Pagan Postings 12/28/09: Joe and the sea shell.

I can remember it like it was yesterday, though I could not tell you what year it was, or how long ago it occurred.

We lined that long narrow hallway at Stonehaven, must have been at least 30 or more of us. It was dark and it was cold outside and the smell of the two fires in the Great Room was scenting the darkness. I could still smell the pasta we'd made for dinner, and I was warm and loved and all was right with the world.

Joe was smudging us into circle with copal resin. A LOT of copal resin. He was new to the act and the hall was so narrow and there were so many of us. The air became thick and heavy and by the end, almost overpowering.

I fell in love with copal that night. It was not my first sniff, nor my first exposure. But that smell is now forever ingrained in my mind with being among my people.

Some of those people are my people still.

I am so very blessed, I live in a world where it's mostly OK for me to differ from the dominant religion. I live in a world where the books and supplies and tools and pretty sparkling things indicative of my religion are readily available.

I live in a world where the man with the copal resin in that sea shell, laid his sword on a red porch a springtime years after Stonehaven, so I could jump it at my handfasting. I am no longer handfasted to that man, but I am honored to still call him friend and mean it.

Now I learn that Joe's seashell has broken. It was crushed in one of those small tragic accidents that befall all practitioners, who place time and love and work into their Craft. It was just a thing, and we all know that symbols are not necessary, and we can practice and worship without them just fine. But it is a small tragedy.

So I have the smell of copal in my mind's eye, as I hold a small alter cauldron that I have used and loved for years I no longer can count.

And I smile. It will be Joe's cauldron soon, we will meet and eat and remember the love that stretches between us that time and distance can not break.

It is another cold winter night, I am warm and I am loved and I am happy. Happier still that I have a gift to give, and the smell of copal in my memory.

Pagan Posting 12/27/09 Avatar, pluging in and Killing your Mother.

So, we emptied the change jar and went to see Avatar. It was our gift to us, as the money situation precluded any gift-giving or receiving this year.

I can not say how beautiful this movie is, visually and spiritually.

There is a line in the movie "We have killed our Mother." Now those who know me, know I don't believe the natural world is intrinsically female.

But we, as a species, are in the process of killing our planet, our "mother", our protector, that which shields, nourishes and protects us. We have stopped "seeing" and long since stopped "listening".

Now, I'm not one of those people who think that climate change is ALL the fault of humanity.I think climate change is part of a cycle we have accelerated.

Destruction of the wild and beautiful places for greed? That is our fault.
Disrespect for the natural world is our fault.

There is a song by John Prine that illustrates this point for me.


I'm so very sad for us as a species. We have "unplugged" ourselves. Some of us, the Pagan, those on the Red-Road, and the other followers of animist and nature-based religions are still "listening" we still "see" our world.

I just wonder, how much will be gone before we look up one day and realize it's all been taken away?

Pagan Posting: 12/26/09 "There is a difference between being peaceful and being a chicken-shit".

"There is a difference between being peaceful and being a chicken-shit".

Yes, there is.

We live in a world were a few men with box-cutters can (supposedly) hi-jack an entire airplane full of people and fly it into a building, killing thousands.

Setting the stage for decades of war and the attitude that we should allow our government unprecedented access to our fingerprints, DNA, medical records, phone calls and e-mails.

A box cutter? Really?

We are a nation of chicken-shits.

We cower in fear of everything from cell-phone induced cancer to the stinky guy on the bus. We don't speak out, we don't make waves and we cower.

Most of us would no more think of defending ourselves against someone armed with a blade so short (that unless the wielder gets very lucky and hits an artery in the neck) it can not do enough damage to kill you.

Most of us can be subdued by the THREAT of physical violence.

Most of us have no idea even how to have a heated disagreement without falling to pieces and resorting to immature back-biting and passive aggression.

Most of us, come down to the Apocalypse, are zombie bait.

We are a nation of chicken-shits.

So, then let us look at my fellow Pagans.
We want to be different.
We think that as followers of the Earth we should be peaceful, we should be passive.

We should do no harm. And that is true.

However,I have come to believe it is not "true" the way we have come to interpret it.

In trying to be peaceful and co-exist we have missed the point.

What we have become is impotent.

We are religions populated by women who still relegate the males of their faith to "guardian" to "consort". Denying them their rightful place as mates, fathers, sons and fellow magickal beings. We want that masculine energy to protect us, but some of us, still distrust the masculine. We are afraid of masculine power and label it "aggressive" or "dominant" up to the very moment we need someone to protect us, then we are all for that energy coming to our rescue. We are still a religion I would not raise a son in for the very reasons I will not raise a daughter in one of the Religions of Abraham.

Pagans SHOULD BE DIFFERENT.

We, in our goals to be different from the Religions of Abraham, have diminished ourselves. We have looked at nature through Walt Disney Glasses and rendered ourselves posers in the web of nature. We say we revere Nature, but we do not acknowledge Nature for what it is.

Nature is not passive.
Nature is not female-dominated.
And nature does not diminish itself for any reason.

