When White Coats Missed
Her love’s like a winning lottery ticket. So don’t tell me having her with the rare condition was like getting struck by lightning severe. That sounds like bad luck when she’s my sweetest lucky charm.
White coats explain she might not walk. She might not talk. No chances of playing chess with her dad. And I had an insatiable urge to question the doctors.
How can you write story that’s not ready to be written?
Even so why can’t we let a one year old write her own story without them foreshadowing a future dim. Don’t they know wherever she goes she brings rainbows and a pot gold.
Insatiable
Her lips do so much more than whisper sweet nothings and promises like flavor filled exotic fruits. They are ripe for the suckling.
Her scent fills my air and sugar begins coursing through my lungs and I can almost taste her as she walks on by.
look at me.
I think to myself.
As her radiance escapes me, Our eyes never meet.
Time slows to a whisper as she passes my company not at all noticing me.
The moment over in an instant, but felt like a life time.. Such as beautiful moments so often do.
Her lips do so much more…
searching
as the Infection never ceases to spread
neither shall the doctor of Death quit his Search
for a Cure or a Fix or an Eradication of all that keep it bred
it is all for the good of Life
if they live they can spread and they can die
it is not an obsession it is a Cure it is a help for the Bugs
without Him . who would even try
The honey fungus has such a nice name,
sweet like Honey but Sickly to the trees it infects
they All die
But it wants to Live, how else can it Get what it needs for existence
this Infection is not like a parasite to a tree
it is a parasite to the earth and to the life around it
without the Russula . who would save the poor bugs
from the fate that beheld them
No
there are No lives to save or to Fix
they are all gone and all dead
but the Search for a Cure cannot be stopped
because without him,
None could Live
it is not an Obsession it is a Fix that all the souls would beg for
the souls trapped behind Orange
an Infection
and obsession for a Fix
a Cure
an insatiable need to fix what CanNot be changed
what has existed for centuries
what one Bug what the doctor who now is one of Death cannot change
an Insatiable Search for Knowledge
for a fix not One unalive soul had asked
for insatiability blocks out Life
for the Search only hurts worse than the Infection ever had
Mortadella Bella
"This is my art," the little boy said to his mother, as she stood in his bedroom doorway. In one hand she held a ragged piece of paper, with the other she wiped the tears from her eyes.
"What do you mean, your art?" his mother said. "All these bad things, about me, that you want to do to me! Is this how you feel? To... to use a machete?"
"It's a poem, Mom." said the little boy.
His mother raised the paper to her eyes, and with shaking hands read one of the stanzas aloud.
i'll turn her intestines to homemade spaghetti
while boiling a pot of her spleen and her belly
then using the blade of my favorite machete
i'll slice her brain thin like some meat at a deli
She dropped her hands and looked at the little boy.
"Pretty cool, huh?" he said.
"Cool?! What... EVIL has gotten into you? To write this? Art? ART?! For WHOM is this ART?!" she cried.
"I have a patron, Mom," said the little boy.
"A patron? Someone pays you to write this shIIIT? Who is this PATRON?" the little boy's mother said.
"I'm sworn to secrecy," said the little boy. "But I will say, his appetite for my poems is insatiable. He asks for a new one every day."
With that, the little boy's mother said, "Stay in your room until your father comes to see you!"
Then she turned around and slammed the bedroom door behind her.
She found her husband, as usual, slouching over the kitchen table.
Holding the paper to his face, she screamed, "Look what your son has written!"
Her husband took another bite of his Milano salami sandwich before setting it down on his plate, between the Castelvetrano olives and cannoli.
Then, licking his fingers, he read his son's poem, Mortadella Bella, with consummate delectation.
I Am Insatiable
I want the likes, the challenge, the double shot of vodka in my lemon drop martini, on the rocks. I want to write at a bar, order and sip, write and publish, make people's jaws drop at my prose, my ability to shock and make noise in the literary world.
I just wrote a letter to someone and sealed it with a kiss, but isn't that how everything is on the internet? You put forth writing on a writing website, and people click 'like', without knowing that your saliva is all over the font, the punctuation kicking me in the gut every time someone comments.
