thanks for reading here and sharing your own worlds on your blogs.
you're all brave, honest people, who i am proud to know.
i hope 2007 brings you all that you wish for. and then some.
love
Michelle
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
seabiscuit
that horse and i have a lot in common. for one thing, i won't let just anybody put a saddle on my back. for another i've plenty of heart. incidentally, i'll ride for you if you know how i like to be treated. we're cut from the same cloth, after all. and i'll always be on your side.
Friday, December 29, 2006
please. for the love of all that is
take the red pill. i've some water. but i'm not sure you're ready to end your suspension in dreams.
karma
is a lady with whom i'm well aquainted. she surprised me one day when i was weeping in the dust, holding onto a photograph far too tightly.
i'd introduce you, but i'm not sure you'd like her stilettos.
i'd introduce you, but i'm not sure you'd like her stilettos.
the road to YOU
i'm not as jaded as you think i am, or as naive as you'd hoped. i've just stopped loving with my eyes closed.
i've insight into this that you can't grasp. not now. the thing you seek does not lie with me, or her. look, beautiful boy, look and see that the magic you seek is within you.
i've insight into this that you can't grasp. not now. the thing you seek does not lie with me, or her. look, beautiful boy, look and see that the magic you seek is within you.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
half-moon holding pattern
peter pan flew and flew and flew and flew. the girl sat on the bank and watched. she knew she'd eventually have to deal with singed wings. but he was, after all, so pretty to look at.
underthings
jack fell down and broke his crown and jill came tumbling after. fortunately, peeping out from under her pink lacies - knee pads. well used.
we talked today
with humor about getting older.
and in my 35th year (about halfway perhaps), the voices of debate seem soothingly stilled.
i see them still, the men and women who talk passionately of black and white, of war and peace of hell or not. sometimes i almost start to speak. and then, quietly, my eye drifts off into the distance.
towards wiping away a tear, reading a bedtime story, holding somebody who needs it, listening when it's wanted, loving when it's asked for and especially when it's not. there is no perfect here, in this heart, in this mind, in this soul.
just today a small bubble of anger and then...it fades into pinkness and understanding. until there is nothing left there, but, warmth.
there is no all-knowing-anything here within. it's just the tongue which tires of speech and instead wants to act with love. in the quiet spaces that few see and even less talk about.
and in my 35th year (about halfway perhaps), the voices of debate seem soothingly stilled.
i see them still, the men and women who talk passionately of black and white, of war and peace of hell or not. sometimes i almost start to speak. and then, quietly, my eye drifts off into the distance.
towards wiping away a tear, reading a bedtime story, holding somebody who needs it, listening when it's wanted, loving when it's asked for and especially when it's not. there is no perfect here, in this heart, in this mind, in this soul.
just today a small bubble of anger and then...it fades into pinkness and understanding. until there is nothing left there, but, warmth.
there is no all-knowing-anything here within. it's just the tongue which tires of speech and instead wants to act with love. in the quiet spaces that few see and even less talk about.
unknown country
when navigating your way through dense junglescapes, overconfidence can be a:
fatal error.
fatal error.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
minefields
i don't dare him to take hibiscus from between my thighs, anymore. and i'm less of a cynic.
he says.
except on bad days, when the soft breeze won't cool my skin and my angles feel hard and clumsy. on days when my pinkness won't twirl the way it wants to. he admires the way i don't care what anybody thinks about who i am. I know who this girl is, even when she thinks she doesn't.
"i won that hard baby, you'll not take it from me"
and the italics are mine.
they drift, the little splotches of ire and rise with the heat of the bubbles in my bath, till they burst into a smile that is a little about heat, a little more about roots and a little less about you.
the smile is mine, too.
he says.
except on bad days, when the soft breeze won't cool my skin and my angles feel hard and clumsy. on days when my pinkness won't twirl the way it wants to. he admires the way i don't care what anybody thinks about who i am. I know who this girl is, even when she thinks she doesn't.
"i won that hard baby, you'll not take it from me"
and the italics are mine.
they drift, the little splotches of ire and rise with the heat of the bubbles in my bath, till they burst into a smile that is a little about heat, a little more about roots and a little less about you.
the smile is mine, too.
