Tell Me

Tell me what life would be like to touch my lips to yours?  What would love be like to touch a tear upon the hollow of your face?  Tell me what joy would be like to press gently the roughness of your chin with my fingertips.  I am shaking with cold and fear.  Tell me.

Tell me what would serenity be like to step into your body’s warmth and have only a moment of space between us.  I’m so cold, so very cold, what would warmth be like to feel the heat you keep close to your skin, neck, hands and the inside of your arms.

Tell me what would contentment be like to gaze into your glorious eyes with all the wonder I hold deep inside of me regarding you.  I sense anger.  Be angry.  Weary is a word that always ends in a question. Tell me what would happiness be like to sleep next to you, just sleep.

What would familiarity be like hearing your voice read to me and what would purity be like with you in total darkness, away from preconceived ideas of what lovers should be?  You see, I believe vision is a gift in not seeing what we really are in the sight of God, Who is Love.  We see attraction; we see youth, middle age, old age, trust goes beyond sight.

But tell me what would surrender  be like to close my eyes and trust that the picture I have of you is actually true

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EVIL

It’s just the high cost of maintenance, ya know?

The color, man you would not believe the color.  I know red is red but red is not red in nature.  The almost white pink defines what must be the lack of oxygen and the deep scarlet means the screams of down-and-out terror.  I knew a woman once who, when really afraid, would try to scream and nothing would come out but this raspy, I’m-gonna-die sorta sob.

Then there is the deep red.  The almost beautiful black, bottomless red that exemplifies eternity.

Eternity man, eternity.  It is swirling around my head like music you used to like but now hate because like anything good, I mean sound busting good; they end up playing too loud and too often.

The high cost of maintenance in livin’ too long.  When will you live within our means?  I need a pulpit, I need a stage, I need a spotlight and I need to cry it out: “when will YOU live within your means?”  I’m not talking money.  Money is something that will be here when you are dead.  And dead.  Money is earned, stolen, begged or inherited.  In whatever way you have it, there’s not enough and you’re pissed-off about it because that’s how people are.  What I’m talking about is living within your means.  Your means.  Your means.

Can’t you live with what you’ve got the backbone to take?  Can’t you look at the woman across from you and say, hey, I love her because I don’t have the guts to go ask that beauty queen for a date.  You know that’s what women want.  I mean real women, they want you to ask and ask politely.  Why do you see couples that are all wrong together?  Well, I’ll tell you.  Some fast talking, skinny, sweaty guy hit the girl up just when she felt sure she’d die alone.  So she grabbed up what she thought was her last chance when all along there were men that would have died for her if they had had enough backbone to tell her so.

What the hell does this have to do with several shades of red?

Let me tell you.

I’m the son of a bitch who doesn’t care about you or the girl or if you live happily ever after.  I’m the guy you hate forever because I live forever.  I’m the guy that your sweet girl longs for but realizes when I take the living force right out of her, I’m evil.  I’m not romantic, I’m not misunderstood, I’m evil, and that’s what makes the taking so good.

But the maintenance is high.  It’s very high because I keep moving, I stay out of the sun and I put up with the slow-witted and the whining world that doesn’t believe in evil until they meet me.  I guess it’s just become too easy.

Like Eden

When I speak of simple, I mean simple.  Simple has been distorted.  When I say simple, people nod their heads sagely and agree while thinking of quick and cheap. 

When I speak of simple, I mean simple.  When I say simple, people nod their heads and agree while visualizing quick and cheap.

Granted simple today is distorted.  Finding and recognizing what’s left of, well, simple isn’t easy.   If you look hard enough, you can find simple.  It’s the age of the entrepreneur (which rhymes with manure) who built their factories and made their millions.  They built their factories over the drained cornfields that were once the greatest gardens in the United States–the Limberlost.  There are traces left here and there on the surface.  The Limberlost strengthens beneath the rusting facilities of man, trust me there, and will rise again to take over.

Can you follow me at all?  Simple is one table and one chair with no roof and no window. If a window is inevitable, then it must not picture frame nature of any kind.

Oh, and no one can teach simple, you need to remember simple.  You will lament the idea of simple and live on anger, confusing the whole concept with the idea of fate.

We still have the rich and the poor, the foolish and the wise, the extravagant and the simple.  Nothing has changed in humanity, and nothing has changed on the earth, it all just looks different; that’s what makes deception successful and immortality work.

