I woke up with the sun in my throat this dawn, the night insistent I take those set of dreams and key them before I forget them.
Did you know, a certain sect of the Dacians believed dreams get caught in the sacral nerves? Like roots and fibers inside the earth, they carry the past and the future.
The sun says in this tilty dream "You're always cold, cold cold. I will rest inside you one day. Not too long now. Not too long at all."
Moon slips in between the glass and the screen "Get up girl, get up, giddy up, hurry up now before you forget."
Me pulls the dream up out of my sacral depository, and, with Moon resting above the diamond in my ear, I make hazy coffee, tasting the skin pieces grafting themselves to my bones. They cling like determined caterpillars to a tree. I am a tree, a crazy, branched thing, eyeing Moon, tasting the dream squirming in my palm.
"Hurry up, giddy up.”
Night presses himself between the breathing slits of glass doors, his dark blue hands in pressure between my shoulder blades. Stars burn in his onyx temples, pour their molten implosion into my open mouth of wonder. A galaxy struggles in my larynx, a spiral rich with life begs at the entrance to my lungs.
Sun takes himself through my hip, as if I were hollow bird bones, flares in the sacred sacral beginning, opening my vertebrae like white petals. I am growing, growing a world inside each crucial fragment of each crucial chakra. A field of tulips whispers stem deep in calcified runes.
Moon pins my moth skin to Night, soothing the invasive element with nursery rhymes. Leather straps from Jupiter, ankle bells from the clavicle of Mars.
Once upon a Time I had known this burning, that primal chemistry that pulls two bodies into a singular orbit, spinning out of control, creating something. Night does this to me. It rips me out of skin with careless abandon and turns my body to fire. Penetrates the mind until every shred of control is stripped.
Maybe I’m telling you too much that doesn’t relate to tonight.
But it’s never easy to focus when Night decides to visit and brings along Sun and Moon.
On ground, on knees, I watched the Sun rip himself apart in the sky. Me, smiling, thinking, “I will never be cold again.”
The keyboard opens its body for the stains pouring from my fingertips.
Moon watches avidly, Night plays with my morning braid.
Sun sleeps on the thighs of the east.
I scribble for hours, half the letters worn off the keyboard. I don't even know what I’m writing until it’s done.
but I know . . . .
I will never be cold again . . . .
I will never be cold again . . . .
The Liberation Of Lavinia~
“You do not have my permission to write me like this.”
where did the thought enter
was it with the bluebird
that tore itself from the branch
as Chiron tore her body from itself
or was it the babbling brook, thick with Bassianus’ blood
that gave her courage to start shifting
letters, under horrid Shakespeare’s quill
and spill black story tar down the throat
of Aaron and Demetrius
choking them on their own lust
before they could eat her tragedy out of her mouth
and take the signs of agony from her speaking hands
or maybe it was simply, that our Lavinia
had had her fill of men shaping girls
to their perverse calligraphy
which, societal disorders
somewhere in a distorted future
“What is classic about women being raped, and men being
murdered in the most brutal fashion imaginable?”
and here, Shakespeare rubbed his eyes
because the letters were crawling all around the paper
making a woman face with huge eyes and quirky lips
the midnight allure wrapped in the dark chignon of her hair
as she pulled herself to the waist from the parchment
“You do not have permission to write me like this.”
Lavinia stated as the finest statesman would
elegance in her dialect
it flowed from between her Arabian ink lips
in a coil through the shaken spear of the man
tearing his murderous story, as she had been torn by Chiron
out of the bowl his hips
and the chalice of his skull
“Ugly world, you will not eat me alive. Future children,
I’ll spare you another painfully droll tale force fed to you in
Lavinia built herself a boat from the bones of the rapists
and pulled a blue sky from Sheakspear’s eyes
as he slept in a stain of wine
on another broken story
bled to showcase the brutality of
humanity ad nauseum
But not for our alternate
who gave up her sight
to see the beauty beyond the ugliness of
who rows her boat to my balcony
and I ask
“Latte?” as I open the window to never were’s
and her graceful hand, whole and attached
“You save so many of us.” She smiles
and my body
always in a lean half through
opens on another unfairy tale
by a woman’s hands . . . .
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
For me it began with horrid Perrault's, horrid Donkey Skin, when, as a young girl devouring tales, I began to rewrite the fates of these young victims in these male driven tales, in my mind.
