Take a breath
Written for my niece who lost your little girl in a drowning accident:
I know your anguish is for me
But take a breath and let it be
I am not far as you may think
Time nor space will break our link
I feel no pain and have no fear
I was with you shortly and hold it dear
You have more to do and lives to touch
my love for you is oh so much
So take a breath and hold it deep
Let it out and please don't weep
I am happy here, this new place I live
but you have so much more to give
I'll be here when it's your time
my heart is yours and yours is mine
So when you're sad and miss me so
Take a breath and always know
I am where I need to be
Smiling at all I see
So until I can hold your hand and bring you here
Live your life without fear
Happiness seems far away
But will get closer with each passing day
So take a breath and let it out
There are great things for you, have no doubt
In your reflection see my smile
I am part of you there is no denial
Our binding link is always there
Even though it seems unfair
There is a way to see it through
See me happy as you always do
and know when you smile, I smile too
... so take a breath
and let it out
Mid Times
End Times are nigh!
Visible in imaginative counterwise parallax
When innocents die
Seduced and dancing, and
Fear not attacks
When flesh suffers wounds, breaches unprecedented
And naïvité's open doors swing stuck open
Apoplectic spectator minds, inert and disoriented
Cannot halt the butchery-slippery sloping
Kill all those who can read
Shoot the whites of their eyes through their glasses
Kill the kneeling who plead
On prayer rugs' lies floating up with their ashes
Kill those of the cross, star, or crescent
Excepting what's yours so dutifully venerated
Vet their religion, their nation, their parents
Condemn the sin of appeasing the tolerated
Burn those disreputing your thing, of itself
And holy words, you are taught, that must be read
Let their heads roll gaily on god's trophy shelf
When mouths speak against what's goodly, godly said
Between each Hudnah the bar can be lowered
Paths of resistance wear the wardrobes of theater
The bilious venom bleeds darkly colored
Red, yellow, black, and greener
The world as we know it, hangs weak-linked tethered
Dismiss how much worse stage cues can call
And how the Mid Times' horrors portend End Crimes to come
Though La Condition humaine's curtain won't fall
Times do not end, only Mid Times for some
Forget Me Not
My father disappeared years before my coming of age without leaving a trace to his whereabouts. At that time, my regent gave me the keys to the entirety of my father’s estate. In the basement of his laboratory, I spent my formidable years remaining quiet and learning to unlock the secrets of his research. I encountered new words and ideas I dare not share with others, so as to provide clues to my intentions. Exhausting his notes, even by a cursory glance, would take years. A detailed examination may cost the entirety of my life. Daunting as that may seem, I stood affirmed in my resolve to succeed.
And succeed I did.
In a mere eight years, I not only translated, but comprehended 90% of my father’s manuscripts. He called his invention, the Forget Me Not. Its purpose was singular. The wearer could relive any pleasurable experience from his past as if experiencing it for the very first time. The Forget Me Not (FMN) functions as follows:
The device maps the user’s brain (while the user thinks about the memory) to discover the exact location of the experience.
The device stores the memory exactly as the user remembers it. The storage device digitizes all five senses and the user’s perception. The memory capacity is greater than normal computers by a million fold.
Upon activation, the FMN temporarily blocks the synaptic pathways that permit the user to forget the experience.
Then the FMN downloads the memory, experience, and perception back to the user.
The machine may record the entire experience for posterity and repeat it as often as necessary.
With my increased time in the lab, I began to lose track of the day-to-day affairs of the estate. Offering the position to the only person I knew would accept, I found my regent and made the proposition. As if he never forfeited his previous occupation, my regent agreed to my terms. In doing so, I continued my research and my regent found his new employer mostly absent. Thus, both parties returned to what they did best.
Two more years of work and I began my first trial run. Using no other than myself, I set the FMN to scan and copy only. I thought of eating my first ice cream cone. The FMN took only three minutes to scan and three milliseconds to copy. If I remained attached to the FMN, I might be experiencing that memory exactly as I did as a child. I decided to postpone that decision until the end of the week.
Unusual to my normal routine, I began a brief audit of the household books. My regent did his due diligence and kept them accurate and timely. I did not find any discrepancies (the regent saved receipts), but I did find the food budget larger by half than what I would budget. I made a mental note to speak to him of this at a later date.
