marijuana; our soma,

Propaganda opposition for so long

Slipping freely into society

Cheap, legal, profitable, "medical"

Oh please let us sedate ourselves

Let sleeping dogs lie,

Poke us with a stick

Pull our tails

We won't rouse in revolt.

Do as you please with us

Because we're too complacent

We cling to our comfortable slavery,

And you rob us of our souls

We become just bodies and

Passive minds

Performing mechanical motions

Predictably formed by weak notions

We will be slaves to plantation

OWNERS.

For hundreds of years

We will be the calm ox in the field.

Centuries and generations will be fettered

To the American nightmare

Of destitution and poverty

We are breeding and weeding out intelligence.

Evolutionarily speaking, it's not conducive to

Survival of the fittest. 

The moats of fire that surround us,

Surely impassable,

Designed for the thinkers demise.

The schools are prisons

Detainment; retarding development

Our soul is the only voice saying

"Hey, something isn't right"

But it's a whisper that only rises

Late in the night

In dreams shrouded by exhaustion.  

I let out a hefty sigh

And you asked me why

And I wouldn't answer you then

I hugged you tight and said I love you

And you asked me why

And I said I just do

My sigh was the release of gas

Pressure that has built over time,

From love for you that churns

With tumult and force

And why do I love you?

How could I not love you?

I love every part of you

Even the ones that you hate

Do you know it would take me days

Probably longer than days,

Probably the rest of my days,

To adequately answer,

Why I love you.

I love your heart

And your soul

Your entire being is a work of art

I love the way you breathe

The way you go crazy

The way you bounce back

The way you're so strong

With those arms, and that mind

Your tenacity, and drive

Your tenderness, your honesty,

Your loyalty

There isn't anything about you

That I'm not in total admiration of. 

My heart longs

To be right there;

Gazing up at frozen

Waterfalls

Brisk air

Penetrating me

Breath turning to fog;

My heat of life

Seeping into crisp cold.

Moss creeping across

Moistened glacial formations

A winter sun gleaming into

The eagle's eye.

To be right there;

Beneath a moon who

Stares longingly, all night

At his own rippling reflection,

Making gentle laps on

The lakeside shale,

While swimming in a cobalt sky

Vibrations echoing in harmony

Through a lonely universe,

Flecks of light alluding

To the frequency, length and depth

Of summer's evening melody

My heart longs

To be right there;

Looking out over

A forever light blue sky

Hundreds of feet high

Vultures circling overhead

Clouds floating easy

Far below me

Evergreens stretching

Up from the ground

Like posts on the

Front lawn of

Vlad Dracula's front yard

Impalement scenery.

My heart longs

To be right there;

Basking in the sunshine

With me, myself, and I

Stretched across a footbridge

Clouds like cotton

Floating past my eyes

Yellow and orange

Autumn leaves

Tiny brook,

Babbling below

Sweet scents of

The lovely earth

Rising in the air.

My heart longs

To be right there. 

Happy Holidays!

You can call me "Eve".

Painful syllables

Poison tipped darts

Serpent tongue

Tickles my ear

I realize a

Deeply hidden fear;

The evil I allow

To play inside

Damages and

Devours my light.

Stitch me

Up inside

Extract all

I try to hide

Take it,

Let me confide. 

Your reflection in the mirror fades,

I watch you as you slip away

I call out to keep you here

But you've set sail

Full steam ahead

And I realize as the

Rope is ripped from my hand,

That you can't, you won't

Allow yourself to be tethered.  

I had hoped

I wouldn't be

Walking this road

Again; so soon.

Here we are

I can't back out

Or run away

When it starts

Getting rocky and rough

Escape is easy;

Enduring compassion,

Tenderness and support;

These things require

Discipline.

Am I willing to

Make an inevitable

Sacrifice?

Calling you to the defensive

But I see through

Your war paint,

Don't waste your battle cry

Kicking back for me

I just want to save you

But you are the only one

Who can save you

Only your recognition

Of your own worth

Your beauty, your divinity,

Can rescue you now.