I don't get recognized for my writing, or maybe I do. There's a condom ad where a dad is at a grocery store, and his toddler is throwing a temper tantrum, throwing all the produce on the ground, screaming and causing a scene. I wonder if my writing is used somewhere as caution, use protection, never whine and complain about your WASP life, because you have everything.
I am thirty-one. In one month, I turn thirty-two. Pretty obvious, right? Except that it’s not that easy when you’re suicidal, pushing the limits of your serotonin. When do I get famous? Probably never, and that‘s okay, that’s the logistics of both my genetic lottery and this game I play where I write out my feelings.
I am insatiable. I want to be the greatest writer ever created, until I look at the writing of Ernest Hemingway, and my dog who I named after him (we call him "Ern"), and see that his corgi legs are too small to hold the weight of my expectations about myself, that the real Ernest Hemingway is somewhere looking down, but not at me, at everyone else who wants a place in history.
This is all great, I'm sure - you'll hit the "like" button, or move on, or just forget this post ever got written. I'll drink my martini, the one I made a double, because the bartender asked, and I had nothing to lose - and now, I press "publish" and hold my breath that someone reads this and isn't lost in my line of thinking.
Panic Attack
Blanket scribbles across the mind,
Changing thoughts to the vile kind,
That eat the confidence away,
Left to feel cold, alone and afraid.
Hands tremble and muscles ache,
Filled with fatigue they themselves make,
Fingers fly across the keyboard,
Typing more mistakes than they can afford.
Breaths come in shortened gasps,
Not filling the lungs with enough oxygen to last,
Coating the body in airless static,
As the eyes fill with empty black.
The world falls into blurring haze,
The mind a tremulous, tumultuous haze,
Spinning as the brain's thoughts pound,
And the body crashes to the ground.
And once again the haze falls away,
Replaced by clearer light of day,
Leaving one alone on the floor,
Broken, empty, cold and afraid.
The Devouring Thing
Deep in a cavern,
In the highest mountain in the world,
A fair hero entered
To find a girl.
There he knew some wretched thing
Did dwell,
Who ate the precious things
That he was brought
By treacherous bring.
Into the dark he walked,
A torch to break the soft,
Wading foul waters
Where sulked the creature oft.
A sword in hand
To ready cleanse
The pool and portent
Of the land.
He heard him creep around.
Above his head
Or on the ground
He could not tell...
Until upon his face he fell,
A smiling wretch from writhing hell,
Grinning with a foul delight,
Hungry for a light
He could not keep now for himself,
As he had fled the former blight
That, had he held,
His fight would fight.
"It treads my waters," said the thing
As it slunk around the dark.
The hero's mark he knew too well,
The fiery heart, the stalwart stark.
*****
Eric began to wade into the dank waters of the creature’s cave, sword in one hand and torch in the other. He heard the creature’s movements stop.
“It treads my waters,” said the creature.
Silence followed, and in the next instant Eric’s sword was knocked away from his hand. Something sprung from the shadows, knocking Eric on his back.
“So you want to be a mad duck?” said the wide-mouthed face of the devouring creature, menacing and excited.
It laughed like a madman as it furiously grappled with him, sinking his teeth into his neck and shoulder. Eric cried out, growling as he rolled to reach his sword. When his hand touched the hilt, the creature scurried back into the dark, laughing still.
"Where is she!" Eric shouted, coming to his feet.
The laughter turned to a hissing chuckle. "Which one? The girl or the other girl? I already ate her."
Eric's stomach turned, and for a moment he faltered. His eyes drifted, but another laugh from the creature tightened his grip on his sword.
"You lie!" he hissed.
Another hysterical laugh came from the dark. "A pagan! A pagan would say! Such sight is gone away! Come and see! Come and see..."
*****
The snows were still there when Eric left the cave.
The young girl was close at hand, shivering, but looking starkly into the cold. The other girl was not...
Oh, Wileina... Eric thought.
He cleaned the blood from his blade... red as any man's.