Linear drops lead
to a dusty tea cup
on display with like kind across the soffit
on display with like kind across the soffit
and again
to the mosaic box
holding pennies, trinkets, lint
I've carved off pieces of heart
with a preservetory scalpel
left blood crumb trails
to be found
I bled out
into the well of my midnight ink
let nib and quill
author a map to what's been strewn
as seed for birds
in every dot and tittle
In slow crawl
I re-collect
I can't leave clues. I must make statements, neon arrows with sharp points that pierce. They're not intended to injure, but to protect...to fight for me...the self that got submerged in everybody's needs and clothed itself in layers of shame, blame and guilt until they were just too damn heavy to move around in. I shouldn't expect those close to me to be detectives, but hopefully investigators...curious...interested... studious. Clues are missed. Clues are misinterpreted. Clues are Post-it notes that have fluttered off their perch in a stiff wind and are entombed beneath the refrigerator with a decade old Fruit Loop and a couple dead flies. As adjectives, I gather my dropped clues and place them into statements I wear like T-shirts.
"I like that shirt!"
This old thing?
"It suits you!"
Why....yes it does!
I can't leave clues. I must make statements, neon arrows with sharp points that pierce. They're not intended to injure, but to protect...to fight for me...the self that got submerged in everybody's needs and clothed itself in layers of shame, blame and guilt until they were just too damn heavy to move around in. I shouldn't expect those close to me to be detectives, but hopefully investigators...curious...interested... studious. Clues are missed. Clues are misinterpreted. Clues are Post-it notes that have fluttered off their perch in a stiff wind and are entombed beneath the refrigerator with a decade old Fruit Loop and a couple dead flies. As adjectives, I gather my dropped clues and place them into statements I wear like T-shirts.
"I like that shirt!"
This old thing?
"It suits you!"
Why....yes it does!
ReplyDeleteI bled out
into the well of my midnight ink
Well who hasn't done that before.
No idea what all this means but I read it like five times, so it must be pretty good, because I enjoyed it each time I read it.
Sometimes you don't have to understand something, you know, to enjoy it. You just ~feel~ it and it feels right.
- Eric
,,,"YES,,IT DOES,,,
ReplyDeleteEric - LMAO. Wasn't meant to be a mystery. I sugarcoat myself, expect that dropping spinkles here and there will lead to understanding. I am finding it is much more logical to just say, "this is who I am. this is what I need." You men aren't the greatest at puzzles. But you can usually understand a billboard.
ReplyDeleteGlenn - You are always so generous with your punctuation :)
LMOA @ 'you men aren't the greatest at puzzles...'
ReplyDeleteSometimes, it just depends on how encoded... how cryptic that puzzle is... ;o)
~shoes~
Clues are Post-it notes that have fluttered off their perch in a stiff wind.
ReplyDeleteLiked that part.
we need shirts - see me - with endless inflections.
ReplyDeleteit seems none of us is ever completly in focus, not even to ourselves. and so the endless t-shirts.
a wonderful piece. a familiar piece.
xo
erin
Shoes - Sorry for the generalized man comment (sheepish). And of course I'm cryptic!
ReplyDeleteMagdalena - I'm scared to look under the fridge. Who knows what lurks????
Erin - Do I just keep saying the same thing over and over again? Ha! See...the T-shirt is a good idea.
It should have said some (my) husbands aren't very good with puzzles.
ReplyDeleteI think maybe somewhere between puzzle and billboard will work.
I'm always amazed by your writing and word pictures.
I'll look under the fridge to make sue I didn't miss something important. .
I'm in love!
Rob - A puzboard? Ha! Reel-e? Thank you! Lord only knows what we'd find under that fridge! Shit load of dirt I'd imagine and a couple betting nickles :)
ReplyDeleteThis is very beautiful writing, and I know the feeling ... I do.
ReplyDeleteyou latest page has disappeared,,wont open. _%%$$#$%%^^^^&&*&*(*&^
ReplyDeleteMatt - Thank you. I am learning so much. Growing and reducing. Pushing out and pulling in. Gotta wonder what size I'll eventually wind up.
ReplyDeleteGlenn - I posting it by mistake. Not scheduled til tomorrow. I like to space them out so readers don't get sick of me. (I know...still working on not being such a people pleaser).
brutally and lyrically honest writing.
ReplyDeleteI bleed out into the well of...
I actually think I got it, the first time through. Now I’m questioning my manhood:). The dusty tea cups on display makes so much sense, where they lead.
ReplyDeleteI like the shirt too.
We are all assemblages of various pieces.
ReplyDelete(Nice piece of yours here)
we all do. and since the first poet, they too. it's like breathing, forever new.
ReplyDeletexo
erin
Ophelia - Thank you. All writers do it I think. We bleed out through our words and get transfusions from each other!
ReplyDeleteAnthony - Ah, was never a question of manhood. Was a question of vision. Looks like yours is 20/20.
Bubba - I like the word assemblages. Kind of like wearing pieces as badges! I'm having Girl Scout flashbacks!
Erin - True enough. There's really nothing new under the sun, just new descriptors.
"Clues are missed. Clues are misinterpreted. Clues are Post-it notes that have fluttered off their perch in a stiff wind and are entombed beneath the refrigerator with a decade old Fruit Loop and a couple dead flies."
ReplyDelete...i really must remember this.
"author a map to what's been strewn
as seed for birds..." - i liked this :)
hello. thank you for your visit the other day. i enjoyed it a great deal. i like the way you talk to me :)
ReplyDeletewe wish for our hearts to be found. but to offer them up whole will cause others to shy away. it's too big a gift. people don't want to be beholden to us. so we offer up tiny pieces, shards, hoping they will receive them and not feel ill at ease. i can understand this. we all want our hearts to be found, i'm no exception, although i'm impossible about it: i lock my heart up in that mosaic box hoping it will be found anyway; hoping that someone will come along willing to make the effort. childish really.
this is such a beautiful poem. i like its music; the way its words feel in my mouth.
be well.