Friday, July 27, 2012

Having Synesthesia: A Definition That Satisfies My Own Happiness


Having synesthesia:

A person with this very strange definition that is also extremely quaint, but, not so quaint. It follows automatically that someone with this quality is also quite odd, but, not so odd. Someone with synesthesia might allow their dreams to coincide with peculiar verbiage. While listening to a classical opera, they might, for instance, write about color. However, this may be seen as odd, when put into words on paper. However; please beware that this person with something so rare and exquisite is not cursed only by ambiguity, but also inexplicably and unaccountably blessed by it. For, rare is quaint, which are both lovely. Odd is not so lovely, and strange is not becoming. Yet still, to every opposite there is the counterpart, and, thus, having synesthesia, I must say, that I am- I am part of the dark forces, but also part of the light. For, it is not so difficult to disclose, that, the most quiet recesses of a person’s heart that flows upon a tremendous wave of water, a bout of the ocean moving by for a split second in time, that this emotion will inevitably, be, a part of that person’s physical network of ventricles, veins, arteries . . . and the blood will outpour all of its tremendous capacity into a bucket. The bucket will be filled up with countless unimaginable words, and imprinted upon the heart. I will take them all for my free disposal, and on my pen will be what I have lost, as it flows- reason will cease, and the wave of the oceanic, erupting heart will come freely forth, in an illustrious passion of blues and sounds and breezes, and whispers and shivers and glory, and fury, where there is no night to fall upon them, and there is no wind to take them to the insufferable world of reason. The widest scope of life, where we float, breathe, eat, see, paint, muse, and form words with our mouths, play music, all at once, is the person who is inflicted with this poetic curse; the blessing of synesthesia.

Dictionary definition: The poetic description of a sense impression in terms of another sense, such as 'a loud perfume.'

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The Coffee Shop


The Coffee Shop

In the coffee shop, we sit here and we dream,
watching those around us pull their change,
from out their pockets as we sit here,
yes, just sitting, watching them scrawl away with fervent brashness,
not caring of the creative musings that elicit so much,
we don't care for those that stare when we are so aroused,
by the speckled sights and sounds of a rushing life,
of many cultural colors and little beauties from the sun and the Earth-
that are inbred by some Heavenly force it would seem,
to those who sit here in furious passionate marvels,
of our own world, while those around us not within,
but out our world, rush to create the harmony that makes us live.

Ahhhh, the sounds of coffee.
The sounds of a trepid little music coming to wave,
his cheerful age of the last century in waltzing past,
times from an era that whisk by as would a classic film.
Before me a man in a comfy chair,
stoicly crosses his puzzle with a pencil,
hiding in his mind behind his large spectacles,
what inner lusts he does not name enthrall him in this minute.

Beside me is an empty space,
soon to be filled up by walking inhabitants,
of various shoes that reveal the spirit that the walker
wears as he or she and both genders, clip or trod,
past the double-doors in high-heels, beneath brushing skirts,
or wet sodden pieces of leather stuck upon the feet of the poor,
before he left his house from a menial day at work to relax here.

And the voices whirling around me stir,
the inner fire as I hide myself behind my keyboard,
shifting my earl-gray tea from side to side,
as I wonder in amazement at how I can be so lithe,
in my dexterous creation of this simple portrait,
that I fear may never end for it always changes,
as the tangible change flies around this room,
the soft voice intermingles with those loud, brazen bird calls,
for the cack-cakling cackles of the loud hen near me will,
soon transpire into nothing air waves,
before the quiet voice takes that space again.

Ohhh, dear coffee shop, I love your jiggling foot before me,
of the man who would never garner my interest,
lest he was here, enlivened by your portrayal.

You make it all seem so full of magic,
and I can never thank you,
for this land in which I am no longer torpid.

The lust surely never dies.

Please Forgive/Poetry/A Plea for Mercy

Please Forgive

Oh Father! Forgive me, for I tell
you a story which when unraveled,
may cause your bones to shake,
did you have a form of human,
but, let it stand.

I watch in rigid allurement,
the snaking tendrils of my golden frame,
of the mirror that faces me,
never bold enough to strike the glass,
with essence of my decorative exposure.