Nature is not passive.
What is Nature then?
Nature is simply not aggressive.
Nature never uses more force than necessary and strives always for balance.

Nature grows, it expands, it competes, it kills, it eats and it protects itself to the best of it's ability. But it does not torture, it does not see any one aspect of itself as above or below another. Nature is comfortable in it's skin.

Nature does not relinquish it's intrinsic workings or values to "fit", to "make other people comfortable", and nature damned sure does not value the weak.

Now, I'm not saying that we should go all "Atlas Shrugged". That philosophy is also abhorrent. I in no way support or suggest aggression. I do however encourage self-reliance, self-defence and self-awareness.

What I am saying is...best summed up by Maryanne Williamson:
She speaks of The Human Spirit and it's "shrinking". Ms. Williamson is an X-tian, but hey, her thoughts are dead on to my point.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us most. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in all of us. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

There is a difference between being peaceful and just being chicken-shit.

Duets

this is one of the hottest duets I've ever seen

Things I have done

I have finished my afgan! That is to say, I have used all the yarn I originally purchased for the project, and don't plan to purchase any more.

I feel amazingly proud of this fact. My NONI, other members of my family and varoius friends/lovers have all tried valiantly to teach me to crochet. They have all failed. My left-handedness coupled with a complete lack of spacial perception (I didn't crawl as an infant, apparently this is a side effect), and being dyslexic have all conspired to keep me crochet-impaired.

However, I have overcome! It's only longstitch (the only stitch I've been able to teach myself to do), but the edges are even and I love it!

The cat also loves it.

The next project will involve a second skein of the super yummy 20.00 yarn that hobby lobby keeps tempting me with to finish my lap-afgan/shawl.

I also have my eye on one of those mega cones of cotton yarn, maybe another afgan? Who knows?

Both will have to wait until I'm employed again.

But today? I'm proud of ME!

THEY GAVE US A LICENSE

(IN RESPONSE TO
THOM WHO SAYS
ALL POETS ARE LIARS)

While I am not ready to admit ALL poets are liars.

I counter, maybe, o.k. all poets are narcissists.

Or perhaps, as in my case,
just
orally/aurally fixated.

Both properly connected,
yet, we're
somehow miss-wired:
mouth to ear.

It's all about the words,
lost, stroked, turned, twisted, fucked, fisted.
mothered, brothered, recanted, rediscovered.

All words are eventually lovers.

To make a homestead
in a tongue stroking
a stranger's ear.

A poem is not poetry
while it remains unsung.

For there is still so little
new under the sun,
all novelty is in Voices
and loose rhyme.

Words can access hearts,
minds, souls,
sometimes, to
find a few still beating.

Thus and then this beat is poet-precious.

For that?
Fragile beat-bridge connection>

For that narcissists, and sometimes liars
we will all become.

Holidays

Baby singer-songwriters
wailing
about
heading home,
and I'd
go.

If only
any somebody
who knows
might
tell me
the way.

'Cause I'm
flailing on
the fringes
and failing
to
see
or
seek the point.

Parking lot
conversations
and
second hand smoke
and
I'm
soaked to the skin.

In
“I wants”
and
“might have beens”.

Sometimes all
I can do
is walk away.

While the
screams
fly
silent
behind my
pleasant smile
and
I
while away
the time.

Wishing I could
sing
about going home.

12-19-08
Written last year, not totally relevant anymore, but true just the same.

Poem of Shannon.

DEAD MAN'S EYES

Watching the Moon

through a dead man's eyes,

I Thought again

of you.

of quiet coffee games

played

safe

in the minatour's

maze.

While monsters raged outside

thin pain-flecked walls

and a

traitor's Alice

stood watch,

smiling.

As I spat razors

and your

huge hand

on my belly

stilled starvation

with grave-yard

warmth and

I still don't

know how.

How many miles

away

from you,

I'll run,

till I find the

sun

and my feet

planted in

earthy loam

that tastes of

ashtrays,

and amber.

Remembering only

your hands in

my hair.

I wonder where

today would be

if the chasm

closed and only

I were brave

enough to stay.

Requiem for the basil.

Well, the basil did not survive. The temperatures last night were too much. I'm currently plucking and drying all the existing, wilted leaves to use as a dry spice for the rest of the winter. It's sad. They were so beautiful. The house smells of basil as we dry the leaves in the oven, which we leave open to keep the front part of the house warm. Two birds with one electricity outlay, and all that.

I'm sad today. Stress and hormones, I think, but sad. This multitude of wilted leaves seems to match my feeling of weight pressing down on me. I know it's just the worry about a job. I know it will pass.

But today, it's wilted basil and me.

So, I'm poor.

It's an odd thing, I can remember having "money", not ever being RICH mind you, but having "money".

I remember paying for cable, I remember $300 dollar trips to the grocery, I remember $400 electric bills and $900 rent, I remember making payments on other people's cars. I remember being in a position to let all those people "crash" at my place, A, L, J, D, and others that I don't recall.

