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Posts Tagged ‘night’

Vampires and other strange visitors – part two

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It was Aiden.

I pushed through the door, blocking his would be view of my guest, and closed the door. Aiden, unlike vampires had no universal law that necessitated him not coming in uninvited. Don’t get me wrong. Aiden’s a great guy, probably my closest friend, but he had a knack of injecting himself into situations. And this situation with my new vampire friend I want to myself.

“What’s up man?” I asked.

“It’s been a weird night, dude.”

“Yeah? How so?”

Before he responded he took a step back and looked down the stairs leading to my apartment. He’s always been a little paranoid in my opinion, but he seemed a little more paranoid than usual. He took his Android phone from his jacket pocket and keyed in his passcode to unlock it. “I got it recorded this time, man. Look what the bitch did.”

I watched the video on his phone. I saw what appeared to be his house, though I wouldn’t be able to swear in a court of law that’s what I was seeing. The picture was dark, and it jerked from side to side every few seconds. “What am I looking for?”

“Just wait man. You’ll see.”

I waited. I didn’t see.

“See that? That’s her!”

I still didn’t see.

“Wait, lemme rewind it,” he said. His phone chirped. I guess chirped is the right word. He changed his ringtone to a cricket sound. “Shit. That’s her.” He answered the call.

I was starting to feel more than a little impatient. Just twelve feet away, my guest with the sheer white top offering a view (and maybe soon a feel) of those pert breasts, size B, I estimated, not that I’m an expert on women’s breasts but I’ve seen hundreds, felt at least a dozen.

His side of the phone conversation: “Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh. Really? Okay. Okay. Bye.”

He ended the call. “She denies it was her.”

“Did you confront her?” I hadn’t heard any accusations or questions.

“Well, no, not exactly, but she’s just all la-di-da, like everything’s normal. She’s playin’ me, dude. And it’s clear on the video. Here, lemme show you again.” He restarted the video on his phone.

Same dark, blurry house, same camera shake, same absence of incriminating evidence. But I had a dilemma. I could agree that I saw something or tell him the truth. I thought I could get rid of him quicker if I agreed. So I did. “Damn. What a bitch! And she denied it? Crazy!”

“Fuckin’ a, it’s crazy.”

I’d done my good deed, validated my friend. Now back to my vampire on the couch. “Listen man, I gotta get back in there. Got a lady friend waiting.”

Aiden craned his neck to see inside. I blocked.

“Where’d you meet her?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

I sighed. Aiden was relentless. I knew he wouldn’t leave peaceably until I’d satisfied his curiosity. And besides, I was hoping I could score a little weed. “I met her ten minutes ago when she knocked on my door. I’ve never seen her before tonight.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. But you know what they say about gift horses. And this girl’s no horse. She’s drop dead gorgeous.” I’d hoped my choice of metaphors wouldn’t come back to haunt me. “Hey, you got a little weed? I can pay you Monday after I get paid.”

“Sure man.” Aiden reached into his jacket pocket, the same one where his cellphone now rested, and pulled out a small ziplock bag. “I’ll split it with you.”

We are poets.

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We see the whole of existence in a spring bloom. We touch where we are touched. We bleed, we cry, we laugh, we dance; we die a little inside with each new sunrise.

The words we weave extend from pain, from pleasure, from wonder, from confusion, from fright, from terror, from the endless crawling night. We peer at madness, laugh at brave sorrows, clung, released, discovered, saved. To the red flags we raise ours, white. Surrendering to the art that demands release, replacing uncried tears, supplanting the bold auburns of autumn’s shedding starkness.

We are art. We are song. We are verse, rhyme, reason, insanity, chaos — we are the burning mystic glow.

We are poets.

We chose not this path; it chose us. We merely yield to the unending song of the tenacious and tenuous muse. We walk not; we bow. Pen in hand. Subservient. Scribes of the beauty whose song must be sung, messengers languishing in the heat of July’s tempest.

We are poets.

We rise from the difference, take shelter in pain — standing alone in the void that remains.

We are poets.