I am caught up in the vast sense,
of the crimes done through this body,
those which take the form of buried treasure,
that, somehow, snake through my mirror,
as the tendrils turn themselves upon me,
in dark, a mesmerizing, enchanting-


The shade my eyes hide beneath,
cannot take the time to reveal,
to me anything by this allurement,
for I'm caught up in the sense,
of  my own sins, these dark follies,
of rapidly writhing, fingers of my own self.

My own reflection,
has developed before my awful sight,
my eyes have now betrayed me,
forever as my hand gently passes,
over my mouth as it opens with wonder,
for I have fallen in my reflection,
to encompass the entire mirror,
as the frame has whisked softly away,
the gold and sins masked as gifts,
abundant, beautiful luxuries merit,
has flown,
to an unknown palace.

Leaving me here to only scream,
as my entire body twists away,
in mad rebellious horror,
my hand striking upon the glass,
black horror,
that has become me.

I am ridden with folly,
evil clenches my spirit . . .
will I ever wash away,
like a kindred spirit,
will my sins be forgiven?

Or must I walk,
forever along an endless path,
where all I can see,
is this grotesque reflection,
of decorous beauty,
that desperately tries to hide,
all that she carries within,
but is horribly, disgustingly, and truly-
a terrible sight.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Silent Bones/Poetry

Silent Bones

No one shall see,
Or hear of her anon.

From now,
Till we all,
Are called up,
To that great space,
Which we call Heaven,
The heap of bones,
Of heavily laden, tired bones,
Will sink,
Like a dead bee melts,
From a shriveled,
Nest of honey.

Until we see again,
These remnants,
Of so-called life,
Her sting, has become a,
Once vibrant, succulent taste,
Of explosive passion,
Which, like the one-time sting,
Dies, after the eruption.

Oh lady,
You’re honey has now melted,
With the snow.

As the season changes,
You lie beneath,
A cloud, of brown, and green,
But we still know,
Where your bones,
Rest hidden,
A heap,
A pile,
A once,
Bee of life,
You now lie,
Dead beneath,
The comb.

We will miss you,
But as the days pass,
Shall know that you were,
Once like a bee,
A honey.

And now we know,
That you rest,
As a pile of dead messes,
Of scattered messes,
Of ruinous treks.

Oh lady,
Please come alive and give us once again your-

Friday, July 20, 2012

Falling Away With Ire/Book Chapter, 2

Falling Away With Ire

                'I used to eat Smuckers a lot when I was younger. Now when I eat peanut butter and jelly it doesn't taste quite as good I don't think.'
                There wasn't much that she could do about that certain aspect. Life didn't smell like peanut butter should smell. Of course, perhaps that is simply due to the multi-scope, enterprising capitalizing and any other word- those food manufacturers. After all, nothing seemed to be natural. A package of some sort is shoved into your body, which apparently tastes really good, but would you really want to put it into your body? I doubt anyone would want to.

                Now, in spite of all that Dolly did not really care. Dolly was going swimming, and she couldn't be bothered with trifling items that she had no way to help. So what if her food tasted good? She tried to keep it natural but, it became a real nuisance to consider constantly. She had beautiful green eyes and was truly- a sparkling diamond. What did it bother her what other people did? She wanted to go to England and find a really hot man for herself. She wanted someone with longish hair who ran his own band of sorts- she did not have time for any of this nonsense.
                As Dolly lay on the bed with her eyes turned upward in a stargazing portrayal, with a very serene cross of her body in a dreamy, provocative manner, a usual opening sound of entering, chased away her pose. She sat up abruptly, as there was no point now, in keeping her relaxed state, since he didn't like it. The black-cloaked figure stopped short at her dangerously, languid green orbs. She rubbed a thumb delicately over her voluptuous lips, dipping it gently in and out of her saliva. Although he stared at her for a minute she could not read his opinion until his face turned steely, meanness flitting across his dignified, handsome but, perhaps haughty she should think, face. He glared at her, and then his lips formed into a snarl.
                "What are you doing here?"
                "I might ask you the same question," Dolly said, in a voice that was ironically unsettling then due to that eerie effect of opposition. It carried some kind of strange power. He made an ironic bow.
                "Of course, I shouldn't trouble you."
                "Wait," she said, her voice barely above a whisper as he turned to go. "What happened?" This time, when he turned to pin her with his entire persona, more flitted across his face, than she cared to see, so, she didn't. Then a small smile graced her lips, and it was shielded once more, from her privilege.
                "Nothing that should concern you." Something in her voice moved her to remark, but, curiously guardedly,
                "I am interested to know." There was a pause. His back was turned from her once again. Long and white fingers gently stroked the washed out, faded wall next to him. He shrugged.
                "I was ordered to take an MRA." She though there had been some- weird occurrence- thought there had been a changed behavior. All those nights.
                He walked out of the room.

