Write

It’s been so long since I’ve been here

The white screen beckons

“Add text to me,” it says

Write. Write. Write.

It’s in me now

The old familiar fire

The need to love

To write, to live

It’s the only happiness I’ve ever known

I let it be squandered

Lost

I let it drift

Said it was too painful

That I could only write for you

For love

Said, thought, bled so many things

But this is mine

The words, the heart that beats

Is mine

Mine to give, to take away

Can’t let you have everything.

Can’t let fear hold me back

Need to breathe, need to explore

Need to write.

Strange Alice

I stalk my friends from a distance
Are they writing? Painting? Thriving?
I close my eyes and picture them storming the stage
Grabbing the world by the balls

They say, "Where are you girl? Where have you been?"
I'm the one with round cheeks and pudgy fingers
Pressed against the dirty window
Watching in silence--a ghost--a visitor

A smear of chocolate the only proof  the glass can offer

Have they dusted off their blogs? 
Or forgotten them as I have?
Questions question in a heartbeat
Answers far more obscure

And I feel it again
The old envy and frustration
I should be writing, painting, storming too
Toss back my head

Open up my mouth
And let the shit come screaming out
Let it shoot rays of light into the sky
Let the buried thoughts take shape

Bear fruit, become real
Before my eyes cloud my mind
Before my fingers gnarl and knot
While Alice still hunts the rabbit...

I Do? I Don't.

The bride is a bad ass in lacy, sequined garters. She stalks the church pews with an evil eye daring any trouble makers to piss her off. She walks with purpose, her virginal white stilettos aimed with precision toward the alter. Her mother weeps gracefully among the crowd--knowing just when to dab her eyes for effect. Her father grips her hand unwilling to release his little girl. The groom looks sea sick and sweaty next to the pastor. It's almost as if he knows he's about to be castrated.

I stifle a chuckle.

I'm a high priestess in the church of hilarity. We sacrifice unsuspecting men and women in a ritualistic slaughtering of their souls. I bear witness to their blood spilled cross the alter--Christian, Jew, pagan matters not. Each spoken word nails the coffin. Week after week I romanticize their deaths and smear their faces across our temple walls . I pay homage to their lives and glorify their immolation. Or maybe I just write about weddings in our local paper.

The bride reaches the alter, her perfect hair swept up for the sake of "innocence," her smile painted sweetly on collagen enhanced lips. Her soon-to-be victim--er--husband--pries her hand from her father. The old man weeps like a baby and takes his place next to his wife. He wraps the old lady in his big bear arms and they watch their only daughter sign her life away with two insignificant words--"I do."

I do what? I wonder. I wash the laundry. I cook the meals. I bring you a beer. I wrangle the children. I listen to the monotony of your choosing. What is it to be today?  How hot Lindsay Lohan is? How long it took you to beat Final Fantasy? How I disappointed you today? How you expected better of me? Do I agree to watch you blissfully live your life while I decay in milliseconds? Ok. Sure. Lets do that.

The whole room weeps and smiles at the happy couple. I stare surly out into the clear blue sky. The open window beckons me. But I've a job to do. Mention the florist, the baker, celebrate the magnificence of the caterer. Weddings are big business, you see. Thousands for a metal band, thousands for a dress that's the perfect blend of innocence and sex appeal. I'm drowning in taffeta and lace, choking on white--always white--never mind that the bride was balling the best man in college before ditching him for her latest conquest.

"I  call on ye sinners to see the Lord's perfection in this holy union of flesh to flesh, in this man and woman as they bow their wills and pledge themselves into this unbreakable bond. I urge you to throw your hands up and witness the miracle of this young couple coming to God as children and then walking away as man and wife."

Great. The preacher is a holy roller. They always have to be that much more dramatic, as if their vibrating vocal chords are somehow more divinely inspired than any other pastor's. Truthfully these evangelicals just love the sound of their own voices. I bet he majored in theater.

The bride seems to realize that the preacher is stealing the show and she glares at him. Gotta love these Southern weddings. I can almost hear her thoughts; "I did not go through charm school, vomit half the contents of my stomach every day for the last 8 years, and compete in beauty pageants to become a tried and true Southern Belle only to have you make my day about you old man."

The pastor rails on oblivious to the bride's death stare.

I watch the scene with hungry eyes. I know she'll win. It's likely that the bridesmaids stitched Chinese stars along the hem of her expensive Vera Wang gown. "Bring it on," her gaze challenges. 

He sweats and throws his arms wide and bellows, "Love is not jealous! Love is kind! Love is patient!"

So she kicks him.

