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Easter, 2014I rose from bed this morning
expecting of the day,
a dreary-eyed wondering
of all that comes my way.
I'm lifted from my sleeping,
and woken from my dreams,
walking through the open roads
in sunlight and moonbeams.
I live again in promise,
another day to face,
another way to live this life,
to yearn and smell and taste.
Resurrected in the light
of everything I've learned,
I'm breathing in my second chance,
reborn again, returned!
unexpected momentHe stared at me with shining eyes, lit with desire, something about me that spoke to him. He wanted more of me. Some part of me, whether physical, or emotional, or spiritual, turned him on, and he wanted more. I didn't know what I'd said or done, and the look wasn't one I was accustomed to, and certainly not one I expected from him.
But there he was, looking at me with this magical stare of unmistakable passion, and I, I didn't know what to say or do. I was so overwhelmed with just the reality of this moment, so floored by this unexpected attention from the object of my affection. I thought he didn't like me?
He walked over to me and put his hands gently on the top of my shoulders. It was a very friendly, unromantic gesture, but his body was so close to me now, too close for just a friend. I didn't speak, and neither did he, though he knew I didn't mind him touching me. He smelled so good, so hot, so breathlessly perfect.
lonelyMy confidence turns people off. There are some who like me, but they think I'm too busy to talk to, or too successful to feel equal with, and yet I'm neither of these things. I'm just me, and I'm actually quite lonely a lot of the time. I feel rejected and left alone more often than I feel people here and elsewhere want to talk to me.
I don't mind sounding pathetic here, because honesty is all I've got.
Do I believe in myself? Yes. Do I believe in my talents as a writer, and an author? Of course. Do I love myself and think I'm a great guy? Yep, all of this. And that's why it feels so strange that my positive energy doesn't absorb more friends into my life. I can't explain it. It just sucks.
There's no happy ending to this short reflection. No twist that brings inspiration to conclude my sentiments. It just sucks.
Chapter 23: Manna From MauiThe below is an excerpt from my new book, The Papal Visitor. Though it'll give you more of an idea what the book is about, it fits in somewhere in the middle of the book, and works well as a standalone piece for me to share with you here. At this point in the book, Heaven has now revealed itself to Earth, and in this new world, there is as much confusion as there is peace about the certainty of Heaven. In this chapter, God invites a few special souls to chat about everything that's been happening.
From The Papal Visitor, Chapter 23: Manna From Maui
“That peaceful land, that beautiful land, that far-off home of profound repose, and soft indolence, and dreamy solitude, where life is one long slumberous Sabbath, the climate one long delicious summer day, and the good that die experience no change, for they but fall asleep in one heaven and wake up in another.” –Mark Twain, about Hawaii
“So where are we? Tell me what the
Stream-of-Conscious Poetry Excercise 4-2-14Started: 8:11 PM
Fragmented hyperion justification
of the wrong-way driver's toothbrush;
a pithy stupendification perhaps
but a scotch-tape sealed mirror nonetheless.
Whoever borrowed my army,
please return it to the manila folder,
or risk suspension of your disbelief
in the pursuit of higher wisdom.
Falling through overtures of broken music
means nothing to the firefly,
but he watches anyway,
haunted by your horror.
Two or three footmen enter the back door,
looking for her, or him, or both,
angry at the faces of the bewildered grasshoppers,
pretending to be incensed by the smell.
Illogic has no place here, dear boy,
nor rhyme in your suitcase,
but fly up to the rafters of thought,
and even bookmarks have their purpose.
If to no maybe yes up only,
whenever "when" was there, or how,
choosing upside-down hummingbirds
easily slides us all through the door.
Phinished with a Ph is how they called it
in the days when hunger had its year,
fish even rode that trolley car down,
Six Second Poem"We're all the same," she said. "Friend, tell me," she asked, "how are we different?"
For six seconds I paused, then I said:
Some of us ..
love more than we hate,
laugh more than we cry,
work harder than we play, but
live before we die.
Some of us don't.
And that, my friend, is how we are all different.