                I never wanted to think about it, she mused to herself, as her feet once again hit the wall behind her, while her eyes took their position stargazing at the ceiling. That is just how things are. Why did they burden me with this man for the summer? He is simply an ugly, persnickety man who happens to know poetry remarkably well, his English compliments that polished creative gene in a broad sense, for he does understand it- extraordinarily. He's been educated in finer circles, but I'm sure that I shall have the great, unparalleled pleasure of doing that- I'll be making that circle soon, myself, promptly, and then I will be more fit than the most refined men and women, and I shall have my share of being the most distinguished writer that ever walked. Annoying little voice you are, in my head, preposterously but charmingly mischievous. You'll be hidden though, soon, in spite of that you might be enticing. I will not have you trying to shame me. I will be a famous writer. And, well that really isn't the point. I shall be better than that old coot in my living room.
                He's fiercely handsome, said another voice in her head reasonably. Her eyes lost that dreamy look, something hardening her features. She brushed away the thought.
                A noise from the kitchen aroused her again.
                Fool, she whispered, but followed the noise, for it sounded as though something had broken. As she reached the shaft of light from which he was standing within the space that she wanted to avoid she supposed that she wouldn't want to go into any area where he was- she was again met with his back. In his left hand, though, an item of broken glass quivered between his thumb and forefinger. Chips of the lips were in the process of scattering across the linoleum. His back was rigid. He didn't seem as though he was in the- mood- should she say, for company. Yet something wasn't in its proper form here, that is to say, something was not right.
                "Abast." He did not turn, nor give any sign that he was . . . mentally present. Dolly strode up to the stiff man. His face had turned solid white, almost like he was wearing a blanket. The blood seemed like it was throbbing beneath its surface however.
                "What in the world is wrong?" Dolly spat. Her voice crackled with anger.
                She back-tracked. What in the world made her say it like that? I have been oddly temperamental, she thought. His deep black eyes, purple shade just almost, brushed her gently. Those black eyelashes were surprisingly soft.
                "I- "
                "I- I'm sorry," Dolly forced out. "I did not think," she took a deep breath. Something compelled her to take one of his shoulders.
                "You've got a long life ahead." Her mouth twitched. He was about to go on some kind of tangent. Even when he was underneath a raging of some kind of stress, he blew out color and fascination. Various and sundry rainbows of colorful words! His dark eyes almost seemed to sparkle in his new trek into creative fancy.
                "No. Abast. Tell me why you have a broken glass in your hand. Never mind about my future." She waved a hand. He lowered his gaze to the shattered cup. Slowly a red hint started to trickle down over his white, aristocratic features.
                "I- don't know what caused it." He looked at his glass dubiously, before his lips thinned speedily into a white line. The red on his face crept toward his collar-bone. "I guess it was a sudden headache," he said rapidly. He stared at Dolly for a moment without speaking, although she was glued to his eyes for some reason. She had absolutely no idea what possessed him. His face was white once again. He walked out, leaving the glass where he'd sought it.
                She shrugged to herself.
                "Sorry." If the man was in pain, what was she to do about it?

