Note: She Said Mama’s Nose Bleeds White

or Matilda Needs to Find a Different Day Job

 

Right hand holding her
neck, hoping the cut is not too close

to her jugular, Matilda remembers that
a samara is a flattened fruit, commonly

called a ‘helicopter’ and found on trees
such as the maple in her front

yard, but that is not the thing
which did this. Left hand gripping her

right shoulder around the little Puerto Rican
girl whose fingers turned to razors looking to see

if blood is red or white, while Matilda whispers
I love you Samara. The little girl is

possessed by all things abusive, and did not know what
the word human meant. She doesn’t know

what she is and has no awareness of what she’s
doing. Samara is a city

in Russia which was once the capital of
Socialists who were ill-equipped

to define civic responsibility. In this contorted state,
Matilda was not able to

maintain the “passive” restraint she was
holding her client in. The origin

of Samara comes from Hebrew. Samara is:
Protected by God. But she was never protected

from her father who nearly killed
her and her

mother. Matilda loses grip, and that
chubby little creature turned at her with a folding

chair still upset from kissing mom
good-bye with white noses oozing red.

Why Matilda Hates her Name

for Karoline

When she tumbles, one need

watch. She is a woman of extreme

emotions, but words help through those
things which she cannot bear. There’s some

fucked up shit in life. It sometimes dumbfounds
her how wretched life can be. Transference is how

to get though all the shit. Make it out of your
control, Matilda tells some pathetic seadog

lapping up three fingers of Kraken. Helpless to
help her. The worst feeling is helplessness.

How does one explain that the world
as anyone knows it is no longer even

a hope for so many? Slow down, she warns
the sailor. Listen at the moment

objectively. Learn that there’s no confession
long enough to forgive the sin

of our species. Live by the meaning
of your name as defined by that which is

eye catching. For fuck’s sake, learn the meaning
of names. She can’t name the Russian.

The glass empty. He stands, leans over the bar, and
kisses Matilda with oceanic depth. She says,

know that names always define us, and they
reduce us to only a name.

Contemplation of Ripples

I wonder if you are afraid of the same
things I am of myself. I am

getting so tired of putting out all guts
on some papers that no

one ever sees. Believing you will. I know it
is pretty useless, but I am possessed unable to

will that. I’ve got everyone fooled,
they deny their own anxieties, while blaming

me for my anger, and never to their
own fears. This good fight is

no longer as it should be, but tiny successes are
still some. Wonder if you know what you look like,

when I tell you about your false living. Covetous of
the comfortable life, and willing to ignore

all that’s suffering around you, still you lie
your head down for sleep pretending that you can,

and you are transparent being plastic
eye glasses. It doesn’t matter what

people cant’s see cause what’s important
is the shit you show to them, and

all of those consequences
which may follow.

The Bedtime Stories Matilda Tells to Herself

I want you to be the last face that I see when
the Devil’s finally come for me. Matilda, wishes that is

what she said. She knows she is in hell and it is only a
matter of time, really any day now, that she will

come eye to eye
with some devil.

Publication

My saint pieces have been published

 

http://www.menacinghedge.com/

Sorry Guys.

I will only keep my posts public for a couple days.  I need to work harder at that other end of being a writer.

Concentration on Making Nothing But Beauty

Reblogged from disdainfulbeauty:

I may not post for a while.  Please stay tuned, for the insane ranting of a poet in the midst of black and white.

So, I was wrong.

Concentration on Making Nothing But Beauty

I may not post for a while.  Please stay tuned, for the insane ranting of a poet in the midst of black and white.

To My Readers

I will only keep my posts public for a couple days.

Potentially a rant

I find that old angers are boiling up somewhat uncontrollably.  I have told some people off wickedly in my head, but my lips, they just do not find any words.  Sometimes the only comfort is just this: typing the words that come to mind and converse with myself the things I wish I could say out loud, yet cannot find the means.  Poets are born not made.  They are born into lifestyles which would crush an other human’s will. I have times where I have a harness on my life and can maintain a healthy balance and then life reminds me of where my poetry comes from. Then I struggle for balance.  There is none.

I believe the biography of the poet is an essential part of understanding poetry, but not necessarily the poetry of the poet whose biography you know.  There are themes.  It is terrifying to realize you are a poet.  All born poets know what that terror is, and how it consumes you in the beauty of words.  I doubt I will post poetry on this blog for a while.  I cannot do much more than vent, but who knows maybe this will spark a poem.

I love the few loyal readers I have.  I want you to know that. Knowing that there are people whom I have never met that appreciate the suffering of words.  There is a part of me that feels it is you who care what emotions I experience.  I was born a poet into a poet’s life.  Cliche is cliche for a reason, redundant story that is very true. But what do I do?  Should I share that perfect conversation I wish I could have outside of my head, or do I keep it in for fear the intended audience will not like what I have to say.  But my intended audience are the very people who have caused me to be this way, and I know they pay no attention to the little girl in the corner writing in her journal or reading a book.  Crazy, eccentric, freaky, strange and totally withdrawn.  I am an observer, and I observe many things– some of which I wish I could unlearn.  I ache to have anyone truly understand.  It is not that I want to write, I have to or I will not find balance.  Writing is survival.  One day, I may have to courage to write the things that I have tried so hard to say out loud, but found only the taste of blood because I could only gnaw on my lips.  RR thank you.