By the onset of the upcoming auspicious week, I made arrangements not to be disturbed for the duration of the day. I was both curious and determined to activate the FMN for a full scale test. The previous night, I chose my last memory of my father. That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill.
With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.
D-Day came and I went to the lab to greet destiny. I sat in the chair and attached the FMN. I set the control to automatic before I sat back and let the entire program run its course. Within seconds, I saw the Sun from that day. I felt my father’s hand. His stride was larger than mine. To compensate, I had to trot. I felt my pulse increase to accommodate. I even felt a bead or two or sweat run down my forehead. I kept the lab at 62 degrees, but my memory swore it was 92 degrees. As if on cue, I saw growing shadows of other park patrons as they moved toward home. I even smelled the lingering odor of my father’s aftershave. The Sun set on time. The sky turned from orange to red to dark. My father squeezed my hand when it was time to go. The FMN worked beyond my wildest expectations. If I could do it all over again, I would.
That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill. With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.
D-Day came and I went to the lab to greet destiny. I sat in the chair and attached the FMN. I set the control to automatic before I sat back and let the entire program run its course. Within seconds, I saw the Sun from that day. I felt my father’s hand. His stride was larger than mine. To compensate, I had to trot. I felt my pulse increase to accommodate. I even felt a bead or two or sweat run down my forehead. I kept the lab at 62 degrees, but my memory swore it was 92 degrees. As if on cue, I saw growing shadows of other park patrons as they moved toward home. I even smelled the lingering odor of my father’s aftershave. The Sun set on time. The sky turned from orange to red to dark. My father squeezed my hand when it was time to go. The FMN worked beyond my wildest expectations. If I could do it all over again, I would.
That day, that beautiful sunny day, we walked to the park together to watch the sunset. He held my hand as we climbed a small hill. With no distractions, nor words, we saw the sunset on an amazing day. I felt warm. I felt happy. Most of all, I felt my father’s love for me. No day since has rivaled that day. Most likely, no day hence will.
The regent called the doctor to move my shell of a body adjacent to my father’s in the laboratory alcove repurposed for an occupancy of two. He made a mental note to increase the food budget by another half again as he locked the laboratory, possibly for the last time.
Soul Tie
A connection- intimate, predestined, prophetic in its seeking.
I have found the other half- the horribly taught end of the knot that connects to me,
and yet she had tried to unravel it with dull sheers: careless, useless.
Not for a sake of my appearance, nor my personality, but because she fears such an otherworldly thing. Something real, something her heart yearned so loudly for it sounded like a feral cat screeching every time she thought of me.
She is not used to someone adoring her so truly, she caught a glimpse in the mirror and realized with a prick of the ears that she was the cat, trapped and thrashing.
My soul tugged back, beckoning for its other half to stay, not fray,
and in her quick attempt to break she only wound herself tighter into its prey.
It is a discomfort we both feel, but one I cannot soothe like a child tying a loose thread around its finger until it is purple and swollen and scissors cannot quite slip to free it.
My heart feels much the same, and I am unsure if it will ever remedy.
It is not my choice to make.
CORVUS
Bathed in the blood of his foes, and covered in a shimmering cloak of shadows. It moved through the night sky— moving much faster than the speed of light. Carefully landing right on the edge of the house on the hill. The front door leading to the house welcomes it in, with what seems to be a shaky temperament. With each footstep it takes, the floorboards creak with a sound like a rubbery squeak, but it does not have any rubber shoes on. It flaps its wings, and prepares to take a much needed rest for a certain amount of time. As it wraps itself in a cocoon, a blanket of smoke begins to fill the air. It starts to wonder where the smoke is coming from. The house is now in flames, and making a mixture of sounds like a cough, back ‘n’ forth as if it’s human. It flaps its wings close to being ready to take off into the starry night, away from the firelight. The smoke starts to cover every corner, and space of the house. Soon every room is colored in grey. It rushes out of the house, & barely makes it out of the house. The flames continue to roar in power forming what closely resembles an image of a phoenix. It gasps, and thinks of taking off again. The phoenix flames rise higher, higher, and higher. Then they flap their wings, and go on a hunt for it. The phoenix flies, and zooms in the air at jet speed. Leaving a smoky trail of dust in the night sky that makes it look like a shooting star. It can feel the phoenix gradually getting closer, closer, & closer. The instance they collide, the two begin to spin like a tornado, until they finally crash into a corn field leaving a trail of burnt corn crops along the path that they crashed. It tries to stand tall, alas, the phoenix holds much greater might. With a final burst of flames, the phoenix hits it. Thanks to the phoenix now it will be able to take a long much needed amount of rest- this time it would be asleep for a really long time. It would now be a part of the ancestral realm, for all eternity.
