My Internal Reporter's Questions and Answers

Do you know who you are - you, who whispers so silently among the trees?
Do you know where you go - where, in the light of day no footfalls can conquer?
Do you know how you work - the ins, the outs, the inbetweens?

I don't know you anymore, the faded echo of a broken dream
I don't know where you have gone, except to say you're never here.
I don't know how you work - you've changed the rules on me, it seems.

How did we get so far from here, our mouldered slice of the American Dream?
What did we do to earn out share, a piling heap of misery?
When did I cease to know you anymore?
Who did I become, when I failed to know myself?

I don't have all the answers - I don't know how far we've come.
I don't know where we are anymore - I didn't care to look.
I don't know how time crept upon me, obscuring my line of sight,
I don't know what I was thinking, when I let my mind take flight.

Where are all the answers? I truly want to know.
How do I find the source of these pains, the ones I can't even show?

Don't ask me. I'm just a girl with some questions.
But if you'll oblige, I'm dying to know.
Let me get a pen....

My Pedigree Hails From Mechanics

Thud thud kerthunk kerthunk
The sounds the old clunker of an engine -
the remains of my oil-rotted heart beating
so heavily in my chest as I hoist your words
from a piece of heavy machinery,
trying to dissect, to discern, to theorize and postulate
what exactly I did wrong.

Your heart is purring like the engine
in a well-maintained collector's
fifty-nine Cadillac.
The noise and rumble is entirely different
than the fading beats of the Model-T
that takes up long-empty garage space
in my chest cavity.

I imagine God is much like a small boy
with a set of toy cars to play with
and brightly painted inter-locking track
with which he plays out our lives
as nothing more than a game,
setting us up on a miniature collision course,
our two cars humming for disaster at every turn
and squealing and giggling with delight as we slam together
at the most awkwardly constructed loop on the course.

And on the worst of days,
I feel like you've resigned me to my fate
and retired me to the junkyard
for people to pick over my body for parts,
varied and sundry amusements and accouterments of days gone by.
Hands of strangers poking and prodding,
wondering if my leather interior is real.
Of course it is.

And an oil leak that will never cease
keeps pouring out from under my hood,
lubrication flows freely
as you rev my engine,
taking me out of neutral and all the way into overdrive.
Motor mount tears fall to the asphalt,
as you drive on without me.

Love Note From a Suicide

Don't ask, just don't. I've been channeling the late great E.A. Poe as of late and I've always been a morbid person. Emotions bubble up when you don't want them to and don't always come in the form you wish they would. I don't want to have to put a suicide disclaimer on every piece of work I write that's morbid or from the perspective of someone dead and long gone - so let it be said now: I am not suicidal, I am not contemplating suicide. I write what comes to me. And as the light shone golden upon the trees of this small Appalachian town, as I sat in the car and felt the arid breeze upon my face, the words struck with full force. And this is the result.


"Love Note From a Suicide."

Here I sit upon a ledge
looking down so far,
my hands are torn from gripping the edge,
I wonder when I will fall.
I fell not once, but twice for you
my efforts gone unseen;
I fell and dropped and climbed again
among countless other deeds.
And now I sit on edge again,
wondering how far I'll go
to keep your eye and have your heart,
a love I will never again know.

I jump again and laugh as I fall,
floating so free above.
I speak these words to you my dear,
now on the wings of a dove.
Listen so closely to the wind,
and feel my heartfelt shame,
the rains will come soon to this place
to wash away my name.
All that's left of me is yours my love,
floating on the skies,
I regret the words I never spoke:
whispering them only in cries.

Let go of your ledge and jump with me,
falling opposite: up to the sky.
Feel my laughter and hear my pain
carried by wings on high.
I loved you then,
I love you still,
but now you shy away.
Never forget the words we spoke
upon that heat-sickened day:
"Never another,
Never again:
This spot in my heart is all yours."
Words you take for granted now,
my monument stuck in the ground.

You were never brave enough,
to storm those seas of blood:
the battle you said you'd wage for me:
a battle you'd never begun.
Let it be known that even now,
as I hover above this land,
my heart was never aught but yours,
Yours, my sad little man.

Grieve not now at the loss of me,
the love you gave away,
Feel nothing but the heart of she,
she who begs you to stay.
The world is no less vibrant now
without me in your life.
Spare me not another thought,
go home and comfort your wife.

I never meant to fall for you,
although I'm glad I did.
I didn't mean to fall so far
that I fell right off the grid.
I fell so fast, and broke so hard,
there's nothing left but dust:
Never forget, my dear little muse,
I left you because I must.

It wasn't my grip that loosed the edge,
I didn't want that end,
But the thought of our broken pledge,
made my will take bend.
Without resolve and the comfort of you,
I slowly lost my mind.
All that's left to speak of now
are butterfly wings frozen in time.

Mourn not for me, my lion dear,
remember deep in your heart
the love we had was always doomed
and fated from the start.
Cry not for me, hold onto she,
the one you've been looking for.
I could never have given you that,
although I offered you more.

