War Era Cactus

Secret Musings of a Desert Plant

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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
Sylvia Plath

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thanks tumblr for putting my ancient drafts up for que… blogspot’s looking like a better old friend, ev-ery-day..

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*

I need a fresh perspective.  Tonight, I will do two of the following:

1. lock myself in a dark, quiet closet for 30 minutes

2. yoga nidra

3. read something new from Poetica Erotica

…..either way I am taking a break from writing outside.  I’m tired of nature metaphors.

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GTFO

Isn’t it funny how we all bend at the knees,

and over backward.

Obedient branches…the wind says “move”.

The force of your nature strips us bare. 

the process

the protest

is usually quite subtle.

Our infants have sunken in the grass.

Nothing separates the misfits and perfections.

Where would a thief stash fallen leaves?

Crumbling paper in clutching baby hands.

This dying season is my only tapestry of your unraveling face.

the protest

the process

denies all rebuttal.

Until, my screams are mocked by plastic playback howls.

Every fly away and unkempt hair, rats nests, applauded.

Mascara smears of the tearful? Or, prideful bedlams?

Nothing separates the misfits and perfections.

I wrap up bare boned in careless sheets, that beg for mud…

…over my slinking body.

Knee deep, in the best rain could offer, hard thrown and bent over backward.

A delicate cheek kissing and clinging wet pavement,

like forbidden lovers  

united hard against an alley wall.

Tires slide and harmonizing beams of light, sing a warning.

I long for faded summer hands,

hopeful wet leaves clutch my chest.

An obedient girl, a defiant branch…

and the driver says, “move”.

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I was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole
You held a warm stone out new flowing blood to hold
Oh what a contrast you were to the brutes in the halls
My timid young fingers held a decent animal

Over the ramparts you tossed
The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers
Tied to a brick
Sweet as a song
The years have been short
But the days were long

Cool of a temperate breeze from dark skies to wet grass
We fell in a field it seems now a thousand summers passed
When our kite lines first crossed
We tied them into knots
And finally fly apart
We had to cut them off

Since then it’s been a book you read in reverse
So you understand less as the pages turn
Or a movie so crass
And awkwardly cast
Even I could be the star

I don’t look back much as a rule
And all this way before murder was cool
But your memory is here and I’d it to stay
Warm light on a winter day

Over the ramparts you tossed
The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers
Tied to a brick
Sweet as a song
The years have been short
But the days go slowly by
Two loose kites falling from the sky
Drawn to the ground and an end to flight

Pink Bullets- The Shins