Please, just be.

Please, just love. 

I won't let you see

Inside of me

These private scars

You pushed me too far

Again, again, again;

I want what I

Absolutely without a doubt

Do not under any circumstances

Want.

Scheming and desiring

Longing, pining

For the very thing

The very one

Who steals my libido

Who leaves me uninspired

Who drains the life force from my bones,

Dishing out large helpings

Of the very worst of me

Pushing away

Drawing close

I'm becoming mad, again,

It's left versus right

Day versus night

I start realizing

Again

That I am alone

I've always been

I'll always be,

Loneliness, please embrace me. 

I will lay my hand

Between your breasts

Over your heart

Look steadily into

Your brilliant emerald eyes

And tell you

How deeply I am

Enamored

By your life source;

That which pumps love,

Power, and strength

Through every fabric

Of your being,

That inspires me

Every moment

To grow and

Become myself

And a better version

Of myself.

I will speak to you

Softly,

Whispers of genuine love.

The kind your soul

Has always sought

But never found. 

I will hold you close,

Loving every part

Of who you are

I will give you,

Only you,

All of me.

I will.

Will you?

My sentiments sink

Like sediments

To the bottom

Shake well

Before opening

The best of me is

Lying somewhere

Beneath

A liquid thin surface

Of masquerade

And deceit. 

Step outside.

Look up.

Feel miniscule.

What are we,

But dust?

Less than dust.

For dust,

Has no breath.

Dust has no end.

Living a life,

Seeing through

Its' natural end,

Is the surest

Test of endurance

That we shall

Ever face. 

Shiny red apple

Polished to a

Shimmered glare

Irresistible to every

Sense.

But inside

White fruit is rotted

Brown.

Mush and Mealy,

A worms feast of plenty,

The skin collapses

Beneath carnivorous teeth,

Poison coating their

Tongue and

Filling greedy little

Tummies

With the decay

Of masterful deceit.  

S.A.D. and Christmas with my Neurotic Mother

There is a certain addictive characteristic about the unique euphoria that comes from the holiday season. It seems that every year, we all experience the post-holiday blues, when our fix sustained by cookies, candy, presents, trees, lights, over intoxication, ornaments and Bing Crosby, is suddenly ripped from our hands. We are left with a forecast of gloom… 4 more months of pitiful weather, and all that was beautiful and good has been tucked away in an attic now full of boxes labeled "X-mas", oversized bags stuffed with extra tubes of rolling paper and giant inflatable lawn characters. All of it gone.

My mother is a Christmas junkie. She has serious troubles letting go. The snowmen in the yard begin to melt in early April as warm rains steal the spotlight that had been long occupied. Finally, my mother begins to accept the passing. Watching this process every year is like watching a work week. The high of the weekend starts Friday afternoon, just before you leave work. The excitement of anticipation, the way you begin to feel in October, when the stores start pushing the Halloween crap onto the clearance racks and replacing it with a giant amassing of Christmas decorations, foods, gift ideas and more. Friday is the day my mother would leave work early. She needed to shop, she needed to bake cookies, she needed to write a shopping list, she needed to decorate the house - inside and out. My mother went into manic overstimulation. Every square inch -more accurately, probably every cubic inch - was occupied by a thick collection of Christmas ornaments, crafts, and other memorabilia that had collected naturally over years of family history. Friday was everything leading up to the main event. Friday inevitably would become Saturday. Saturday morning was crunch time. By morning, I mean from 8 at night on Christmas Eve, until 5 in the morning Christmas day, there was a creature stirring in our house - not a mouse, not Kris Kringle, but my mother. Short bouts of bustling around the kitchen were the punctuation for hours of wrapping presents on the living room floor. She would have watched "A Christmas Story" four times before reaching her breaking point, and would then switch to Christmas music. It played softly in the living room, so we wouldn't wake. Hours later the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls marked the commencement of approximately thirty minutes of unwrapping the gifts she had spent all night awake wrapping. 