#CORVUS ©️
Music by MINDSTEELNESS
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1wOtslfDZqQ
03.12.2023 Sundae
The Bridge
She sits in a small, Venetian plaza outside of a small, easily passed-by cathedral snuggled in amongst the many larger, unmissable ones. The stool is hard on her bottom, the sun hot on her head. Worse, she is hungry. Not just now hungry, but days hungry. Weeks hungry even, so that her clothes hang loosely over skin drawn tight. It is all, really, that is left of her, hunger; hunger for success, hunger for a companionship which wouldn’t destroy any chance for that success, and the constantly gnawing hunger for food.
Hers in not the busiest plaza, but as with most any other via in Venetia there is a somewhat steady stream of tourists along this one.
And one has stopped. He is looking at her favorite, “The Bridge.” It is so much her favorite that she has only recently begun to bring it with her to show, hoping she might keep it while “living” on the lesser ones, but what she is doing could hardly be called living. If she doesn’t sell something soon then there will be no apartment to return to at the end of the day, and so nowhere to leave it behind, so common sense finally told her that she must offer someone else the opportunity to enjoy it.
It has been a minute, and he is still looking. She is growing uncomfortably anxious, though she tries her best to hide the signs. It is never easy to have a stranger critique your canvassed passions, even silently… especially silently. He does not appear to have the money for such a painting, but he is obviously American. She is told this by his clothes, which are nice enough, but have an odd, frumpy style which is definitely not European. With Americans it is impossible to tell about money. She once dated an American while at university, and one would have never guessed that Kenneth had money, nor where it came from, but he always did. She should have stayed with him, but he had demanded time that she could not give him, just like the others. It wasn’t that she hadn’t loved him, it was just that she loved her art more. Why is it that two loves must always collide?
Despite her reservations she steps from her stool, wandering closer while trying to appear disinterested in his interest, straightening “Il Leone” on it’s easel as she goes, the gnawing in her stomach ever present. Closer, she sees that he is handsome, but his eyes are only for the painting. She thinks to herself that she could take a lover… for a while… one who would feed her. A “patron” might be nice. Some handsome, rich, older friend to make love to her, and to offer her endowments, and to endorse her work to his or her friends?
“It is not the Bridge of Sighs?”
“No.” She answers quickly. Too quickly? Too desperately?
“Every painting of a bridge elsewhere that I see is The Bridge of Sighs.”
”Si. That one sells to tourists.” Her Italian accent is heavy. He is forced to lean towards her to better understand. “I do not paint for tourists." She is not meaning to sound condescending as she says this, but it still sounds a bit so. "I create art.”
”Ah. I see.”
His surety is offensive to her, though she could not have explained why. He is just another stupid-fucking American. What did he know of her? Or of art?
”It has no price," he wonders aloud. "The others are all priced?”
In her anger she had nearly forgotten her hunger… nearly. “It is new. I have not set a price.”
He smiles. "There is a date beneath the artist’s signature. It is not new.”
Fucking Americans, believing they know everything. “It is newly offered for sale.”
”It is a favorite then? Possibly even sentimental? What price would you put on it, were you to price it?”
She did not want him to have it. It was too good for him. “You could not afford it.”
”I paid €26,000 for The Spanish Steps yesterday.”
The heart in her chest stopped its beating. €26’000! What she could do with €26,000!
She did not want to undersell, but too high could be deadly, he might just walk away. Bianca could not afford to let this one walk.
”Well then, you are in luck! This one is only €20,000.” Her conscious screamed at her even as the words flooded out of her mouth, “NO! That is too much!“ But it was done.
He did not run away, as she half expected him to, but pushed his hands down deeper into the pockets of his khaki slacks as he contemplated her price.
”I don’t think so,” he finally replied. “I am looking for The Bridge of Sighs.”