I created an Underland of Tales where these victims of ink and calligraphy rebelled against their fate. That is what Unfairy Tales from UnderLand is all about to a point, I suppose.
And if you don't think for one moment that declared classics do not influence genderized behaviour, you are living in la la land.
I could never abide witnessing the pain and agony and devastation of an innocent being. Even if she, or he is made up of ink and words, they are real and alive to me, and my saviour complex kicks in.
If you want to subject yourself to the bloody and extraordinarily
violent tale of Titus Andronicus, there, now you have the title. Warning though, revenge plays are always disturbing and run on high octane shock value.
The human struggle for equal quality of life will never end. The higher brain functions in us bipeds demands a continuous development of conceptual, and applied justice, and though justice may have, up until now, been just thinly applied concept across the globe people will continue to sacrifice individual lives for the body whole of the future humanity.
And do you think for one moment that cushy lazy cheetoh or caviar poppin’ m*****f******* reared on entitlement kickin’ back in recliners or high flyin’ in BMW's that go vroom!, who've never felt a pang of hunger, or a bullet through the thigh or the mind, do you think they will survive the most important revolution waiting for us all not too fardown the road ? Not likely.
But, I understand how there's a method to the seeming madness of this devolutionary, evolutionary strain.
One of the reasons I’m grateful for having been brought up predominantly in a communist country for the first nine years of this particular life strand, is that it gives me perspective and allows me to critically dissect information fed to me on other cultures by this specific culture I find myself inhabiting.
My memories skim over the stream. . . .
A young me in a military dress saluting the effigy of Lenin and singing along with well organized lines of children on May Day.
Russian soldiers at dinner in father’s house, laughing and cavorting like all men do when the uniforms are left behind in the barracks.
I adored the Russian soldiers, their meticulous and crisp dress, those long winter coats that flared out at the waist. They were like my father, and so it was easy to reconcile their extraordinary grace with their extraordinary violence.
Just another day, another year in Papa, for me.
Their was a central cemetery specifically for the Russian soldiers at the entrance of the town's cemetery.
Weeping willows embraced the graves, the walls.
I was at one of the funerals for a specific commander who was my father’s friend. Not too deep into it, we watched outside the walls, me on Horse with father next to me on his Arabian stallion.
“Why aren’t we going in?” I remember asking.
“Because they mourn death. We celebrate it as a new beginning.”
That night we raised a glass of sweet cognac in celebration of his next incarnation.
I’ve been in the world of Muslim, and the world of Taoist and Buddhist, Communism and Fascism, and Democracy, and so on and so forth, and what I can tell you is that within each body of belief you will have the infinitesimal fringe that will take the core belief and pervert it to their own means.
You can never judge an entire culture, or religion, or system of government by the few who pervert it.
I am so lucky, such a lucky girl still draped in a Russian soldier's coat reciting an ode to Lenin in front of a blazing fire place, while the men applaud, and the snow falls and falls through the winter nights.
There's the sleeping poem, and that's the majority of them you know.
And then once in a while there's the poem that comes alive and strips your fingertips from its shoulders, and, before you know it, you're slipping down the throat of metaphors, ingested through the skin of paint brush letters, becoming a part of the script, bleeding cheek to cheek with particulates and action verbs that disrobe you of your own contrived collage. That is when you understand that you're a channel, baby and maybe just a little bit of a moral hustler, an ethical simile similar to the wounded wolf who seeks revenge not through the jaws but through the lobes of conscience.
“How do you write your poems?”
I would laugh like a knife and walk out, but how could they know? If they did, they wouldn’t ask their questions. Patience is a virtue I am learning.
Explaining to them that the poems write me instead of the other way around is an exercise in futility, unless they’re tilty with one foot in underland and the other in the cosmic pool, like me.
Rat, ta, tat, tat, this morning ripped itself through my white peel.
The windows seem to buckle, and the floor crawled up to my hips.
Unbranching from over there is a bitch somedays, when your leaves are green and succulent, and a thousand jovial critters have made your body their haven, why would you want to come back to the grey splatters human days?
“What motivates you?”
What motivates me to breathe? Biological involuntary reflex. What motivates me to write? Cerebral involuntary reflex.
