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inheritanceA brief introduction to my newest manuscript, inheritance which will be published by unbound CONTENT, LLC in 2013. This is just the first version of my manuscript - changes will be made and I'll keep you updated as they occur. I'm just going to put up the sections of the book and the first poem in each section. Also the poem that inspired me late one night when I first received the email from unbound CONTENT telling me they liked my work and were interested in reading my manuscript and I panicked because I DIDN'T HAVE ONE. 1 inspiring poem by Brian Andreas and 3 long hours of work later I had inheritance.
It came on her
that she was
the exact age
as her mother was
& no matter what,
it would have been hard to leave
all the generations
gathered around her
in that small kitchen
& held her close
& they would have
blocked the light
if they had not
come filled with
the deep blackMostly I am comforted by
the deep black.
Coming back was
waking in the middle of a cheap
carnival at night.
Bells and whistles and flashing lights,
tons of people and nothing making sense
or holding still.
I longed for the silence.
My brain handed me little hallucinations,
like hors d'oeuvres,
pumped full of stimulant and throwing up
ash and Bacardi
and the machines going off
whenever my heartbeat dropped
and they came to shoot me
back up again.
The only thing I'm afraid of is not dying.
I can live and I can die.
the downfall of civilizationThey have pumped you irresponsibly, desperately full
every night, first the 900 mg dose of Seroquel,
but the internet is honest:
The safety of doses above 800 mg/day
has not been evaluated in clinical trials.
Then the Doxepin, Valium, Trileptal,
Temazepam, Ambien, Zyprexa, Luvox,
Mirtazapine, Latuda, Chlorpromazine,
Fanapt, Methylphenidate, and Vicodin.
Like an elephant taking shaky, determined steps
despite the tranquilizer dart through his fragile skin,
I am up all night with a body that has decided
to mount a defense.
The ulcer worsens and they add
Prilosec, Zantac, Maalox, Carafate.
To tell me
There is nothing left to try,
no more orange prescription bottles
or cardboard sample packets stamped
You have poisoned your body with lies
masquerading as hope.
The savior they told you was right around the corner,
fell just out of reach.
Your brain can't save you,
your heart leaps frantically against the jail of ribs,
a panic attack, a seizure,
a body turned inside ou
life boatif I
hold that gun,
pull the trigger tight on a
chance of pain;
life changes in an eye-blink.
and picking up the pieces
won't be done
you will be left with no one
the promiseIf I pick up that gun,
if I pull the trigger on a sunny afternoon
or early morning
you will be in class and I will have written down someone else's phone number
to call when you are left with no one waiting at the door,
to scoop you up,
to drive you safely home.
This specter hangs, lightly,
in the shadows of our days.
Our home, built on the back of prescription bottles
and long hours fingering a worry stone in a half-lit room,
hours I should have spent holding your hand
in the unbearable heat of a moment
that could not bear
the caravanThey all come for the dancing. Her mother used to hold her hands,
tiny bare feet upon the soft tops of her mother's, skirts entwined,
they would whirl around the fire, faster and faster, laughing,
then the men would come as the sun set and she would be sent
back to the caravan, the horses' feet shifting in the sand, silent.
Her mother's skirt was copper and gold, her envy and pride,
as the clapping spread through the crowd, rowdy laughter,
bracelets ringing like tiny bells, bare feet silent in the sand,
her strong bare legs flashing in the fire-lit dark.
swan songour true path we have lost,
blind in our own maelstrom;
our roots blackened by frost,
bent, withered, and noisome.
hand in mine
you let out a breath
blind in our own maelstrom,
eyeless and ravenous;
bent, withered and noisome:
a broken duet
eyeless and ravenous,
our spoor naught but mayhem;
slouching toward bethlehem.
for love's heartless blade
our spoor naught but mayhem,
our roots blackened by frost;
slouching toward bethlehem,
our true path we have lost.
connectionsWhen we went to The Body Worlds Exhibit you held my hand so tightly
we cried matching tears, silent. Maybe a physical phenomenon, those
silent tears. All around the press of the living, pushed together with big voices
and grand gestures. Some moving so quickly they must have been afraid.
Afraid of bodies at their most naked - simple and honest. Or the slow ones,
fingers reached out as if they could touch the body of another human being,
simply touch, for the first time. Touch because that is what bodies cry out for,
at their most basic and most familiar, like your hand, safely in my own.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much sought after model. ^... Read More