I remember. And I can't say I begrudge any of those decisions. Especially having a place I could open to those in need.

But? I don't miss it.

I find my habits have changed.

Now, I watch movies and TV shows on clicker and hulu, my grocery bill for a month rarely tops $100. I have not had central heat or air conditioning for over 2 years.

Sure, right now I'm "poor", I'm getting down to the "nitty-gritty" stage of needing another job. But living this way meant I had a "pad" of over 3 months savings to work with when I was suddenly fired. This is not counting my Ameritrade account, which I haven't touched and is still up 20% from the investment I made less than 5 months ago. Yea, I am poor.

Tonight's dinner:

chicken breast ($3.05 on three chicken breasts only one was used, the other two will be dinner tomorrow).

3 hand-fulls of rice (from a bag I paid 11.00 for over a year ago, so I'll call that $1.)

2 bullion cubes (the off brand, 24 for 1.40 and change)

4 jalapenos (from the garden, so free as those plants have produced long past cost of the plants, but we'll say $1 to be fair)

4 cloves garlic (I don't know, say $.50? for the whole head)

water ( included in the cost of my rent, so free)

electricity ( I paid $56 for electricity this month, so $1.75 for the whole day)

onion powder ($1 at the dollar store)

black pepper ($1 at the dollar store)

paprika ($1 at the dollar store)

so a very generous total for our dinner tonight, and lunch tomorrow, with leftovers to go in the freezer?

A grand total of 12.15.

Not that much really, we couldn't get 2 burgers and fries for that.

The only concession I made to being "poor" with tonight's dinner? I minced up the chicken skin, with my mezaluna (which everyone on the planet needs one of), and put it back in the broth after I'd de-boned the chicken breast.

Gross? Maybe, but 8 nations were in a situation of nation-wide starvation last year. The protein is good for us, and the fat? Fuck the fat, I'm thinner than I've been in 15 years, and my diet is mostly meat, so my body is telling me, I'm doing OK.

Today, however? I had my freedom. I woke up when my body was ready. I will go to sleep when I'm tired. I searched for a job, I played with the cats, later tonight, I will turn on hulu and crochet while I watch a show. I have not had a migraine since I was fired. I quit taking my meds. for migraine, because when I don't work, I don't need them. No one rifled through my backpack, no one insulted me, no one made snide remarks about me being "too smart" or "too eloquent" no one was disrespectful to me, I did not bite my tongue even once.

Thinking about it, as I was making dinner tonight, I realized (again) that being "poor" is actually a small price to pay for being at peace.

Love Song of Bones

I wear a bracelet of bones,
108 darkly
sardonically grinning.

I am a thing of the funeral pyre,
mired in corpses ashes.

My flashing
smile slashes
opals and pain.

My hair curls
the rain;
unfurled
it and I cry lover
to the plundering
thunder.


I am attired
in flaming
garnet garments.


Hands bejeweled
in the fine-tooled
bones of
fore-father's joints.


My teeth are
filed to points
of bloody truth .


I'm the sooth-sayer
of sacred
roadside prayers.


Carrier of
harried buried passion
falling, clawing,
gnawing to be set free.


Scream your secrets
clearly-loudly, proudly,
in my receiving ears.

And I would flay you,
play you:
brand , unman you,
take ,
unmake you.

With gray fire
in these eyes
I'd demonize,
demoralize,
to demise all your ostrich ways:
your running rabbit plays.


Soothing your cries,
your wheres and whys.


Mine are carnivores eyes
to let you see
that bright sunlight god
you were born to
heed, feed,
and maybe baby someday be.


You could, boy
you should,
burn through
shadows darker, danker,
ranker,
than the dead sea quiet .


I know,
I am the roaring riot!


Just the rhythm of my dancing
shakes
earthquakes awake to
romancing.


My singing brings
ringing thunder storms;
drumming,
cumming,
to soothing,
the desert heart your
departing
left laid so bare.


There are no reasons
to my seasons,
save for my brave joy
at rearranging this unfurled world .


This world that I'd slay,
to lay at your feet.


A neat sweet gift of swirling,
twirling chaotic
love.


From this Goddess
whose not above a
feral feted feasting
on your fearful
selfish flesh.


Your steps
carry a black blessed ghost;
for my wanting-you wails
host the wind.


Without the dust
of my glass-shard lust
to light night skies,
you would sleep in a darkness
deeper than even my eyes.


I am that soothing humming,
strumming through the thud
of your thin fear-rank blood.


You've been welcomed
unworthy
into a screaming teaming mouth
of space & time
and that mouth was mine!


You've been
a creature of myth & rhyme
in that clasping clutching cave
of the twice-born-brave
QUEEN OF DEATH.


You've lain
without undue pain
with this
blue-hued GODDESS OF BONE,
so however did you,
dare think you'd ever again
walk alone?

The things you find on the accident.

http://buenasuertelace.blogspot.com/

Daddy’s girl

I am a back-room mistake.

A honky-tonk mosaic.