Ask the people who abide me daily, what I turn into when the words take hold. Most will roll their eyes and tell you to stay far away.
Back in Magyarorszag, mother's side of the family crossed themselves and vacated the courtyard whenever I took the quill and stroked the ink like wine . . . .the other family, the Rumany, the Deme clan, leaned in like stone faces with bright stone eyes . . . .avid and waiting . . . .
My eyes are green, camouflage, I smile, chameleon girl, with Arabian and Asian Ink pouring through Braille fingers . . . . staining another drab day alive . . . .
Alex Gombas was one of my students at United Children’s Preschool in New Brunswick, where I taught for many years, he was also my daughter’s friend. Energetic and smart, his future was already sealed by a class based society that dictates how opportunities are meted out, 99% of the time based on the size of the silver spoon a child is born gripping.
I remember Alex at my daughter’s 5th Birthday. He and another little boy, Josue, had been innocently crushing on my Fiona for years, and they were engaged in the whole male territorial games from the time they walked into the house, defined by their own age level of claiming the most comfortable and biggest recliner.
Still makes me smile.
Alex and his sister stayed after the party with their mom.
I remember him relaxing on the couch, and telling his mom, he never
wanted to leave our home.
Forward wind 9 years.
I was doing a Facebook search of old classmates of Fiona’s from the preschool. I put in Alex Gombas into search, and only a single page came up.
RIP Alex Gombas.
Alex, who had no silver spoon, just an amazing brain, and a sweet, playful nature had gotten caught up, as most young men in New Brunswick do, with gang activity.
He was stabbed to death at the age of fourteen by other gang members over territory.
I think my daughter cried for days.
Whenever we go back to New Brunswick, we drive past the street where Alex was murdered. She wonders sometimes how her life would have been if we hadn’t moved when she was 8.
My daughters were not born with silver spoons.
My eldest was caught by the gutter at a young age, and extricating her
was a nightmare that taught me many things about society and class systems beneath the surface of a nation that prides itself on democracy, which is laughable. The juvenile justice system is a joke, at the core of which rests not the welfare of children but profit for the system.
I got them the hell out of New Brunswick, before Fiona could be
caught in the web of drugs, and gangs, and violence. I busted my ass working, going to school, to better my chances to better their chances.
Did you know you live in a segregated society based on monetary
The story of Alex is just one in millions.
The difference is, we knew him.
I think back sometimes to that moment, where he was so calm, watching television with Fiona and his young sister, saying “I want to live here.”
In my mind I change his future constantly.
He did not die, he lives with us, forever.
Life is precious. The world of mankind is hard.
But we can save our sons and our daughters if we ruled the world . . . .
~RIP Alex Gombas~
There is a subtle undertone to the shine in the world today. It’s kind of a haze, which could stun a girl and leave her hovering just on the outskirts of another story squirming in a stubborn palm.
It’s been suggested many times I start a blog, though who would be drawn to my kaleidoscopic ramblings is beyond me.
The world doesn’t work for me as it seems to work for so many. It’s a rose that’s been peeled to its molecular splendor, and the blossoms are playing coy with the thorns, where the thorns are the victims.
Does that make sense? Probably only to me, but if it does then you’re in the right place, where unfairy tales from underland are born and I’m a sort of tinctured phlebotomist reversing the draw and injecting ink through the
membrane that barely divides the concrete from the light rasp of wings against the shadow doorframe.
I could go on about current events, but they’re depressingly frayed and overdone as it is.
The media is relentless. Those little boys burning with their father, broken people in the streets of Syria, political chicanery dropping tongue in cheek cherry bombs into possible futures under the ministrations of men poorly equipped to run a nation, except deeper into the ground.
No, not today. Today I’ll zone to Tony Soprano in the background while the mattress complains about being squeezed into its flannel sheet and the old
hen paces back and forth and back and forth outside the kitchen window, waiting for Fi’s watermelon rinds.
Maybe I’ll join together a string from there to a thread from here, and piss off or intrigue the Thing for the thousandth time. It’s a moody little thing. But that’s what makes it interesting.
Feel free to add your clarity or madness or whatever you're made of to the blog, that's why it's a blog afterall, no? So we can interact and tesseract much to the amusement of The Thing, I assure you. And maybe if we keep it distracted long enough, the world might pop a bone or two back into place and right itself just a little bit.