                "Ooooh! That, and that, and that!" Brutally, she started tossing her poetry and manuscripts all across the room. "You foolish nonsense!" she yelled. Dolly had been quietly writing in her chamber for about an hour, the clock ticking to her energies, before striking twelve. At its chime, her heart wrenched upon her browsing review of her time. Now she employed her efforts better in its destruction. She did not hear the door opening to her left, its noise subdued behind her rage. "And that!" she screeched. Quickly scooping it up in her hands, she took the scripts over to the fireplace. She was about to throw them into the flames. She rapidly-
                turned. Tears in her green eyes glistened.
                "Please. Don't try to stop me." Her voice, taut with anger and distress, reached him. He crossed quickly over to her in a swoop of black. He stood directly before her and pinned her with his black gaze. She was breathless with fury, and tried to force down her utter humiliation that grew with her shaking hand, poised gracefully over the fire. Gracefully. Tears began coursing down her cheeks. She brought both hands up and spun away from him. He maintained his silence. In a couple of moments, this was entirely unnecessary. Dolly's little sister, being chased by her much larger playmate, tore through the area in some sort of rogue game of tag. Hollers and screams from the twisted version of their game interrupted the exchange. They were out of the room as quickly as they had come, but it was enough for Dolly to regain her full composure. She cast her professor one last, fleeting glance before leaving.

                He started as the phone rang.
                "Hello?" He listened for a moment. The color quickly drained from his face. After another minute of silence he let out his breath in one long, muted whoosh. "I understand." He might have been a rock cut out from the wall behind him.
                "I didn't hear you come in."
                "Abast . . . what's wrong?" Dolly was still hugging her scripts to her, but her mind seemed diverted for the present. They spoke ambiguity to him. He wondered briefly if she regretted missing his response to her little scheme. Did she covet his assistance?
                "I um- Dolly- " he bit his lip. Then he placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards the couch. "This is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, but I'm going to have to leave your dwelling." Dolly took a minute to absorb this.
                "Why?" She tried to analyze his features.
                "Because I need to attend to a child."
                "What?" Her voice represented total disbelief. He bowed.
                "I shall be back if I am ever . . . invited." He allowed a small sneer to form.
                "Fine," she said, huffily. "I don't want you here anyway. Nothing but a- " Suddenly her speech was halted by the most unlikely force, as he grabbed her face, and planted a thick kiss directly on her mouth.
                "I love you," he whispered. Then he was gone.
                She stared off into space for a shocked remainder of the evening.
                A bit later Dolly knocked on her professor's door. Before he was able to call out an answer, she walked in without hesitation. Standing resolutely, she stood in front of his body arching over upon the bed. He long black hair hung in a curtain with a deliberate purpose, she mused, to shadow his face. Somewhat reluctantly, Dolly sat down next to him. Silence permeated.
                "You do care, don' t you?" She started at his question. She crossed her arms over her own chest, lowering her head. A query of her own on her tongue nearly became twisted up. For an inexplicable reason, her eyes stung a bit. As her fingers slowly wove some kind of imaginary circle in a fluid motion over her legs, she spoke, not quite sure of herself.
                "That phone call- it's why your leaving, isn't it?" She lifted her head.
                "Yes." She laid a gentle hand on his. She withdrew it immediately. Neither of them seemed to know what to say, although why this odd connection should have existed between them she did not understand either, for, did she not always despise his presence? Why then this strange-
                "Goodbye," she whispered, in a gulp that sounded as though it were a bit choked. As red washed her white features, the shame creeping up her entire body, she did not feel strong enough to survive one, simple minute here with this person. Why was she feeling this? She was not this weak. She was strong . . . proud. When she gained the threshold, he called out,
                "Wait." She stopped, and rigidly forced herself to turn. "Wait," he whispered. His black eyes met hers. "If I do not return . . . my dear Dolly," his words trickled over an imaginary line that she could not identify, one which inexplicably frightened her in what it could mean. She detected the rushing whoosh, heard, the gentle timbre as it changed from normal deep reverberation, wavering a bit, as though his own vocal chords, perhaps, rebelled against this change. "Please." One word. And it may have been his last. Last one that he ever spoke to her, she -

                "Goodbye Abast."
                She left the room. Never, looked back.


Thursday, July 19, 2012

Woman and Man/Friends; Poetry

Woman and Man/Friends

Back then, I didn’t- care.
Back then, all that I knew was blooming.
Back then, I wanted . . . to play . . .

Oh, and then, I ran into my friend’s arms.
We found naught for many problems that we shared.

My best buddy was beyond the fence,
All I needed was to call for him-
Until we gathered some kind of mischief.
For these, we found no solutions.

Didn’t take us long.

We were, from the start, the best.
An instant friendship had we,
That no others shared . . .
Five and three.

I wish I remembered you more dear.