A not-love-child

A bad-seed

sowed half-assed

and wild

in a hard row to hoe

I am a pale faced

horror show.

Some hack painted

ugly and clumsy

on 1967 black velvet.

I was taken from

the shaken

brown shards of

lone star beet bottles.

Some blue-eyed fool

flung from

the hung-over

red-neck wreck

of his

pick-up truck.

While it was stuck

on the muddy banks

of the Frio River

And I would

come as an

unwanted surprise.

A pale-skinned

grey-eyed

Child of Sin

formed in

the Summer of Love.

Knowing I’d been

dropped

by some

shameless,

nameless

curly-haired

devil-may-care

coward of a madman.

As he shuffled

maybe

and I hope

heart-sore

for my Mamma’s

Trailer trash door.

Coughing

Pall-Mall smoke

at the stroke of

another lonely dawn.

Ackwardly hacking

as he was snapping

his pearl snaps.

Trapping my mother

with yet another

Long Kiss goodbye.

And his boots.

on that gravel road

took flight.

Left her

and left me

behind,

owl-eyed

with this despised

curling hair.

And there

were

no cigars.

I came from

broken down cars

and

waitress tips

looking always off

to the distance

with eyes

that offended my family

with my very existance.

I came up with

my edges too sharp

too stubborn to

be invisible,

to just hush

in the cowering blush.

of my inherited sin.

I would not lay quiet

or still the riot of

my never ment to be soul.

Truth be told

that man's

2-stepin'

whiskey-laden

honkey tonk

two-timing

lying

with my Mamma

Left a shame on me

that still has some

in the bosom of my family?

speak my name

In whispers.

And I?

I inherited his sin

his curls and his good skin

and a hard heart

with my

off-kilter start

I was Joy’s

bow-your-head-in-shame-Baby.

And I was never any

Daddy’s little girl

It may be

a red-neck

Tilt-a-whirl

song of

shame and

glory,

This story of me.

But you better see.

I have already made sure

I cam out to be

anything!

But some

heard-before

lame-ass

weak-tea

back-door

back-street

tragedy.

Insurance, denials and shit:

My unemployment was denied.

I can appeal.

I plan to appeal, out of pure spite.

Apparently they were very careful to get their (remaining) staff to write letters supporting my being fired. And they fired the Business Office Manager, who of coursed, opposed my being fired.

I'm calling Karma on this one.

We got the Flu, I can't say if it was H1N1 or the black plague of Calcutta, or what the fuck it was, but it was...impressive. Very impressive. Lasted about a week for us both, with fever, chills, night sweats, misery, agony and a few prayers for Death. We're better now.

I however, must have gotten dehydrated during the proceedings and wound up with "something", something that manifested as a SEVERE, SHARP pain in my lower right quadrant.

I actually had the Roomie drive me to Austin and paid the non-insured cost to see a practitioner. The service was lousy. Worse than lousy. The MA scolded me for not knowing the exact dosage of one of my meds. I suggested she look in the EMR they use, She told me "this system doesn't store that information" I told her "I used to do tech. support for that software and it most assuredly does". She was not amused, less so when I offered to show her where to find the information. This is the part where I was being deliberately snarky. She didn't ask the correct questions for someone presenting with my symptoms, and was generally a sullen incompetent ass. The PA however, was great. I'm $100 lighter, antibiotic-ed and am feeling much better.

Had a 2 HOUR interview on Thursday, am waiting to hear. Job is job at this point. Will let you know.

sick

We are sick!
We are sweating, chills, feaver, headache, amazingly sick.
We are so sick we haven't left the house in days, because we don't feel like it and we don't want to infect the world.
He is sicker than I am.
We know we'll get better, just not when.
love and light
S.

MANIFESTATION

(print version)

by Shana Young

I work with ladies: not women.

See, I am a woman

I can

pee outside without getting my socks wet.

I can place a bet.

I can gut a deer.

I can bring good cheer.

I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose.

I can and buy my own damned drinks.

I am a woman.

But I said LADIES.

They have french manicures on their overlong toes nails

and THEY

would not survive in the wild.

I mean,these are ladies.

they drive mini-vans and suv's

with bumper stickers that proudly pronounce

"my kid is an honor student at who gives a shit elementary."

I work with ladies: therefore, I am annoyed.

They go thru fads,

like cabbage soup diets

and botox

and pilates.

(Because apparently 2 thousand years of yoga isn't good enough for them), they have

pilates.

I hate fads.

Their current fad is to "visualize" perfect bodies.

So now they sit around (on the clock)

and drink diet sodas

and attempt to vizualize perfect bodies.

Now they aren't vizualizing perfect bodies

in that whole

jerking the gerkin

flicking the bean

let's take Johnny Dep and

Brad Pitt and

rub them together for a hot sweaty

bit of homo-erotic fan fiction fun...

oh no....

They are sitting around

swilling the diet soda of mediocrity

and vizualizing their OWN

perfect bodies.

They say they want too become creatures of their own creation.

