happy halloween!

teeny tale: beauty mark

it was one of those autumn days found in dreams but often never had: the aroma of brown sugar swirling with adrift leaves, torsos jacketless, legs shielded lightly by pantyhose; it’s too warm for tights. she welcomed the day with an overly confident smile, hair bouncing, skirt floating, a twirl came on, & as her downward gaze began to travel up, a gasp. the opaque fabric clinging to her thighs revealed a speck. with a flick of her middle finger she aimed, determined to defeat. but the “speck” was not a speck at all, not fuzz, nor a smidge of dirt, rather a beauty mark—not a freckle; freckles are for faces. & she thought how silly she was for wanting to flick away her beauty. & as that thought began to dissipate with a shake of her head, something landed lightly upon her bare arm. instead of giving a sudden jerk—as she most certainly would have done at any other given time—she warded off the protective urge & slowly cranked her head right, then down. there atop her dewy skin, a ladybug sat. beginning to crawl she knew she ought to wish for something soon…but instead of waiting for the moment to pass, she enjoyed the seconds she had in it. besides, she already felt lucky knowing that not only could her beauty not be flicked off, it also could not grow wings and fly away.

Chickadee

On this first crisp morn.

Her breathe sits, udisguised without warmth.

Her destination plotted with each crunch.
Left. Right.

The open air droops, heavy, lacking song.

Chicka dee dee dee dee dee.

          Chicka dee dee dee dee.

Her songbird had taken flight, black-capped, into the fallen night.

And so she waits.

For the return of a steeper angle.

For her breathe to be taken by brilliance.

For his song to fill the emptiness hang       

                               ing     air.

                                 in the  

Passing Love Notes

I once dared to touch her frosted locks,

Cascading around the rocks that were her shoulders.

A flow of copious curls.

Not knowing the work I’d undo,

All with a single stroke.

The untouchables remained so.

Tight.

Together.

She had set them just right.

The way she set my clothes out each night.

Clean.

Crisp.

Plain, but brand new.

Lunchbox notes read “I love you,”

And the second-hand jeans around her hips

The years worn on her shoes--

"Notes" undetected by a child’s eye.

A room full of plastic perfection.

Dolls with skirts hemmed with lace,

And long, threads of golden curls unbrushed.

Her reality allowed for the make-believe life I knew.

teeny tale: invisible

wishing she were invisible so her thoughts would be, too. because everything she thought she wore on her face, & she was tired of having to explain herself for the things she never said.

close your eyes. make a wish. and...

And you.

There’s something about the corner of a wrap-around porch that makes you feel like you're sitting at the edge of the world.
And the way the willows shake their leafy hips in the breeze that makes you feel like dancing.
And the smell of a wood fire that warms you, even though its flame is out of sight.
And how a hand resting upon your lap rests upon your heart.

this is what my drive home produced...

The springs of her bed creaked and groaned with every tired tousle, any reasonable readjustment, driving her to submit to the land mines beneath: she made each night's slumber as motionless as possible. This still, however, did not take care of the untamed springs that would poke and prod her like an unanswered toddler--poke, poke. Neither the metal coils nor a being so small possessed the ability to understand such an annoyance. Even so, the thought of removing herself from the hot-pocket cocoon her mere six and half hours of undesirable, rigamortis-like hibernation had created was a difficult one. But it was peculiarly defined moments such as this--along with the seasons when pointy-toed heels outshined round-toed pumps--that allowed her to be, for once, thankful for the authoritative gradient her toes took, allowing her to attack the uncovered air...One. Digit. At. A. Time.

teeny tale: all dressed up

she likes it when her nails are painted a vibrant shade of crimson because it makes her feel all dressed up, even when that which falls between her digits isn't.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness...

What's on your bookshelf? Maybe you're a literary snob: your shelves boast with the likes of Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, Steinbeck, and White. Maybe the majority of your introduction to great American literature was had and left in the chalky dust of your AP English class over a decade ago. Either way, the works that find their way to call a place "home" upon your shelves have made it there for one reason or another. It's a classic. My girlfriend said I HAD to read this. I had to buy them for my college courses. 


The bound pages one displays only allow yet another set of "covers" for others (i.e., those who have themselves thought consciously about their own visible collection) to judge you by. And it's just another conversation starter for those interested, while some would rather chose to comment on your collection of records--or lack there of--or the tabletop of trophy bourbon.

I'm by no means a literary snob, nor have I left my passion for literature on the high-pressure laminate work surface of years gone by. My collection is a combination of books I've read and acquired through my own means, books snatched up waiting patiently in queue, books borrowed, and those adopted from my partner's own collection. One from the latter that I've seen floating around, that I've even rearranged neatly within our Ikea cubed bookshelf, is the above: Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg. This ongoing contact lead me to choose "Howl," the movie, as my most recent movie drama.

Ginsberg's work was published by City Light Books in San Francisco in 1956. It's uninhibited use of obscenities brought it, along with the publishing house, much attention. To some, Ginsberg's choice of words were found offensive. For this, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the publishing house owner, was charged for distributing obscene material. The 50s were a time of cultural revolution; those who chose to write about it became known as the "Beat Generation." But as once said by Ginsberg himself, and once again in the movie through the lips of James Franco,"there is no Beat Generation, just a bunch of guys trying to get published."

The trial drew national attention and marked a pivotal point in literature: breaking down the boundaries of what could and could not be published in the United States. It allowed for an entire generation to come out in expressive word, even in sexual orientation. It broke ground in the use of acceptable language. It openly announced that the world is not an aesthetically pleasing place to us all; therefore, describing it just as one sees it, be it beautiful or damned, was deemed acceptable. Together this Beat Generation flipped the bird to euphemisms, and banned together toward a world of written word that allowed them to tell it like they saw it. Write it how they felt it. Put words to the sighs that left their mouths. The tears that dampened their cheeks. The howls that boomed from their bellies.

I've already picked up the book I had organizationally tangoed with. The run-ons, the incantations, repetition, even the obscenities sit with me well. And it's because of its existence and what it brought thereafter that is due thanks for such an open invitation.

Seek the movie out. Watch it. And fall in love with the power of words and the writers who masterfully organize them to say that which the rest cannot.