Fear not my darling at my demise
you only must turn your head
turn your ear on a warm summer night
and listen to the skies:
There I whisper and there I remain
so memorialized by the Gods,
my feelings for you remain unchanged,
though my body rots beneath sod.

So long as I lived, I promised you
I would try to find a way:
I failed my goal and I let go
But I still love you all the same.

I'm Not.

If you were to peel back the layers of who I am,
you would not want to know me.
Flay flesh from muscle,
rend muscle from bone,
tear through the viscera
and what would you find?
Like a dog's stomach on X-ray
a misshapen mass of
errata that should not exist.
Bits of brick and mortar
stone and sand
the crushed shells of those
who tried to get inside.
A writhing, dark mass
of depression that just won't
be calmed by antacids.
A small light spot on the X-ray film,
is it a mistake, a problem with the film?
Or is it hope? Clawing forth from the gaping maw?
Who is to say
That you ever really knew me at all?
There's only one way to find out.
Grab a scalpel and go.

Do I really need a title?

Bare skin laid out
with a cold inhale
taut muscle ensconced
within yielding flesh.
Will I ever see you again?
I don't know.
Sigh once more
and enjoy this moment
to echo against the mirrors of your mind
again and again
driving you mad
until I must,
simply must,
feel you again
My Love.

On Self Doubt

Print: Luis Royo "Medusa's Gaze" from "Subversive Beauty"

"It's all right for a woman to be, above all, human. I am a woman first of all." - Anais Nin

I am beautiful, but I have cried countless years away
with my face pressed into a pillow, screaming and screaming away
because I can't understand
why the world doesn't recognize it.

I am beautiful. I have curves.
They zig and zag,
they twist and turn.
Twist those hips, mama,
and watch the boys go running.....
….in the opposite direction.

I am a plastic princess made of polyvinylacrylate,
with seams running down the backs of my legs,
and underwear molded permanently in place.
Unless I'm not going anywhere.
And I never am.

I am an ice queen melting from the inside out.
Can't you tell by the saddened expression
and the moisture falling down my face?
It hurts.

I am recognized for many things:
My heart, my brain, my knowledge
The speed at which my fingers fly across the keys
and the words that tumble onto the page.

But I'm never one of the girls.
I'm always that weird little
Braniac Freak who's just one of the guys.

I'm not beautiful to you.
I'm a co-conspirator, a helper, a henchman, a minion.
Sometimes I'm an evil genius.
But I'm never one of your
beautiful people.

My beauty is not delicate.
I am not small. I am not timid.
My beauty is fierce, roaring into the room
with fangs and claws and a whirl of
monochromatic cacophonous shrieks.

I am not Monroe. I am not Bardot.
I am not Garbo and I am not Lake.
I am the love child of Clara Bow
and Anais Nin with a side of
Manson thrown in for spite.
I am a Luis Royo painting come to life.
I am scary. I am angry. I am bittersweet.
I am fierce. I am beautiful.

Kittens, Kittens, everywhere

There once was a Humane Society worker who lived in a shoe,
she had so many kittens, she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some toys, she petted their heads,
She changed all their litterboxes,
glad they weren't dead.

She rescued these kittens,
with patience and love,
She never met a pet she was intolerant of.

The kittens all grew,
And found their new lives,
With husbands and children and boys and their wives.

Saved from their fate,
They remembered her well,
The humane society worker
Who was stressed all to hell.

That crazy cat lady who lives in a shoe
Still isn't sure she has room for you.
Give it a day, and more kittens will come,
Give it an hour, and she will succumb.

Surrounded by kittens,
From me and from you,
Surrounded by animals,
What is she to do?

Give her a dollar, a moment of time,
Give her an hour, she'll teach you to be kind.
One message she has, so you'll have no regrets:
Please, for the love of god, SPAY AND NEUTER YOUR PETS!

Channeling Annabel Lee

Nobody sees
The tears of she,
who weeps softly for her love.
Though they may try,
precious few spy
The sorrow of she who mourns.

Come with me,
said to he,
I'll carry you 'neath my heart.
I cannot be yours,
said he whom she mourns,
he who pierces her thoughts.

Deep in the winter,
her thoughts they do splinter
Upon hearing his voice in her head.
Come with me, says the man
taking her hand
and leading her on into dark.

She follows and prays,
for all of her days,
to end with this one final thought.
Love isn't a game,
not meant to cause shame
For those that feel in truth.

Beauty must die
And for this she will cry,
the girl who is gray in her heart.
Hold swift to your love,
and with one final shove,
twist the blade into your flesh.

It isn't the end,
Not for her my friend,
Her memory lives on in pain.
Carry this thought
The heart is not caught
Unless she can give it away.

Under the sky
Filled with love's lost refrain,
Lies the ghost of a beautiful girl

Tucked 'way neath the stars,
Not mine and not ours,
Cries the soul of a girl
had and lost.

Cry not for me,
Said he to the she
As he carried her body to warmth.
I'm not worth your time,
You'll never be mine,
could I change it, I would take it back.