Now Honey,

I am an orphan,

who at 15 years old

was an emancipated minor in Belton Texas

with a job in a biker bar,

a taste for pussy,

a magenta flat top,

and 3.9 gpa.

I am a creature of my own creation

and I fucking disdain

dabblers!

These Bitches waste time attempting to manifest

will into flesh

and can not muster the energy

to pronounce the entire word carbohydrate?

Carb!

carb!

carb!

Like chickens pecking for worms.

They throw around the word “manifestation”.

Like it’s cheap.

They say they’re gonna “manifest”.

Like these weak-ass

overly- made-up

shallow cows could manifest

anything more than a faked orgasm

and an overcharge on their gold card.

The want to manifest will into flesh

and all they want if a firm ass?

That is not what manifestation if for!

NO, it is a waste of just the whisper of the word

and it and they and

probably some of you make me sick!!!!

Let me tell you about Manifestation...

In My manifested world

They would choke on the Soda of Mediocrity

as I sore above on my manifested wingspan

of 9 foot bat wings,

with an iridescent flame job

the likes of which

would give the entire population of

E. LA an

instant art-inspired Erection!

The blight of my passing would end

all Gang related violence

for at least the length of one very large,

never to be mentioned again

rough-fumbling, bumbling, circle jerk

as I flew overhead

laughing napalm

that landed as rose petals.

My honey-tongued sighs

Would impart an allergy to Methamphetamines characterized

by copious explosive and extremely painful diarrhea.

And Anyone glimpsing even

The hint of my screaming shadow

develops the inability to synthesize alcohol.

Because after all,

I am a Queen to be Loved and Feared,

And I've never cared for Drunks

but I fucking hate tweekers.

My hair would be a mass

of writhing wailing prehensile curls

with a bad attitude

And a tendency to

crawl up your nose

To fuck your sinuses and

Pluck out particularly annoying Personality traits.

Such as talking loudly while poets are on stage

Not tipping barristias and holding your mouth too tight

In that universal "I give bad head" configuration.

My skin would be a

smooth matte gray, impregnated with a million million

Chromatophores (look it up),

So my mood would be a Neon broadcast that said,

"don't start none and there won't be none"

There would be venom in my spit,

And I'd kiss indiscriminately,

(more indescriminately than I do now)

Leaving writhing,

willing poisoned Strangers in my wake.

They'd lie shouting brave, brave love.

Die spouting prophecy

of impending doom.

They would arise able to make magick at will.

Inspired with pure joy they

would be reborn,

sprouting prophecy

of impending

worlds free of gloom and doom

and finally, be able to

balance their checkbooks

and use their turn signals.

And my eyes?

My eyes would stay the hard chill gray They are today.

My fingers would leave tattoos.

I'd draw arcane symbology

of tantric mythology

on the

foreheads of

Investment Bankers,

Human resources managers

Stockbrokers

and Especially A&R people.

And I'd write love Poetry on the skin of everyone I touched

And I would touch often!

My breath

would soften the hardest heart.

I'd part armies of conservative

darkness with the tongues

of thin black-clad bi-sexual men.

I’d do this out,

Out of pure unadulterated spite,

winning contrite peace

with each orgasm.

Because it's true:

nobody gives head like a Goth Boy.

I'd overrun the night with the impassioned crying

of the final dying of

the concept that

we are born in shame.

And Thus I'd win us a true brave new World.

My sweat would destroy the concept of sin.

And I'd bring in

each Spring

singing

the knowledge

that each of you is a GOD.

And that!

you fucking

half-assed

mish-mash

Dabblers

Is what manifestation is for!

But I suppose

a Diet soda

and a thin ass

is all some of you deserve.

headaches, pride and pesto

have been struck with the typical "3 day headache"

Started Saturday am, made it to Pagan Pride day, but not by much, was fun, but for the pounding in my head, being dizzy and the inability to maintain my own body heat. I loved seeing the "peeps" again.

Sunday was a wash. We hulu-ed Lost and Surface and I tried to knock the headache with non-prescription meds. This was a truly foolish endeavor. I should have gone for the big guns the minute I felt a Twinge. Mind you BC Powder is amazing stuff and I highly recommend it for most pain relief needs. But after all, my neck is broken, and does on occasion like to remind me of such.

Today was better, I had to go to the Workman Comp. Office, to be evaluated, which was a waste of a clean pair of socks, as they didn't to anything useful and can't give me any real help until I get the letters from the State (who was nice enough to send their correspondence to the old address, even though I updated with them on Sept 29th.) but got that straight. Went to the Grocery. All is well.

The WP picked some of our basil and I combined that with some almonds, some cheese and garlic and our basil oil into some amazing pesto. So I have not wasted the whole 3 days.

Sorry I've neglected you.
I'll post a poem and please accept my most humble apology.

Love and Light
S

Daily Poem 10/8/09 Water Color Girl

She was made
of water colors.

My moon-shadow girl,

burning, yearning
turning moonlight's gray on gray

into color's gone too

far and away for

me to say their names

in the breeze of the ceiling fan's twirling.

