After Every Pain, There Is Relief But Some Never Fade Away. 

When did I get so grey. Or maybe I have always been this dull shade of nothingness. I'd like to think that I was once an exuberant yellow just to have something to compare with. To know that I've moved and changed and grown, to know that I had once tasted the sun,that I held it in my gentle hands and for once I didn't burn. But that's a lie isn't it? A comforting one but a lie nonetheless. Maybe I've always been grey.

~Me

Sunset at sea (details), part II. Painter: Jeanne Rosier Smith.

"If you could see yourself through my eyes ,mom, you'd think that you embedded the diamond stars in the ink stained universe with your bare, calloused hands."

I don't feel so good today.

I feel a strange, ancient ache in my soul. An aged feel to my rigid bones that once held the weight of the earth and the sky. Now they wish to rest, to turn to dust. They have endured enough weathering. I feel nostalgic for a life I have never lived, for a life I wish I lived. I suppose I do understand this humane desire. The soul was never meant to stay on the earth. It was meant to rise. And here, now, it is bound to, shackled to this body and inadvertently, to this world,held taut by the unyielding chains of gravity. I yearn for the day I return home. Up there.

I don't feel so good today and that's fine.

~Me

The Comet Book (1587), details, “16th-century treatise on comets, created anonymously (or maybe it was a woman who endured erasure) in Flanders”. Originally named in german Kometenbuch.

"The Sparrow in my Head"

There is a little sparrow in my head that likes to cause a mess.

It distracts me with its shrill screeching

that bounces against and vibrates my skull.

It flaps its tiny wings and causes a flurry in my head, like a feral hurricane.

It drills against my brain and causes pulsing migraines

and sometimes it nips at my eyeballs.

There is a little sparrow in my head

Shackled and caged behind bars of steel.

It is bruised,broken and battered

And its wings are clipped.

To set it free somebody will have to crack open my skull.

"It's not fair", cries the sparrow.

"Oh but it is fair", I reply,

"Just like, a head for a head,

a tail for a tail,

an eye for an eye,

and your freedom for mine."

The little sparrow gives a sad chirp and droops its wee head.

"Do not despair, little bird", I consol,

"One day you'll be able to fly,

high above, higher than the sky.

For just like in the circle of life,

the day your life begins,

is the day mine ends.

So chin up and wait some more,

just a little more time."

There is a little sparrow in my head that weeps tears of patience.

There is nothing else it can do.

~Me

*Inspired by Bluebird by Charles Bukowski*

“The Strongest Of The Strange”

you won’t see them often

for wherever the crowd is

they are not.

those odd ones, not many

but from them come

the few good paintings

the few good symphonies

the few good books

and other works.

and from the best of

the strange ones perhaps

nothing.

they are their own

paintings

their own

books

their own

music

their own

work.

sometimes I think

I see them – say

a certain old

man sitting on a

certain bench

in a certain way

or

a quick face

going the other way

in a passing

automobile

or

there’s a certain motion

of the hands

of a bag-boy or a bag-girl

while packing supermarket groceries.

sometimes

it is even somebody

you have been

living with

for some time –

you will notice a

lightning quick

glance never seen

from them before.

sometimes

you will only note

their existance suddenly

in vivid recall

some months

some years

after they are

gone.

I remember

such a one –

he was about

20 years old

drunk at 10 a.m.

staring into a cracked

New Orleans mirror

facing dreaming

against the walls of

the world

where

did I

go?

~Charles Bukowski