Tag Archives: enlightenment

Tears and Smiles

24 Oct

When life seems to be a lot like the weather in a tropical rainforest – an abundance of sunlight, followed by a torrential rain – we can be grateful that just happens to be the ideal environment for growth.Finca Organica de Carla y Eduardo

Chapter 2 – For Heather

16 Jul

Lick, lick, licking

Suck, suck, sucking

On grape tootsie pop

Tongue raw and purple

Artificial flavor color

Seventeen grams of sugar

Measured in years

Sweet young skin

Crying violet tears

There is no one here to taste me.

Chapter 1 – Perfect Mutilation

18 Jun

Another battle –

For now I am victorious.

The war rages on in the

Heads of those

Whose hearts pound, pumping

Madness into bodies

With the tired look of extinction.

I will leave the dead behind.

Living, breathing, lifeless skins,

Forgotten friends

Who long to be buried thoughtfully

Regretfully, happily.

I shudder in the heat of today –

Erase the shame!

I cannot disguise the pain

Of this masochism, permanent

Overload, perfect mutilation.

Enlightenment: That awkward moment you realize your kid knows more than you because you taught him.

10 Apr

Action is what we take when being is taken for granted.

6 Apr

Socrates Cafe

2 Dec

I hunger, therefore I am

was my motto at 27

and long before that

I hungered

but knew not what

hunger was.

I satiated my appetite

with danger, lust and

worse, with pain.

I filled the void

like a child instinctively

fills a bucket with sand

and builds a castle.

But I built nothing.

I scratched and clawed

at reason

I bit, and hard

I gnawed at the truth

I swallowed passion like a tonic

and still I searched

for the cure

the meal that would finally

and forever satisfy my hungry

soul – and sometimes I found it

for a moment, with the lights off

on a winding desert road

for an hour in the full moon

face that lit my way

for a day or two

and a night and sometimes more

but as long as I sought

after it

it never lasted.

Nutsack Girl

28 Jul

She carried a bag of nuts with her wherever she went. One day I asked her about them and this is what she told me. “These are not your ordinary nuts. These nuts are hard to crack. Some are shaped oddly, some have a thick outer shell, some are slippery and well, you get the point. The fact is that these nuts are a lot like people and I carry this bag around to remind me of that. You have to have just the right tool and just the right technique to crack these nuts. If you don’t do it right, you stand a good chance of getting hurt. Or worse, hurting the tender meat that is sustenance inside the shell.”

Then she lit up a joint and I knew our conversation, at least the part that made sense was now over. “So here’s how it works, sis. Every day I take out one of these nuts and study it just like this.” She slid her long arm bronzed from daily exposure into the small opening she had created by pushing two fingers of each hand into the tiny hole drawn tight by a double drawstring at the top of the bag and gently massaged it open as if she were pulling back the red velvet curtains of a tiny stage. She never looked inside. Letting her arm relax, I could see her wrist and hand begin to writhe inside the bag like arachnid acid. She was getting off on the feeling of the nuts passing between her fingers as she grasped a bunch and let them fall or just let her hand pass underneath them, through them; sensing this one and that with only the deft touch of her left hand. The sound was quite entrancing from my end but that was not her gig. She loved to touch and she was good at it. She continued on like this for some time, letting out a squeal when her hand, which now seemed separated from the rest of her, found some tactile treasure and felt it necessary to share that pleasure with the brain. Her brain was now in a fog so deep it would take hours for her to come back up. She could still register pleasure and pain without the tedious business of thought to bog the whole mechanism down and this is exactly where she sought to be when she got high.

She touched something she liked. I gauged this from her reaction. Her body never lied when she was in this state. She could hide nothing. The tone was lazy this time and more like a moan that she maintained at a lower octave than the others as if to say, oh now this is the one. Then, lazily she threw her head back and with it the hair that had been shielding her face like blinders on a Thoroughbred about to race the Dubai World Cup. Her perfect face now flushed with excitement over the tiny nut she would remove from the bag and attempt to crack. There was a moment of sheer silliness when she realized she had gripped the thing so tightly that her fist made it impossible for her to get her hand out of the hole she had created earlier. She wasn’t tender this time. She pulled the bottom of the bag with her right hand and without loosening her grip, yanked her left fist out of the top, leaving a red mark around the base of her hand where it met her wrist. Why she didn’t just let the drawstring go slack, I didn’t think to wonder about then.

It was a Brazil nut. Nigger toes as dad used to call them. It makes us both cringe to think that there are people related to us who still talk this way. We raise our eyes  simultaneously, but there is no one here to correct or to be embarrassed of. “Brazil nuts only grow in virgin rainforests you know,” I didn’t know. “Not only that but there is only one bee – the bombardier bee – you know the really big one? The one that looks like a B-52? It could just swoop down and bomb your little insect town at any moment.” I know she’s really gone when she starts mixing perspectives like her colossal fondness for WWII aircraft and irrelevant penchant for calling my mons a little insect town, but she’s my sister and I love her. She goes on to tell me about the great coiled hood of the Brazil nut tree’s yellow flower which contains a sweet nectar unlike anything ever tasted by man and that this bomber B-52 bee is the only one with a tongue strong enough to lift the hood and long enough to navigate the coils. Sounds like a legendary invasion my little insect town could hold a parade for or name a street after. Brazil Nut Bee Lane. Yes, lane. Boulevard sounds too spacious and street well, that’s just plain trampy. Lane it is. BNB Lane people would affectionately call it – home of the sweet nectar of the yellow-flowered-Brazilian goddess; a narrow two-laner, recently-paved, smooth and relatively quiet. You wouldn’t want to drive a Cadillac down there though – it’s definitely Not a Thru Street and the three point turn would be a bitch.

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