Saint Valentine
Turmeric, mint, chili, garlic, oregano, parsley
Valentine’s Day,
and a funeral for a crow
Dark clouds threatened but turned peacefully
to leave a blanket of quiet snow
If only you dear children had also been reading Gore Vidal at age 15
in-between breaks of brewing coffee,
then you might not be so surprised at the turn of events in our world today.
If only you had in your golden youth the propensity to sniff danger in the air,
rather than awkwardly sticking your faces in plastic cups of booze,
and the nether regions of the opposite sex.
If only my cynicism hadn’t grown so strongly.
But, I dare say, no warning of mine could have rattled the Earth.
Our fate was inevitable, either choice of hobby.
Perhaps I would have been better off drinking.
Except:
If I had not already succumbed to the wave of cynicism
after watching optimism, my birth right, die,
I would never have had to fight my way out of it,
nor happen upon the wisdom that is neutrality.
Three days ago was a time for decay
the furnace of my lungs releasing their toxic load;
my senses, dulled by wine, wept to see their fate
Two days ago was a time for resolution
an addictive sleep following a promise laid;
rest to seep, faith permeate
One day ago was a time for awakening…
What is it when I find the mere thought of words so comforting
The thoughts themselves turning inside out -
collapsing into observations on language
Is it a distraction?
Is it a measure of control?
Is it an overthought?
Or is it merely a joy in art -
the art of language,
which we take for granted each time we fail to use an adverb,
or apply the wrong punctuation
- the mother of all arts
They focus on her assets
land, territory, gold, libraries,
and the question of her beauty
Though they will never find an answer
They are asking the wrong questions
Wondering where she is, now
and searching every crypt and sandy crevice
When she is in fact now thousands of miles away
breathing over a table of contents
and brought to tears by the weight of her past
I prefer my coffee in late afternoon
And wine and hookah, well, anytime
But these words come when they come
and I release them in an exhale
barely able to catch my breath
as the heart pumps my blood at a ferocity
otherwise unknown
“Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning says.
Each night I awaken from the mist of meaning, and profound words formulate,
and I repeat them,
but fail to write;
and so,
When I awaken each morn,
I resume daily consciousness essentially where I left off before falling asleep,
only to realize as rain pours onto my body in the shower,
that I hit upon something momentous
but now forget the words,
retaining only,
that feeling.
Inbetween Dr. Rhine and W.M. McNeill
Dr. Rhine - imp. regarded by Jung xv-xvi
If I am a figment of my imagination,
and you, of yours,
then…
Because For if you are afraid to ask, no doubt, you are actually afraid to hear the answer you already suspect to be true.
“ideals an accentuation of their griefs” p2 last ¶
Perhaps these scars are just a more visceral reminder of the pain I so long to remember,
and avenge.
Behold, for we are one
Behold, as we heal
Behold, as we heal others
charcuterie
I don’t like to taste the sauce first
and rarely sniff the aromas