One hundred years ago most would shake their heads and think me mad (I am) and walk away, but today I am patronized even admired.  I don’t care what they said one hundred years ago, or yesterday, I’m the living proof of immortality waiting on the rise of the Limberlost.

“We all have our own truth man; I like your style.”  I hear “truth,” all the time.  Idiot-speak, but I keep quiet being immortal, for now.

By style, most admire the table and chair I made from using the wooden slats and rusted nails that had been tossed into a heap outside the back door of some RV manufacturer.

Thanks.  Enough of that let’s talk simple immortality.  Immortality and what the hell does that have to do with the Limberlost, right?

Well, let me explain.  I believe in God, but we had a falling out some time ago.  The mortal sees in God only a pacifier because they cannot withstand change. Mortals grip God in a subconscious dive into the contemplation of death.  Those who feel the presence of God and all representatives of God long for death.  Trust me on this; I see it all the time.

That belief is not for me.  Though I understand God exists I’ve chosen to ignore Him and live forever.  I can you know and I will, within the tangle of the Limberlost and the sure knowledge that I’ll have the blessings of all those who believe God as only a transcendental force just like them.  Like the gone Limberlost, like Eden if you will.

You know it wasn’t my intention to destroy that place, I just thought it would be better without the human factor.  Still do, and I’m gaining.

Simple.

By the way, be careful who you stop and talk with, strangers aren’t always a good idea.

Missing Shakespeare

He loved her and deep down he still loved her.

“Let slip the dogs of war.”

He heard it first in a Star Trek movie years ago – he couldn’t remember which one.  He stirred his coffee and decided he couldn’t remember which Shakespeare play the quote was from either.  He just knew that whenever he thought of that quote now, he thought of his ex-wife.

He loved her and deep down he still loved her.

He didn’t take that fact out and play with it very often.  When that wriggling little black mass of goo started forward he took the dog out and tossed the ball until they were both exhausted.  He worried because old Fido (his actual name by the way) didn’t want to run and play fetch as often or as long as they used to.  That was a problem because lately that mentioned black, mass of destruction was surfacing more often.

He knew why, his second marriage was failing.  He married her on a whim.  She was there, he was there, a need was met and he thought he might as well continue meeting that need.  It was fine for the first six or seven months until she decided she was in love.

He dress appropriately, was even happy on the day but now…

Now his coffee was stale and over cooked and the nice neat-as-a-pin house he lived in seemed to be layered in a very thin coating of dust.

She wasn’t lazy, she worked.  She couldn’t cook and that was fine, it was just the two of them and he enjoyed cooking.  She enjoyed reading and at first that was fine.  They enjoyed walking down town to the used bookstore, he would walk away with an edition of Scott he couldn’t believe he had the good luck to find and she would walk away with a bag of paperbacks.

At first it was fun.  She tried everything on him – everything.  He even flipped through the books but when he came across some of the descriptive parts of the male anatomy he thought he’d leave it up to her.

They had been married about a year when he found himself wide-awake beside her.  She was softly sleeping and he was puzzled.  What scene had they just played out, what plagiarism in bed did they just perpetrate?

That’s when the face of his first wife drifted in front of him and he sat bolt upright.  What if he slipped, what if he got so caught up in the current rush of love making but uttered in ecstasy his first wife’s name?

His first wife read Shakespeare.  Loved it.  She read and re read the plays.  She looked so lovely during the festivals they attended.  They were young, inexperienced and let slip away the teachings of commitment.

Where was she, what was she doing?  Did she garden?  Did she teach?  Did she read and study and whisper to her husband what she had learned that day, her new insights and word play?

He stirred his coffee and watched the dust motes on the windowpane.

 

Trip Her

Why not trip him? Because the world doesn’t persecute intelligent men. Intelligent men are simply persecuted in a family setting, not on a societal scale.

I have learned, from dubious experience, (dubious being a universal description or rather an attitude toward the experience of..well, experience) that to avoid extreme mental fatigue and emotional pain avoid intelligence.  There is not much hope for you if you are intelligent already.  I’m afraid you must simply live your life out and take the mistake up with God when you meet Him.  But if someone you know is near the brink, the precipice, the mountain top of intelligence, trip her.

Why not trip him?  Because the world doesn’t persecute intelligent men.  Intelligent men are simply persecuted in a family setting, not on a societal scale.

Shut up.