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
I've ForgottenWhen she died
I tied a knot in my stomach
so I would remember
but I've been so busy
trying to remember her dying
I forgot how to forget.
how to let go -
and the doctors said
they would cut me open
and snip her out
a blade between the bows
and the pain, would be gone
but I've forgotten
how to let go -
and I still don't want to.
love didn't matter, but home was with youi.
there's still shadows left of you
even with the
little that remains. i wish
sometimes the light
would stop it's singing long enough
for them to grow,
my heart spends enough
time aching when
just the photographs
show their faces.
you took me
to a wedding once - it was a cold
night, and the
of stars in the sky made
it seem like God's
breath was reaching out
to earth. i don't remember
the names of the two who
indefinitely, anymore, not
when the wind's taken
in it's hold; but i remember crying because
love's just so damn
hard to find, and you
found me instead behind
the rosebushes that
were too stained to be called
me that sometimes
love doesn't matter, and
i (did)n't want to
you asked me once if anything
mattered, a lighter
gracing one hand and a
cigarette lining your
lips. i wasn't
sure back then
and i don't know
if i am now
(but i think i want to say yes).
my body never felt
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
Diamond TearIn silence
I observe them
Laughing and having fun
While I'm in my corner
I feel out of place
I don't belong here
So I leave
And no one notices
Now I'm out on the street
A dark and silent one
Enjoying the breeze
Lost in my thoughts
Suddenly I hear a sob
And I look around
I see a girl
Sitting on a bench
A single diamond tear
Running down her face
I don't know her
No one else is around
I could just leave
But I can't
So I sit by her side and ask
Without looking her in the eyes
For a moment
And then she takes my hand
And we look
Into each other's eyes
And she whispers
The Elephant ManHe had elephant hands; swollen and tendered
by old age and wiping away childrens' crying
so they were leathered and carefully painted
with a veneer of the dust made by old books,
but when he read to me the pages didn't shake
and his throat didn't contract about the words
like they were enemies to be spat out, bloodied.
Lungs didn't shiver and eyes didn't milk, then.
Now, I see love ephemeral. I see love half-dead
and carving its riverbed path, slowly eroding;
until it can rejoin oceans once known in heaven.
Now, I see him ephemeral. I see him half-living.
I see the fear of burdenship as the only thing
that makes his eyes flicker how Pernod used to.
I see a beautiful, crumpled drawing of my hero
as my grandfather slips, wearily, back to sleep.
SafeI clasped my hand tight shut around my mothers.
I was a possessive oyster wrapped around pearly fingers
bitten white by the freshly whisked air.
We braced ourselves against the frozen metal frames
that, although unmovable by infantile hands,
were not a substantial enough barrier against a tempest.
The sea lashed out its limbs in a fury
and the sky’s face paled grey with worry
at what that grasping anger might achieve.
It rose to greet us, stood on mighty churning haunches
and collapsed heavily around our shoulders
with the dramatic violence of a dancer
crashing down upon a splintered Tibia.
It drenched us, filling mouths and ears with water.
My mother’s hand squeezed mine, comforting,
and as the sea drew back again,
preparing to strike out at us over and over
until its very exhaustion point – and over once more –
As it readied itself to slash our raincoats,
with the force of an evening spiralling into true darkness,
over and over –
for a moment the smell o
Oxtails (Collab w/ TwilightPoetess)Somewhere between oxen and orchid,
where cattails and foxgloves wilt and weep
at the parting of another fleeing day
and stormed cloud-castles mutiny
against the weight of the rocksalt moon;
somewhere between flightless and fading,
where faery circles and dandelion crowns fall--
somewhere, beneath bark mosaiced with age,
you will siphon the remains of my heart--
churned smooth by false hope’s abuse--
into dehydrated dirt that groans for it.
I will clot the crumbling veins of anthills
with the iron debris that was once us,
until I become orchid or foxglove once more.
Lovely GirlSoft and brown, her hair waved at me
with a whisper and a giggle,
her smile a hint of more
and a promise of adventure.
Her flirting glances weren't needy,
or forward in an unseemly way,
just perfect and lovely
in a most adorable fashion.
The evening carried on
as evenings do,
and our glances back and forth
We only spoke that once,
as we passed in the hall,
but her voice and mine
After midnight when she left,
I followed her outside,
not wanting to be lost
without her touch or smile.
She was gone too quick,
I'd missed her, and my chance,
but once I came back in,
I found she'd not yet left.
Another look, another grin,
and her hair, oh that hair,
it wanted to be stroked
if time and place would give.
We found a place, a space,
and spoke at last for long,
minutes into hours,
as guests all took their leave.
And as the time ticked on,
and as the party died,
the time to act had come,
the perfect way to close.
We leaned in near and kissed,
a gentle, perfect bond,
Keep in Touch!
Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More