The weekend goes on, being the weekend, wonderful, lazy, and exciting. Everything you knew it would be. And you are satisfied. But quicker than you know, the easy Sunday morning becomes Sunday afternoon. A few football games is all that stands between you and going to bed early. Because tomorrow, tomorrow is Monday. Monday is work, Monday is responsibility, Monday is drab and dull, Monday is the most boring, homely girl you've ever met and Monday is swapping your sweats for something less comfortable. Monday is the day most people choose to kill themselves. The misery of the beginning of the work week is knowing that it is the point in the week when you are the farthest from your precious weekend. In relation to the Yule season, January and February are Monday. The holiday high is wearing off, quickly for some, for others it departs more begrudgingly. We've become fat, we are tired, we are broke, and we have to go back to work. The next celebration seems obscenely far on the horizon. Psychologists like to call it "Seasonal Affective Disorder". Really, masses of people are recovering from malls, traffic, parking lots, credit card swipes, and wine-soaked nights. A two month hangover, in the cold, in the drear, among a collective breeding pool of negative emotion. Monday is the day we return the less appealing of the gifts we received to Wal-Mart. 
We all trudge through it and Tuesday's not much better, but it's definitely not worse. Wednesday is when the outlook really starts to turn around and your bitterness starts to subside. Not too much longer now! For my mother, Wednesday, the hump day of her holiday cycle hits in the month of April. Up to this point, she has resisted, in a veil of procrastination, she has loathed and refused to accept her Monday. She has called in sick, stayed at home in loafers and a house robe and watched Drew Carey host The Price is Right. Christmas has faded from the outside world. Snowmen linger, but holly and ivy have gone along with the mistletoe. Trees adorned with lights, manger scenes and blinking icicles disappeared from sight long ago.

On West Ninth Street in Elmira Heights, one still has a hard time feeling that the season has gone anywhere. It had been customary that the holiday decorations were still up at this time of the year. No one we knew, would even think of still having their Christmas decorations up. After all, it was getting pretty damn close to Easter. Mom would kick into overdrive at this point. In a whirlwind, the packing and putting away that most had done before the start of the New Year, four months ago, was now happening in our house. The sudden change, is Wednesday, the changing of mentality, the realization that there is finally something on the horizon. Late Wednesday into Thursday distract you, and they come and go like the fireflies of summer. June, July and August fly this way. The only thought being given to the holiday is the weekly stashing of cash in the "Christmas Club" account at the bank. Suddenly it's Friday again.

A drop from the sky

Turns my page transparent

A drop from her eye

Turns my heart transparent. 

Two dragon's tears

For a dark storm cloud

By day

Four snap dragon wings

For a cloud of fire by night.

This rebellious
Backyard tree
Refuses to shed
Autumn foliage,
Respectfully declines
To change color -
For the same reason
Our grass doesn't grow;
It knows we won't mow.
The tree knows
We won't rake the leaves.

Dousing my vagabond shoes

In a bath of crayon wax

They burn with a fierce fire

Crying to hit the pavement

Familiarity of scenery

Weighing heavier on my back

Than my chocked full pack.

Boring souls that start to occupy

Too many pieces of my space

I'm feeling it again already,

It's past due time to

Catch a train, bus, or plane

Either way, wherever it may be

It's time to make my escape

My feet were becoming too posh anyway

This is how it goes,

I start to ask the questions,

Looking for the answers that sound right

The where, the how, the when, and how long

The what-do-I-need,

What-can-I-keep,

Catching the money

And running fast, packing light,

No matter the greener pasture I find,

Another always lies in wait.  

Early a.m. fog

Covers the Pacific Northwest

In the cool, young spring.

Yesterday's emotion

Flees in a whirlwind

Of misinformation

Today has its own ribbons

To tangle me up. 

The softness of her curves

Smoothness of her skin

Delicate and delightful

Airy like a mountaintop

I breathe her in through my nostrils

Deep in my lungs,

Diffusing membranes,

She becomes bonded to

My very blood

Feeding every cell of my body

With a quiet fury,

Arousal coursing through my veins.