Can’t think of too much now.
We really had the best of any though,
And, I’d run through the sun’s rays-
Feeling it dance, and alight upon my back,
As we played on your swing-set.

If not that, then we played in the pool,
Or on your trampoline.

Once I remembered that we found a butterfly,
Poor thing was dead,
And we tore it in half. Hmm.
Guess that was how we solved our troubles.

In love, for when we-
Had torn the butterfly we were saddened.
Yet we always seemed to come together again.
We would apologize, after destroying something precious . . .

I wish I could have you here,
Once more I wish that we could laugh together.
My heart wrenches with ache of longing,
For all then was blooming,
And now-
Now ’tis never to be.

We are grown up now,
We have gone our separate ways forth.
Yet, on this day, I’m remembering,
How much I –
How much I miss you.

So many thoughts flit across,
Of instant gratification,
When I live that time,
And I wonder what could have been,
Had our paths not been so distinctly formed.

Would we have seen each other anymore?

Would we have been, you and I,
Old friends, to see each other in a new light-
I, a woman and you, a man?

. . .

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Language is a Simple Description/Prose Piece . . . ?

Language is a Simple Description

Wil-kin-son. The burning flame of fire. Language is a really simple description. But one can play with it and sing with it. Almost as though you are - deep into the heart of the serpent. And he meanders and twists around your neck in order to squeeze all of the particles out which make up the spirit. And then you travel back toward the sunny shore of human vivacity and ardent fervor, the roaring madness of the city bustle- New York is really a happy place to be in. And then you are at home, sitting with your cat beside you, sipping a bit of herbal tea, and thinking, 'why, I'd really like to be able to dance and jig or jump rope in my living room . . . ' Oh, dear, and then you realize that you sound crazy. Like the keys punching across this board of nonsense, your eyes open wide, like full moons, and you wonder, why you ever, wanted to write at all. At all, a voice echoes inside your head that's crammed with all these verbose words and information. And you think to yourself, 'well, it could have been worse. At least I have been to many lands, and I can sing with words indeed, I can. So many things that you can do with it. Language is really a simple description. It wakes up the spirit in all the ways that you can imagine. And, in truth, it doesn't matter how language wakes up your spirit. Whether an assiduous, black, ugly snake wakes it up or the madness of a city, or thoughts of insanity while you sit, seemingly peaceful, ir-on-y . . . you play. You play with words. Language is really very simple- is it not?

Thursday, July 12, 2012

The True Heart/Poetry

The True Heart

A coffee shop! That's where, the heart is.
Fore'er, I'll be here, and rest, my sashes down,
rest my shoes, my feet are hungry, for rest-
and rest, everything, feet, and legs, the torso, head . . .
as languidly I extend every part that moves toward,
the path to enlightenment.

I am lying among sashes, twisted about the body,
scarves, fringes- a potpourri of words entwined melodies,
of rhyme schemes, alliteration, and the fall,
the rise and the fall- the darkness and the heart.

I lay among refined clothes that pools around,
creating arcs about my figure as I negligently,
land myself across two hard, oak chairs that,
speak, whisper across the wide chatter-box,
that sounds its bell of humanity's tears and love,
while I rest here in my visions and tastes and penchants,
of herbs, spices, and other pretty types of budding roses.

But the exquisite world I'm inundated within,
are the clothes, and teas, and spices and things-
all of which become themselves, outdo themselves,
so exquisitely, richly divine chocolates, roses, delicacies-
all of the sweetest substances from tea and clothing,
are evoke from out my imagination . . .
tea that vanishes in the wake of disillusioned dreams,
and in the end, all I have, are blue jeans and empty tea-holders.

Yet the words across the page are real.
In them I am who I imagined.

A coffee shop, the true heart,
a blessing, of words and many scents,
the lines of reality and the illusionary.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Wash Away the Lands/Poetry

Wash Away the Lands

I look at my room,
I look at the house.
All around me destroys,
For it all speaks to me.

A sock here lying unwashed,
Betwixt the shirts and leg-wear,
All of them creating potpourri,
Messes of . . . my life.
Socks are unwashed.

My feet should be unwashed,
For all I go through life so roughly.
I am a force that cannot be stopped,
Traipsing all exotic lands. All the cities.
All the dregs in our small world,
Cannot please to make some laughter in our hearts.