Her mind turning,
curling her swirling fingertips

over my closed eyes.

As our thighs entwined in the
night-kissed light.

She was made of
wet cotton breezes
and quiet cries.

Fingers turning trails
of wetness to moonlight
treasure maps,

who's topography

was a poetry of tangled
sheets and hair,

where our

heartbeats and
open windows
trapped snapshots
too beautiful to behold
in the silver-glow

of those
tales she told in whispers.

And we wailed

sacred secrets
in those arched-backed

silences.

My moon-shadow girl
curling finally
soft and satisfied

folding into fitful sleeping.

Her too true to be blue

colors turning
brake of day gray

as dawns light came

quiet swirling

to the beat

of the ceiling fan's

twirling.

Al Frankin and those fuckers:

I'm not all that political: however, please read the following two articles. And tell me, in what universe is this OK.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jamie_Leigh_Jones

and

http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/ap/tx/6655507.html

DAILY POEM: 10/7/09 AND I FEEL FINE

I had not remembered
the sound of your
ear rings
singing in my teeth
before
those nightmares.

Those nightmares,I still

will not admit
were of you.

We laid back
a lewd
blue-hued
sound track,
screaming
to the sweaty
click clack of
my wooden beads
on your
smiling teeth.

We Played That
Phantom Pantomime
of our dream-time
breathing
songs
of atrocity and art.

We got
shot in the guts
took our cuts down to the bone,
shone our pretty eyes,
telling lies like

"to hell with our hearts".

I should d have known
I'd not
quite outgrown
our memory just yet.

Waking to the
taking of breaths
scented true blue
and stinking like you.

I find I'm still
entrenched

in the sweat-enriched
stench we left
clinging to my soul.

You cleave
to me
with ghosts of
sleazy smiles
and
miles don't mean shit!

When it
will always be too easy
to get lost in those
half-heard words
your surprise colored-eyes
left smoking on my tongue.

Baby you always make it
too hard not to

capitulate when we
create such devastating
versions of our
diversions.

Your wake leaves
me sated and shaken
in a half-lame
bifurcated game
run by
fickle flights of fancy,
and
bloody-toothed romance.

The bruises from
our occasional dances
hijacking my
boring days in a
haze of blazing
glory and
glittery haste

tasting of your sweat.

While we take trips
too beautiful to describe
and inscribe each other
with lazy razor tongues
and liar's eyes.

Then we wave our laughing
half-hearted
good byes
and I lay and lie
in other men's eyes.

While you live
lives
I care not to share.

But baby there will
always be
dark nights
and bad-mad-dreams
of you and of seeing our
beads smacking
in lust-rhythm-time.

When I'm too real to
deny and too false to feel.

Where your Ghost breathes fire
and there's blood grit in my teeth.

These then
are the true tales
I dream of us.

And despite
the sweat and that
sweet sweet hunger,
I wake up howling, and I feel fine.

I wanna go to PHAT Camp.

In my infinite capacity to sew chaos. I have tried to get a dear and even dearer friend to resurrect the bones of the Pagan Alliance of Central Texas.

Of course being me I want it re-named
the Pagan/Heathen Alliance of Texas....PHAT.

That's right,
Mamma wants to go to PHAT Camp.

Daily Poem: 10/6/09

It's like a room in the Chelsea Hotel:

The Song Says:
"I don't think of her all that often,
but I remember her well
in the Chelsea Hotel"

And I
I don't think of
HIM
all that often.

Except,
of course,
when I do.

Those bone-knicking
gut-kick
moments
of clarity.

When I

forget
to forget
his smell.

Or how easy
and well
I fell
into
brown eyes
where
my
reflection
shone
so fucking beautiful.

He says
"Our scars
have the power
to remind us
the past is real".

These days
I deal from a new
deck,
in a reality
that has shifted
long away
from our
old
easy lost
conjunctions.

No more
tangled
sheets
and perfect
purpose.

I function
in a new skin
and transverse
new seas,
seeing
me only in my
own eyes
and I?

I only
rarely
finger
the ridges
of scars
heavy
with his name.

All the same,
I remember.

I remember
him well.

Day:

I've got yellow flowers in my hair.
I've got yellow flowers in my hair stolen from the vines at the fountain at Ruta Maya.
I've got yellow flowers in my hair stolen from the vines at the fountain at Ruta Maya by a beautiful poet boy who's name I don't know.
I've got yellow flowers in my hair stolen from the vines at the fountain at Ruta Maya by a beautiful poet boy who's name I don't know, who gave them to me because he liked my poems.

I've got 1/3 of a tree embroidered on my apron, it's a lovely swirly free-form tree.

My abs are slightly sore from the long work-0ut this morning.

I've got an appointment at 9 with the Uncle Sugar folks to talk about re-edu-ma-catin me.

The cats have just had treats.

All is right with the world.

Bird's Song.

My chest is
full of caged birds they
can not sing.

Fluttering
their clipped wings

against the scar-ridges

of my
broken ribs.