Monday, December 25, 2006
in italics
and here the fingertip touches the lip, fixes itself below the chin and simply looks.
here the eye centers on the color of your shirt, the angle of your bicep, the line of your chin, the thrust of your hips. and here, even now, the brain surges up and over, between pink shaded layers, underneath candied tickling tones.
and the heart listens and hears and speaks and dances and straddles you and cossets you and sings to you. it grieves your grief and licks the notes off your lips. the hands cross over the knees into stillness and the eyes focus diagonally. not seeing you, and seeing you.and having looked for the first time.
to see the tinsel reflected in your eye, to taste the salt-spatter on your cheek, to count a woman's tears, that still lie on your pillow like slug trails that you follow into the night.
flash forward
365 days later, i sneak up behind you and cover your eyes with my hands.
you barely feel my lips brush the space between earlobe and jawline. reaching up, you remove my fingertips, and not with your fist.
lovely boy.
a piece of my heart will always shimmer with the angles of your name.
you barely feel my lips brush the space between earlobe and jawline. reaching up, you remove my fingertips, and not with your fist.
lovely boy.
a piece of my heart will always shimmer with the angles of your name.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
four-leaf clover
he is beyond beautiful.
in spaces where men strive, he simply is.
as complete as breath, as raw as earth, as gentle as morning.
in spaces where men strive, he simply is.
as complete as breath, as raw as earth, as gentle as morning.
we are already home.
Friday, December 22, 2006
eye vs. eye
"you know, don't you, how much i despise all this touchy-feely stuff?"
"yes"
"it's not that i have anything against feelings you know, I just don't...really know why they're there"
my eyes have become rather large. the soft strains of guitar music beginning to permeate my consciousness.
"have we met?"
"yes"
"it's not that i have anything against feelings you know, I just don't...really know why they're there"
my eyes have become rather large. the soft strains of guitar music beginning to permeate my consciousness.
"have we met?"
photograph
his eye is intimate agony against her skin.
she is never part of that dull landscape
unspoken words fracture
the air between them.
through the lens she smiles
he screams.
unspoken words fracture
the air between them.
through the lens she smiles
he screams.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
interlude
"it gets really dark in here, sometimes" said the girl with the butterfly wings
" i don't mind the dark and i'm not scared" said the boy with the beautiful blue eyes. "i'll sit with you a while. Your eyes will adjust to the light"
" i don't mind the dark and i'm not scared" said the boy with the beautiful blue eyes. "i'll sit with you a while. Your eyes will adjust to the light"
Friday, December 15, 2006
evening
the girl liked the way beads of sweat collected in the small of her back. and the way her breasts fell together when she lay on her side. she liked the way she smelled and how her panties fitted her just right.
she moved restlessly under the covers. she liked the way the breeze touched her bare shoulders and the way the sheet felt under her hip. she could feel a single tendril of hair lifting in the breeze tickling her ear and she liked the way she chose not to wipe it away.
a single candle flickers near the bed and the girl watches the shadows it throws against the wall. she watches the tree from her nest. it's majesty, the lights playing on the resin in its leaves. she likes the way she can hear owls in the distance and how she knows a peacock will sing at precisely 5h15 a.m. hopeful in the dawn.
she moved restlessly under the covers. she liked the way the breeze touched her bare shoulders and the way the sheet felt under her hip. she could feel a single tendril of hair lifting in the breeze tickling her ear and she liked the way she chose not to wipe it away.
a single candle flickers near the bed and the girl watches the shadows it throws against the wall. she watches the tree from her nest. it's majesty, the lights playing on the resin in its leaves. she likes the way she can hear owls in the distance and how she knows a peacock will sing at precisely 5h15 a.m. hopeful in the dawn.
vortex
the difference between you and i she said, planting her feet squarely on the ground, is i don't believe you've ever played with glitter.
I don't think you'd know how to open the bottle, toss it into the air and dive underneath it for no reason other than to feel it fall onto your skin.
i don't believe you'd know how it feels to want to lay down amongst flower petals and feel them against your naked skin, just because they're there and you can, and isn't that what life's really about?
it's friday and you've suddenly remembered.
"it's no matter", I say.
"i haven't really been here anyway"
I don't think you'd know how to open the bottle, toss it into the air and dive underneath it for no reason other than to feel it fall onto your skin.
i don't believe you'd know how it feels to want to lay down amongst flower petals and feel them against your naked skin, just because they're there and you can, and isn't that what life's really about?
it's friday and you've suddenly remembered.
"it's no matter", I say.
