I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.
But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.
And though I always see her, she may be able to creep faster than I can turn!
I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind…
I don’t like to look out of the windows even–there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast.
I wonder if they all come out of that wallpaper as I did?
the Yellow Wallpaper/Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Freedom…Just another word for nothing left to lose.
As the season’s merge…
I cannot help but think of how it is with us.
The inherited panic and fear.
The constant need to disappear.
Just when a trail has been laid…
Just as time has been weighed…
Our over shadowed life becomes displayed. ∞
And, with that knowledge,
we continue to bear the fruit.
An oath to a world of soiled roots. ∞
It is an overcast day.
Guess, sometimes it has to be that way.
Civilized words for a shut book.
Theology has yet to devise a means in which to get you…
off the hook. ∞
No matter how much I scour my mind…
with the salts of the earth…
The winds of change have not stopped.
They take comfort in the calm before the storm.
Yet, they are never completely gone. ∞
And, so the story goes,
some hostages are held by fear and dread.
Others by a custom-made bed.
Which form of abuse is to your liking?
The choice never had been yours
to make anyway…
Though it had always been your voice at stake
Just another orgasm faked…
Choices, options, delusions of narcissistic grandeur…
Why not a familiar bent take on beat her down pleasure?
They all say twice more than what they hear
Guardians of hand-me-down fear.
Everyday serving up a family owned tactile recipes
Everyday reminders turned mystery thrillers.
Everyday the salts that eat the pillars.
He had an eye for these things.
But I had the soul.
The art of the moment, wasted with lies.
With all the chatter of aperture and metered light.
Exposures in a dark room.
You, looking for that idyllic covered bridge.
Me, searching for meaning to the words, ‘just live.’
As your dark room comes into contrast with my life.
The question still remains,
‘what of the devil you tried to tame?’
With a generation, come and gone,
I will right your wrong.
with all your attempts to school me…
All your photographed Rockwell ideology…
The shuttering speed of Americana.
All this and more, such great expectations.
Not a single tutored self-portrait.
a guild full of
Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome
(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)
WE utter tumors of blood.
For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains
It was there I had seen him first. An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.
Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold. Obliging, as a casserole. She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.
Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.
Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.
Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.
I protest to this embankment,
The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!
No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed. No matter the vials for your smiles. A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon. Crimson waters will punish your passageway. ..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.