Her eyes slipped aside,
and death could not hide,
a world full of fury and hurt.
I never loved you,
Though I thought were true,
Were the last words whispered
By the ghost of a girl
Who cried 'neath the wintr'y stars.
- Jan 7 2010

The Journey of Sancta Sophia

The sorrow I felt was ever constant, bubbling just beneath the surface of my heart, my inner landscape an uncertain world, quicksilver ever evaporating and reforming in a mercurial menagerie. But this sorrow grew less as the days wore on, and I replaced each living piece of myself with a hardened block of stone. I killed myself, the self that I once knew. I sat content among my rocks and admired my stones, my boulders and my cliffs. I ached, but I sat alone.

One day, carelessly, I allowed a small weed of compassion to begin growing among the cracks in one of the smaller rocks.

And that was my mistake.

I did not tend to this little plant, but sat by with idle curiosity as it grew, content to sit strewn among the pebbles of my undoing. I watched and took no action as this tiny little flower blossomed, grew and strained toward a sun that hadn't touched that land for years. The flower grew. The flower lived. The flower died.

A swift and chilling breeze came soon after, blowing the skeletal remains of that little sun-seeking flower away. I sat and watched. I took no action as the seeded remains of the petals flew on the wind.

That was the first night the rains came. And with the tiny little droplets, a cool and subtle breeze stirred the warm, cloying air. The raindrops felt sweet, so sweet. The warmth felt good, suddenly not as oppresive as it had once been. I turned my face to meet the spray. As those raindrops, warm with the first kiss of spring showered my body and caressed my face, I came to realize I was crying.

And I did not know why.

With a loud crash and a startling clap of thunder, the largest of the rocks was swept away in the crash of a salty ocean wave that arose from nothing, springing from nowhere to shatter my existence. This ocean arose, the bitter product of tears long left unshed and pain long left untouched, buried beneath the stones and waiting to one day re-emerge.

I cried to the sky. I beat my fists upon the stones. All those emotions came back to me, with a rage, the kind of which had not been seen. Self hatred, and hatred toward those who had hurt me without ever even knowing. The ache inside my heart was immense. I scraped my hands on the sharp, rocky outcroppings that formed when my heart of stone broke into a million pieces.

I ached.

I screamed so loud to be heard, the winds no longer touching me with gentle fingers and a soft caress, those once sweet winds and rain now a bellowing gale. And for the first time in a long time, I felt.

I felt.

And what I felt was fear and anguish. The loneliness of a thousand nights spent in solitude and the hopelessness of a thousand more to come.

I do not know when I heard the whisper in my ear. I do not know when my tears could no longer fall. I do not know when they ceased, for they seemed endless. I did not know where my tears ended and the rains that wracked my heart began. I did not know her name, the kind and gentle mother who rescued me from the edge of that barren cliff.

She held me there for a time, and nestled me to her breast as though I were a small child. She took my tears, and kept my pain. She took all I had to give and more.

Sancta Sophia.

The name of the divine mother. She who once sat beside God himself, constructing the world with He in a playful manner and the compassion of all. She who walked beside Christ and she who was forgotten just the same. Sancta Sophia, a figure long since relegated to the worlds of fairy stories and child's tales, remembered only in darkened corridors and dusty manuscripts. Demonized and vilified in the eyes of her children, all of whom sprang from She, the first to be loved and the first to be hated.

Be Not Afraid.

Her whispers came in soothing murmured tones as she carried by battered and broken bod across the ravaged landscape.

Do Not Shy Away.

I awoke the next morning in the landscape of my heart, that same place where I began and the same place I felt I would end. Where there had once been stone, there now existed a spray of fragrant blossoms. Where there had been a sea of salty sadness now sat a fresh, clear well of hope, compassion and love.

Her light was blinding.

And I fought not to squint against the harsh light of day. My eyes long unaccustomed to her illumination. I cried out as the warm rays touched my tender skin, shielded so long from the warmth by a layer of stone, dirt and cold.

Drink of me.

She said, an unseen force guiding me to her well. I kissed the ground, marvelling at each living thing, my hands touching the ground as a child does, exploring the world in the only way it knows how.

I knelt.

And drank from the well of Sancta Sophia. I realized for the first time I was thirsty, so thirsty. I was parched, my tongue rasping like the scales of a snake against the bark of a tree on which it hides. I was thirsty. I had not known what was missing, but here I found it.

I drank.

I lapped at the cool, clear waters, as gentle as a lover and as tender as a friend. I drank from the well of Sancta Sophia and felt as she.

Pure.

Unknown to all but those who seek her grace and wisdom. Known, but not tainted. Wise, but not spent. Bold, but not spoken. Kind, but merciless in her justice.

Renewed.

And my heart began to break once more. But this time there was no rock on which to break, there was no sea in which to drown.

And in that moment, I lived only for her.

Sancta Sophia, guide my hand.

"Sophia brings up her own children, and cares for those who seek her.
Whoever loves her loves life.... for though Sophia takes them
At first through widing ways, bringing fear and faintness to them,
plaguing them with her discipline until she can trust them,
and testing them with her ordeals, in the end Sophia will
...lead them back to the straight road, and
reveal her secrets to them. (Ecclesiasticus 4:11-18)"