"i haven't really been here anyway"
urgency
"I've no time for idle anythings" she whispered. to nobody in particular.
she pushed her hair up onto the top of her head then slowly let it fall again. the sigh that escaped her lips woke nobody.
slowly she sank her head down to the desk and rubbed the aching space between her shoulder blades.
she stayed there for a very long time.
she pushed her hair up onto the top of her head then slowly let it fall again. the sigh that escaped her lips woke nobody.
slowly she sank her head down to the desk and rubbed the aching space between her shoulder blades.
she stayed there for a very long time.
dreamchildren
they feared the ancient spaces, the tiny rivulets of wonder between breath and blood
so long hidden, now, in locked boxes underneath beds.
in pockets against strong thighs. inbetween the pages of dusty books.
the recognition hurts them, like white-hot fire lashing against their bare knees.
dying to warm the still-flickering embers of their fragile hearts.
to resurface in the slightest whispered breeze.
so long hidden, now, in locked boxes underneath beds.
in pockets against strong thighs. inbetween the pages of dusty books.
the recognition hurts them, like white-hot fire lashing against their bare knees.
dying to warm the still-flickering embers of their fragile hearts.
to resurface in the slightest whispered breeze.
william's brittle eden
some days I live in reverse.
but you've already heard this story.
remember?
“once upon a time a princess lost her way in the woods, and try as she might she could not find her way home”
it happens. and not just in fairy tales.
these are days of kneeling horses and unframed mirrors. here, juicy, gypsy violins mock this Eden face and I follow your grassy imprints into the olive grove, once again. and again. and again.
and you’ll adore me and undress me, and I won’t say no because I never did and I always do, and it’s who we were:
juicy
and I’m soothed by the rhythm of “that” song, the corazon of that song. and all its bloody damnation. as though somehow you are forever trapped within it, a tiny chalcedony butterfly.…..
“and I’ll do anything you ever dreamed to be complete
little pieces of the nothing that fall
oh, put your arms around me
what you feel is what you are
and what you are is beautiful”
i might have listened harder, heard the inequalities in those words but I played for higher stakes, and I lost. and i don't go there anymore.
later, when the Braille days move forward, I’ll tell you that I didn’t lose the lesson, just you. I’ll tell you that your red leather dreams were just that. dreams. i’ll convince you that this misted season is over and that, you, philosopher king, have been relinquished to the engravings of the past. i can be quite convincing about the white cliffs of Dover. especially since you’ve tumbled over them.
next time will be different. next week, next year, next month, I won’t let you take me there.
and then I remember my twelfth year. i think about the boy, Sean, shy and lanky…a philosophical politician…smiling sadly and handing me a love poem scrawled on a piece of pink paper, a drawing of a dove flanking the title. and, just for a moment, I feel, no, I know that love in all its forms leaves little pieces of hope-etched pinkness curled up inside your heart. And that you’ll come back again for more.
even when it’s over.
but next year, I won't go with you. I'll stay home and eat watermelon instead
won’t i.
(lyrics from "Slide" by the Goo Goo Dolls)
but you've already heard this story.
remember?
“once upon a time a princess lost her way in the woods, and try as she might she could not find her way home”
it happens. and not just in fairy tales.
these are days of kneeling horses and unframed mirrors. here, juicy, gypsy violins mock this Eden face and I follow your grassy imprints into the olive grove, once again. and again. and again.
and you’ll adore me and undress me, and I won’t say no because I never did and I always do, and it’s who we were:
juicy
and I’m soothed by the rhythm of “that” song, the corazon of that song. and all its bloody damnation. as though somehow you are forever trapped within it, a tiny chalcedony butterfly.…..
“and I’ll do anything you ever dreamed to be complete
little pieces of the nothing that fall
oh, put your arms around me
what you feel is what you are
and what you are is beautiful”
i might have listened harder, heard the inequalities in those words but I played for higher stakes, and I lost. and i don't go there anymore.
later, when the Braille days move forward, I’ll tell you that I didn’t lose the lesson, just you. I’ll tell you that your red leather dreams were just that. dreams. i’ll convince you that this misted season is over and that, you, philosopher king, have been relinquished to the engravings of the past. i can be quite convincing about the white cliffs of Dover. especially since you’ve tumbled over them.
next time will be different. next week, next year, next month, I won’t let you take me there.
and then I remember my twelfth year. i think about the boy, Sean, shy and lanky…a philosophical politician…smiling sadly and handing me a love poem scrawled on a piece of pink paper, a drawing of a dove flanking the title. and, just for a moment, I feel, no, I know that love in all its forms leaves little pieces of hope-etched pinkness curled up inside your heart. And that you’ll come back again for more.
even when it’s over.
but next year, I won't go with you. I'll stay home and eat watermelon instead
won’t i.
(lyrics from "Slide" by the Goo Goo Dolls)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