The soles of my feet are dirty, though I wash them.
Tears from my eyes could perhaps clean the clothes . . .
But, that is all.

I travel every land and sea and I-
Lift up my hands,
To hide my desperate plea I wear,
More carelessly and bald than I don clothing.
Never do I care that my clothes are musty,
Crude, that I have left them uncaring-
To silent mercies that may come,
To my room with their hearts bleeding,
At the semblances or shadows of my existence,
How could I care about their state though?
They do not understand, when my face wears this soulful picture,
Of all that I truly do understand.

I travel outward seeking nothing but the light.
A place to lie down and rest after too much worldly light.
I’ve spread the rays of sun on everything of man,
Rays that touch my features now, I surely pull off-
Like strands of hair, I must slowly, strip them off me.

I must scrub my body to clear my white skin,
So in pearly white and blue and brown my whole,
Will be brought back into the carriage of our Lord.
He will whisk away my hands to erase my plea for goodness,
As he has before, and continues to do.

My clothes I now put away gently,
Washing my soles of feet beautifully now,
For the fountain in my breast crosses over to these boundaries . . .
And I can finally be clean with water to my friends, who solemnly see my floors with dirt, they now can contentedly-
Bear me, knowing that I am safe, that I have put away all the meanings,
Of my interactions with the world, and have come to a better knowledge.

That everyone cares so much. I am truly fortunate that they, and the Lord,
Have washed away all my pain.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Black Shattering/Prose Poetry

Black Shattering

The silence here becomes too much, and I can’t cling unto it. It does really and truly seem that I might be forever bonded to the chains that make me stay, here like a shattered diamond under the prying eyes composed of illustrious lasers, for so good are their qualities. Eyes that have the power to make one completely vulnerable. They are lovely eyes of black and many- I do not suppose that I could ever make all these various shades and gleaming, eerie spectrum of what is provided to see the world with to be what I want them to be for me.
I want the eyes that look and see and feel to bring out their lovely side, so that I can see the beauty in their black seas. I do not want these eyes to curse me in my silent reverie. Eyes that are black. Eyes that will not shatter me with penetration. Eyes that, when I turn to look at them myself, will meet with my bluish hues.

Dark will mix with goodness when I meet their eyes some sweet day, black will melt into them and they will become one picture. My blues will not be crystals shattering, so delicate and gentle is blue. Black, and blue, will understand each other.

And I will have a love of black, so pretty and true. I will not try to make the black leave. I- will look at these prying eyes, and we then will all be . . . gorgeous.

The man behind me will not frighten me any longer.

Digging Through Black/Poetry/Angst(y)- not sure I like that?

Digging Through Black

Each time, that I put pen to paper there must be some sort of fear, which bubbles up, and never wants to leave.
Each time, that I put my fingers to the typewriter things become all too suffocating, a cloak, and a shroud, and visuals, and things . . .
Every time, that my cold, sallow, tight fingers, hit these keys I must be- in shame.

For every time that I see my letters, I am struck by a shovel that is thrust at me. Then I hear the sound of digging. It is, my own sound. I had not known that it was my sound.
I must needs impress- that this is the sound of my life, or the desperate reaching for that way, deeply buried richness, through the rich, black, and beautiful Earth. I could not be deceived, could I, by the lovely shade of black?
Oh, but how I love the- lovely shade of black.
Lovely shades of black.
Lovely shades . . . of black.
Truly there can be no stopping the search for the richness. I need the richness.
My life is the chest, that is buried beneath the rich dirt. But that chest appears so crusty.
I write out my shame, for there is no stopping . . .
No stopping the sound of digging.

I am hiding from it all in the warm, black, and sparkling Earth. I am hiding from the sound . . .
of my own digging.
And I am still hearing it.

Always reaching, always pining for the chest . . .
And the black.
Softly fading away from these words to print myself.
Why should I put myself down here?

It is the sound of digging which I seek, but I hide from my dig-
I hide from me,
My shame is great, like the vast hole I’ve dug.

For I know that I am not digging for the chest.

I will make myself seek the chest, somehow.

People pass me by and I-
Sit here typing in fear.

Digging, digging, digging.
That is all I do . . .

I dig.