Once a woman is tripped and looking confused and perhaps a little bloodied try and reason with her.  Maybe she is not physically attractive in the modern sense.  Perhaps she is older and has decided to be a “late bloomer.”  Stop her.

Explain to her that intelligence will only bring her grief.  You need not explain to her how if she has not actually accrued intelligence or if she is at the cusp of understanding, there is time to push her back into the womb of self-absorption.  Tell her to take a long hard look at her constituents in the pursuit of marriage, relationship and exquisite mind melding sex.  Don’t tell her those goals will never happen just tell her the pursuit of romantic love will be less harrowing than the pursuit of intelligence.

Are these lies?

Shut up.

Tell the woman you are trying to save, that she must trust someone and to trust you.  Intelligence is a never-ending pursuit and it will only, in the end, frustrate and demoralize.  Whereas on the other hand, the pursuit of relationship will frustrate and demoralize but she will have a better body (due to her pursuit of just the right partner) and she will have the indulgence of self-deception when explaining to a bleary-eyed intelligent woman how happy and content she herself is in her safe and happy relationship.  Will it be a lie?

Yes, but the bottom line is not to have love or even have intelligence but to outdo the other woman.  That’s what women want.  Not to be happy, content or intelligent but to be better than the next woman.

Think about it.  A group of women around some table in a restaurant, complaining about the job, the husband the kids and trying to outdo each other.  Then in walks a 20 something knock-out that they wouldn’t notice if the men in the room didn’t stop and gaze with wonder and awe.  Nothing, and I mean nothing unites women faster than an outsider beauty.  The only one who would throw this unity out the window is the intelligent woman.  The woman who would calmly state that the beauty can’t help she’s beautiful, that each one of them had their opportunity, and that they are all in different stages in their lives – give the girl a break.

See?  Intelligent.

And lonely.

 

He Waits For Me There

I walk the stone steps alone. The pillars attend me,

the stars my veil,

I walk the stone steps alone.  The pillars attend me,

the stars my veil,

the blackened night sky domes the ancient stone cathedral.

He waits for me there, I feel his presence upon the dais of the altar.

The dress I made myself, feels as if it will lift from my body.

He said, make the dress white with gold cuffs and hem a jewel of red at the neck.

I stand upon the old cathedral patio,

stones tumbled down ages ago

but no matter,

the opening is vast and the stone pews though all askew still leaves a path.

I feel him before me.

The debris of leaves and growing weeds between the flagstones,

the moon shines my direction pointing to the alter

a single candle there and the presence of another.

I pause and spread my hands against my midriff

feeling myself breathe; ragged, frightened, unready.

I step across the threshold and hear the murmur of a crowd long dead

a hushed whisper of those who see me and wonder at the centuries it takes to fulfill a promise.

A step further in and the stars seem to lower and the darkness heightens outside upon freedom.

The silver light fills the windows with the night’s own silver and opaque mullioned windows.

The ruin illuminates the long ago history and my escape and recapture.

One step up to the alter,

I lift the hem of my dress, heavy now in my weakened hands

I place my foot on the altar step,

his hand, his hand alone, from the darkness, appears.

My throat constricts.

to take the hand from the darkness just emerged; fills me with dread.

The audience long dead and long waiting pauses in a useless breath,

they wait for me to reach my hand to him.

My skin upon his gray pallor.

His dark visage emerges from the gloom,

a smile triumphant and the light from the one candle fills the cathedral room.

And I am there his triumph, my life.

And gone from the world of freedom.

– See more at: https://scriggler.com/DetailPost/Poetry/53367#sthash.eUwWWvqB.dpuf

Black and Thin

Swift it flows, black and thin

Sharp the glint.

The moon hangs low and brilliant,

illuminating

silhouettes — brightening the night.

I’ll see her shadow dance

I’ll narrow in upon

the heart he loves.

She dances in love, she raises her arms

to the Above.

I’ll pierce her shadow

and so pierce him.

I’ll salt-tear my face, bite my lip, taste

the blood at the anguish of this night

So pierced, my friends.

Deep in my throat, I taste the iron of hate.

Deep in my heart I know the waste.

And yet swift it flows, black and thin

This river within, this torrent of hate

for both of them.

And when the deed is done, the small kingdom

Of two taken to one

I’ll return to my white and silver throne

I’ll return to praises and music,

no one knows

the black and thin deeds I’ve done.