Scratching their

scribbled lines

on lungs
full to bursting.

Cursing the
words
coming

crushing from
raw throats.

Dying from
trying to
sing
thirsting

to scream

this endless stream,

of want.

Flaunting
their rage,
beating bent wings

against
the bars of
our cage.

Taunting me

and

calling our
cawing Poetry.

Frilled Lizards and potato chips

So today, I've defeated the clean laundry, and the pile of accumulated craft supplies, mail, poetry books, backpacks and "stuff" that had become the living room futon.

"Tidy" has been achieved. A Pizza has been obtained, potato chips have been purchased for the cat and I am currently watching videos of Frilled Lizards.

Because Frilled lizards make me happy.

It's a family beer hall

He's the
Paw Paw,
the Grandpa
this hap-hazard guardian
of a family beer hall,
this tree.

Many hands have
worn him smooth,
shiny.

Generations
have leaned on his
sideways trunk,
stroked him with
beer-bottle-cold fingers,
starched pearl-snapped shirts
clinging to
dance-sweaty backs
have leaned against
him for support
as farm boys
charmed round-eyed girls,
and clammy palms held
him to still their trembling.


He leans
towards the
horse shoe pits
tough, gray,
bent and scarred
as a
South Texas Farmer,
his few remaining
branches
combed over
towards the
music.

He remembers
Willie Nelson
with short hair,
and has seen
me dance in
the shadow of
a full moon
to a medley
that included
Izzy Pop
and
BB King.

This Tree,
guardian
of the
Shiner Bock
and
the
Budweiser.

Makes me
happy,
on a night
when
I'm tall and
proud
in my
brown cowboy boots,
standing
beside the cement pond
with a
Man who can
two step in
flip flops
and understands
"context".

Wild Flower Pincushion#atuid-4ac15f0e11de9769

Wild Flower Pincushion#atuid-4ac15f0e11de9769

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Mark it for posterity

Today: as we were discussing Life, the Universe and everything:
Thus Spoke the WP:
"Mark My Words, The Religions of Abraham will be the end of this age of Man, they will destroy the Homo sapiens ones and twos that currently comprise most of the world's population."

Bill Kirchen & Too Much Fun

Today:

Spent most of the day in Middle Earth: Good news, Frodo has cast the One Ring into Mount Doom, cost him part of a finger, but the world was set to rights. Much relief that. (OK, I may have read the book a time, or seven before, but hey, it's a damned fine read)

And this evening? We went to Guene Hall (for free I might add) and Saw Bill Kirchen & Too Much Fun. For anyone who's ever heard "Hot Rod Lincoln" well, he's THAT GUY. I can't say he's the best guitar player I 've ever seen, but he's one of the top 5. And I had a damned good time.

And I didn't work today.
And I didn't have a head ache today.
And I didn't sit and worry.
And I didn't have an upset stomach.
And I didn't have any blinding rage.
And I didn't spend a moment of my day depressed or paranoid.

I did however break out in song 4 times
and do the
I'm-not-at-work-dance,
twice
[it's mostly butts and elbows, because as any 5 year old boy knows, butts are funny]

So I may be fired, but from where I'm sitting, Looks like
I WIN.

What you should have said.

What you should have said.
January 23, 2008 - Wednesday

She was my sparkler girl.

Made of whirly gigs

and sprigs of kindling.

They twirled in the curling

of her dying pyre

dwindling

from bonfires,

struck from the

flint -glint in her eyes.

My lies didn't surprise her.

But it was just too
tough

to shoulder

this weight,

of a

water brigade

that I never made

the effort to start.

Like most of my

best laid plans.

I was too afraid

to douse her

smoldering.

Her ashes,

fell

from a lopsided smile.
she

would have

gone

miles to really mean.

She keened

cries

I studiously ignored

while she grew bored

of trying.

I saw the

flames

in the crackling of her

cracking voice and the drone of
her
perfectly rational tone.

She thought

she was

Atoning for
those sins

she's been

so foolish

to commit

in the name

of rising above

love.

Our many friends

and I

our loving complicity,

our kind duplicity

and
all the other lies

we told ourselves

at her wake.

Were just the fireflies

of

her blown fuses.

Now

She's Used up
the allotted wattage.

And called it“wasted”

at all those supper tables

she laid for us

laden with feasts fit for kings.

She knew way before the end

her pearls

were cast before

us

smug-faced razor tongued

loved-ones

more deadly than the kindest vipers.

She saw us,
Wiping our loving feet

on the meat of her

chrome-plated heart.

I can't say who stared her fire.

But I damned sure wasn't

any help.

She'd been casting off sparks

for so long I sold out

for a song

to loan sharks and drifters

grifting for a dime.

I know I'm guilty,

and filthy with regret.

I'd sing my part

If I could find a tune

over the rhyme of her

neat little death.

Beating to rhythm of a blaze

she's played so long

I've forgotten

the tune of the

song

and the lover's

melody

she used to sing

just to me.

Back when we were meant to be

more than this miser's parody.