The hungry voice in her head screams at her, "stupid, stupid, stupid!"
Panicking, she counter-offers, her voice weak with desperation, “I might let it go for €17,500?”
He shakes his head. “No. I want The Bridge of Sighs.”
“It is a stupid tourist site.” It was her way of calling him a stupid tourist.
”It is historic, and famous, and besides, an artist should give people what they want.”
”Then she is no longer an artist.” There was venom in her voice. “Then she is a sell-out!”
The stupid American actually smiled at her anger, pissing her off even more. “So now I am a capitalist pig, huh? Well, none of your other paintings has more than €3,000, and you are trying to gouge me for €20,000, so maybe I am a capitalist pig, but I am also the one with the money, and I know what it is I want.”
With that he turns. As he walks away the gnawing in her stomach spreads to her throat, and her cheeks, and her ears. He knows what he wants, and what he wants is not her. “Fuck you!” She roars as he fades into the tourist throng.
The stool remains hard on her bottom, the sun remains hot on her head, the gnawing in her belly remains unchanged. From where she sits The Bridge looks back at her from its easel, shaming her. It is pretty, but certainly no masterpiece.
Perhaps tomorrow she should paint that other bridge...
"Sigh."
The Observer
He observes
He sees what others do not
He walks within the shadows
In areas between the light and the dark
Many have an inkling of his presence
But no one call pinpoint his location
He scrutinizes both intent and serendipity
Analyzing the minor inflections within both
His is to act only when necessary
Postulating a favorable outcome for all
Deciding fortuitously for a select few
Deliberating unilaterally against all of the rest
Once again I find myself walking home. This time, I am walking just a bit further than I prefer in my stilettos. I’ve had a few too many to drink. I’m dressed for the clubs, not for the climb. By all accounts, I look easy. I am easy. I want to be easy for a pick-up line, not a smack-down fight.
The street is too quiet for this time of night. I see lights, but I see no one. With each step, my heels (normally silent against the background of city noise) echo against the pavement. I am acutely aware of my breathing. I can even hear my pulse.
My scan for an escape is to no avail. Fences line the front yards on this block. A few cars are nestled near their respected curb. The trash cans are ill maintained. They should be empty. They should be inside. I should be inside. My gut feels empty and I should know better than to be here.
I am ill maintained.
But, I am still moving. Step by step. Next time, I will take a cab. Next time, I will leave with a friend. I keep walking.
It is getting cold. I braced myself for chilly, however, I didn’t account for the cold. I am not dressed for the cold. My legs are aching and I am beginning to get nervous. The next block looks worse than this one. It is fish or cut bait time. I could walk back and I should walk back. Against my own sage advice, I kept walking, alone.
It took another thirty minutes to find sanctuary. The store had an evening shift and an abundance of lights. I picked through my clutch for my compact to check my appearance before entering the parking lot.
I looked good in the mirror’s reflection. In this aspect of existence, the years have been easy. In others, my loneliness, I have paid a steep price.
Shouldof, couldof, wouldof and I might still be married. More forgiving means more anniversaries. If I had accepted his apology, I might not feel so vulnerable.
However, I want the life I have and I do not wish to compromise on this point. I want to meet new people and devour their stories while creating new ones for the both of us. I want it all and I want it now.
I also want it how it was supposed to be.
But, I will never learn about that alternative ending and I am beginning to believe I may (soon) never care. My life is a series of eroded Ctrl-Alt-Delete keys known no longer by touch, only by position. If Shakespeare wrote my life as a play, Acts I/II would perpetually repeat, ad infinitum.
Another check from my compact, before I ask someone to call a cab for me.
The man with the knife behind me did not fare as well in his appearance. I do not believe his looks were high on his agenda tonight.
His first punch to my abdomen releases me from any further analyses of his motives.
I awaken where I fell, left untouched, amongst the ruins of those who did not fare as I have. The bloodstains run slightly parallel, as if the person or persons responsible were methodical displaying their skills.
I do not remain to check for life signs. I am without such internal injuries and am able to continue sojourning forward. I am too scared to venture otherwise.
One roll of the dice
One date with destiny
He who sees, but is not seen
He who saves, but cannot be saved
One more morning for one not deserving of such
One could only wait to see if she ever will