On a dark night, she whispered, and drew down the shades. She spoke the soliloquy that called out her name. As darkness flooded. Sights vanished. No longer could she see her floral quilt, a gift from Aunt Millie. No longer could she see the oak brown carpet covering bare floor. No longer could she see even the window, the night beyond, her yellow bike in its stand under the pine deck, her means of escape. Nor could she see the stars, beyond conception but not imagination. Alone in her silence. Alone with new words. Resisting, resisting, begging sleep. Her words she knew not how to write. As sleep evaded. As fear persisted. As darkness overtook.

But the words needed writing. And so we wrote of her. Of her room. Of her sadness. Of her inability to catch the sleep she tenaciously sought. We wrote of her.

We are poets.

Observing, conceding, yielding. We are poets.

Only love is real; only hope sustains. But words, words, sweet blessed words. Words resonate. Words fill. Words tell. Words renew. Words. Sweet, blessed, words.

We cherish moments connecting with friends, with strangers, with lovers, found, lost, found. But more we cherish the moments alone. We cherish that which we need the most. To write. To pen the words that demand release. To tell of the fog-flooded courthouse where the judge prepares to announce his sentence. Life in prison. No parole. He murdered. He feasted on souls. A great crime. But not the greatest crime. Not to us. The greater crime is to leave words unsaid, to leave art unwritten, to deny the screaming whisper of the haunting muse.

We are poets.

We learn. We connect. We separate. We connect. We learn. From each moment, each interaction, each sensation, each feel, each touch, imagined or real. We learn. And we write.

We are poets.

We are poets.

A spent Patron bottle

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A spent Patron bottle.

He woke to the chill of four A.M. He’d slept in his car, convertible top down. After five minutes, the windshield cleared of its dew. He drove home.

Seven inches tall, five inches wide. Height exceeds breadth.

The oriental fan is colorful and ornate. He sees the red dragon as orange. All of his visions are orange. His hopes and dreams, melding, intermingling, crying out, for orange. A memory flashes. A rainbow over a field of soybeans. A rainbow caused by the irrigation apparatus. A “farmbow.” Too many colors on a bright day.

A bag of mustard seeds. A fount of limitless faith.

Many afternoons. He remembers. Walks on the beach. Looking for heart-shaped stones. Searching for scraps of sea glass. Searching for answers. Seeking rainbows. Red orange yellow blue indigo violet. Seeking solace. And then, he woke. Act three, scene one.

Laid flat, the bag is 20% full of seeds. Held upright, 10% full. Breadth exceeds height when standing.

The first night, she’d left an earring behind. The second night, two earrings. She never returned to claim them. She’s moving to Colorado.

Words on the page are obscured behind the rough, spent Patron bottle.Through the smooth shard of sea glass as well. But least through the ridge. In the corner is clarity. In glass and in life. The ridge is twice as wide as the surrounding glass, where it rises to its peak. The bottle has a slight greenish tint. Green is red’s complement. Time has cleared its contents. No longer is the scent discernible.

A week later, he drove his car into a ditch. 2:30 A.M. By three A.M. he’d extricated the car and arrived home. At six A.M. he woke to go to the gym. Changing life. Height exceeds breadth. All colors lead to black. All thoughts fade to orange.

“Does every question need an answer?” This was the question he pondered. This was the answer he sought. He chuckled at the irony.

Echoes of Reggae

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Air and water
Heaven and hell
Sweet Reggae beats
Calming the swell

Stripping the bottles
To the essence of truth
Naked and free
As the rhythms renew

Spin to the right
Again to the left
Steel drum refrains
Ring deep in our heads

A night filled in sweetness
Echoes on through the day
Let’s do it again
We’ll dance, live, and play

Foreplay

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Across the crowded room
I shot you a glance
You shot back
I allowed a grin
For just an instant

I could feel you
As  the memories flooded back
And I knew
You were sharing my thoughts

That night
All night
Over and over
Fire

To remember
To simply remember
My blood began to boil
I shot you another glance
And you grinned

I closed my eyes
Felt the strong beat
And the stronger waves
Of your wanting
Reaching
Reminiscing
Touching

So many sensations
From my mind’s heart
Locked in your gaze
Imprisoned in your flaming heat
Force myself to breathe

The chemistry
That first afternoon
Eyes, hearts, fingers, lips
Finding you, finding me
Overwhelmed
From that first perfect touch
Enmeshed
Tangled
Filled
Again
And again
Lost
Found
Melting
Melting

I open my eyes
And as before
You are here
Locked in you
I surrender

Shall we?