Jan 29, 2012

No one pays enough attention

He's a grown man with an imaginary slice of cheese
held between his thumb and forefinger,
pinky held high in the air.

"The French savor the flavor of their food," he explains
to a student absently chewing,
laughing behind a book at Odysseus,
ears filled with beeswax,
sailing past the sirens tempting his crew to crash.

As imagination touches his outstretched tongue,
his grip on the table slips and his spine is soon against the floor.

No one ever pays enough attention.
That is why these things happen.

Outside, the alcohol the cotton ball is soaked in
hardly touches the woman's own hands,
no doubt thanks to the delicate nature
with which she dabs it against the child's wounds,
her tiniest finger held as far from it as possible.

This siren's song sure sounds a lot like an ambulance

Jan 20, 2012

Sleeping lots this week since I've been feeling under the weather. :(

Jan 18, 2012

Morning and Recovery

Finding myself here embracing
   the rim of the bathroom sink:

Eyes fixed on the bowl — on anything other
than the  lashes  covered
in charcoal black mascara
blinking back,  above tongue licking dry lips.

"What a pretty little thing,"
  mouthed smirking lips
  spoke condescending grins

"Just a lovely darling,"
  leered strange faces
  in stranger places I was not supposed to be

& yet to trace the path of tapwater now
would only be to  tease  out  that vague,
  sinking feeling
that the world is passing me by today.

   i could start to be okay
if i should turn the faucet off
exactly the way a victim wouldn't

Jan 11, 2012

In the Kitchen Aisle

One stainless steel kitchen knife
and it goes -- sharp side down --
into the crate with the rest of the apartment's dirty silverware.
"Silver," the box  -- now broken down --
in the closet read, but she thought it more of a "grey."

"It's all the same," he had shrugged,
with dry lips pursing to one side
and blue eyes -- rolling down --
turning his head away.

"but it's not," came the protest, in
a volume -- falling down --
that did not turn the head back,
nor the sharp side of the knife up,
nor the shade of the utensils that would lie
              by a smashed bowl against a wall
              to a color more like what the box
              had promised her in that day in July,
"it's not."

Jan 2, 2012

The Glass

It's never too far away, is it?

It's always there, it's always lurking, always looming.

It's the bell jar Sylvia Plath described, the one always threatening to drop and trap me underneath it. I have to actively avoid it.
It's the little animation next to the people in the depression medication commercials they have on TV -- it will always be there no matter what I do.
The only option is to get better at avoiding it. I'm still susceptible and I am aware of that, but being aware of that is a step further than I was before.

Jan 1, 2012

Happy New Year

Here's hoping the Mayans are wrong.