Of lost causes and cast off dreams.

But damn it to hell

I remember her smell.

Before the shell-shock
of our passing

shook her foundations.

And Me?

I let it be.

Our friendly fire

took the suit of skin she used to dance in.

Traded it for a bested jester's suit

of ill-fitting Armour.

And I am a coward

I Clamored our platitudes,

faked our good attitudes,
but
We're all foiled

again my friend.

And in the end,

she still burned .

So we, her good good friends,

her long lovers,

found a nice place

up on the hill,

and laid out the blankets
so we could watch her go
up in smoke.

It was a good show.

We all should
lie in our guilty guile
and know.

We waited too late

and never thought

of
calling the fire-trucks

It's a coward's justice
that we were

stuck watching her amazing
blaze from street- side.

So give a wide sweep
and keep your liar's mouth shut

as the trash-collectors

take away the fairy-fay snow

of her ashes.

They came

raining

down so pretty

and so

sad-clown sweet.

If anybody asks,

you better at

least be man enough to

say,

We've let her burn away,

and
She's come

to lie once again

at our feet.

Today

Had Job interview w/ Scooter Store: Didn't get call back today, but maybe tomorrow: Will take it if offered as the position seems really interesting.

Spent the afternoon w/The RangerBanger. I never laugh as much as I do with her. Old friends from when we were 13. When I hit people and she was too shy to talk. Man have we changed. She's a worse driver than I, though to be fair, I give total crap directions. We found the only Thai resturant in town, it was grand. The waitress was so cute my mouth watered. Beck looks great, relaxed and smiling and happy. She's in love, which is also grand. She and I discussed some projects for the upcoming Art Show we'll be working on together. I'm excited as hell about that.

I found out a few minutes ago Star's memorial is tonight. I guess I wasn't invited. I'm trying super hard not to have my feelings hurt about that. I'm failing a little. Ok, I'm failing more than a little.

Wp is making roast beast. Smells devine.

The pink flowery vine we've got growing on the fence is apparently Queen's Wreath.

Commando

After a Summer of watching the heat slowly wither and shrivel our best laid plans of a bountiful harvest...we've just discovered we have commando lettuce...growing happily in the ruins of our garden, and oddly enough in places we did NOT plant lettuce. Let's hear it for serendipity.

Fud

Dinner:
Spray oven save pan with non-stick spray
Slather both sides of two chicken breasts with HEB brand Cesar salad dressing
cover both sides of the chicken breasts with grape nuts
place in pan
bake in 435 degree oven for 45 minutes

open one can of HEB brand green beans
season with REAL butter and almonds
nuke in microwave till hot

serve to the WP
REAP eternal rewards.

Afternoon

I've accomplished all my goals for today. It's 3:17, I feel great. Nothing to do but read me some Tolkien and comtemplate putting away the Laundry, which isn't really my job but might be a nice thing to do for the WP. I may change the sheets, cause I think I'd like to spray down the bed with some Lavender. Sue Me, I'm a Witch, Remember? We do shit like that.

Love and Light.

S.

Wednesday Am

It's Morning: Late Morning:

I'm Up, I'm Breakfasted.

I slept. I slept WELL!

I do not have a headache. I do not have even an indication of a headache. This is a very good thing.

My To do List is as follows:

Deposit Paycheck.

Go to gym and suspend membership for the near future. (sad but necessary)

Go to Goodwill and pick up interview clothing that actually fits me.

Get car inspected.

Google Map route to job interview tomorrow.

Change sheets on bed.

Put up laundry, if I damned well feel like it.

Finish The Two Towers. ('cause one can never read Tolkien book often enough)

Post a poem on this blog, as I have a goal to do that every day.

Life, she is good.

S.

I dream of poets

I dream of poets…
those seductive things,
ringing,
bringing
me hypnotized,
sensitized,
for for me,
see
there is no such thing
as an ugly poet.

Even the ones who are.
When they
open those whirl-twirl mouths,
are transformed
into hematite sun sets
by swirling rhyme
into potential mazes
of crazed,
raised fantasy
cum and sweat.

Those words of blood,
mud and mostly beer
give me
carnivore eyes.

I can not help
but slit my gaze
into a haze of
tantalized gray.

Even if I don't give a shit
what they say.

I am magnetized
by the moving soothing
bell-toll of lips,
and holy-roll of soul.

And Always,
I dream of poet tongues.

Fired:

Yea, I got fired. I got fired from San Marcos Surgery Center. I got fired from San Marcos Surgery Center, because Linda Johnson and Chris Bowman decided I wasn't "sweet". Duh, when did "sweet" become a job requirement. So they trumped up some accusations about "mistakes" which I asked them to prove. And they showed me examples and wow, guess what, they were on cased I did'nt even schedule. Interesting. So I'm fired. Of course the Unemployment office says my first check comes in on October 11th and all is well. SO I get a vacation and they get to suck it. This is karma, this is them reaping it. This is me laughing. HA. Ha. Mother Fucking Ha.