It was subtle. Most of the onlookers missed it, but his surprised yelp made me positively giddy with joy. Perhaps God does reside in this red velvet mausoleum after all. The preacher man clears his throat and asks, "Let anyone who objects to this union speak now or forever hold his peace." I wanted to jump up and storm the aisle screaming like a banshee--just to see what the crowd would do. Instead I held my pen poised over my notebook and jotted a quick note, "No Chinese stars; stiletto kick instead. Bummer."

The rest of the ceremony was boring and uneventful. So I hung back watching 200 people shuffle out of the church and forge their way to the reception hall where booze and free food awaits them. Two teenage girls sit in front of me. "Didn't Elizabeth look amazing?! And Eric is so hot! She's so lucky. Momma says she's a true lady. You remember her coming of age party? She looked just like a fairy princess."

The other girl laughs, "You are such a ninny. No body cares about coming of age parties anymore. It's just for show to make old timers happy." Ninny, the first girl sulks. Unhappy that her friend doesn't see the glory in being a fairy princess, she continues, " I think it was beautiful. And Momma says that I can get a man like Eric one day if I remain pure of heart and flesh. So I joined the abstinence group at school." She crossed her spaghetti arms over her yet undeveloped bosom in the gesture of a truly spoiled brat.

The girl with a functioning braincell cocks an eyebrow at Ninny. "How much you wanna bet Ms. Innocent Elizabeth gives Sir Eric a blow job in the limo on the way to the airport? And if she doesn't....I bet Molly will."

Ninny sits ramrod straight in the pew. "Oh! You mean girl! Why would you say that, Lacy May?" She seems genuinely upset. Then she stops, "Wait. Do you know about something between Molly and Eric?"

That did it. I bust out laughing. No one does gossip like the South. "Ok girlies," I say, "We best be getting to the reception hall." They notice me for the first time. Ninny blushes a very lady like shade of pink. Lacy May could care less. I think Lacy May is gonna smart off, but Ninny drags her to her feet. "I hope the cake is chocolate!" Lacy chuckles, "Don't eat too much. Your Momma will whip ya good if you grow two asses."

I rub my temples and trudge slowly to the hall. I feel the shadow of the hang man's noose looming in the distance. I sigh... Weddings.

Heart Song

 Lipstick red roses scattered across a pristine bed.

Carefully crafted make-up streaking recklessly over flushed cheeks.

Photographs of who we used to be smile from gilded frames.

The best laid plans of mice and men gone awry. Again.

And my heart song breaks--crackles and sighs into somber silence. It spins on a ghostly record player. It whispers a death gasp, faint, but serene.

The constant hush unnerves me..

It's soft on the delicately scented pillows. It's softer still in the hollow of my neck. Not that you care. Not that you remember. 

It's funny how the pills somehow dull the senses. My nails gleam brightly against the bottle.

My heart beats wildly. Pounds in my ears. Its the only sound to drown the pain. 

Mascara tears. Perfume. And love. 

Please tell me there was love. Broken and imperfect, but still love, yes?

I look to the ceiling for sacred answers. But it's just a ceiling. What can drywall say that hasn't already been spewed and dissected? 

My eyelids weight me down so I close them.

My heart song skips. Still the record spins. The turntable hums. Its just breath now. A prayer unanswered.

Maybe I'll just sleep. Sleep to evade. Sleep dream. Dream of heart songs that ring strong and clear. Or maybe not...maybe I'm not that naive anymore.

The bottle slips from my grasp.

Pills scatter across the floor.

The record slows. 

Skips.

Shh....

Mother Approved

It must be perfect. Every stitch, each line, the trace of mascara--must be perfect. Flawless. Brilliant. 

Mother would expect no less.

Let her be memorialized in all her glory. Freshly polished shoes, painted nails, glossy lips. Let the girls be envious over cards. I could see their pinched faces, unpleasant tone, as they nodded in obvious dismay over Mother's finery. They would smirk and coo, "Did she think she was the Queen of England? Who needs a casket like that, honestly, what was Evelyn thinking?" 

I pinned great-grandma's gold unicorn pin to her blouse. I smoothed the hair from her brow.

Impeccably dressed--she was ready.

I kissed her cool, feather soft cheek. The warm glow from the Christmas tree cast shadows over her face.

"Merry Christmas Mother."

Holly decked the room like a rich velvety dream. Norman would be proud at the traditional trimmings. I'd worked through the night setting the stage. A fine actress deserves the best farewell imaginable. And there was no finer actress than Mother. Confusion and anger began to wrestle in my brain and I struggled to clear my aching head. "You're incredibly stupid, you useless, useless boy!"

No. No. No. 

I closed my eyes to silence her voice. Mother loved me. Affection was just difficult for her. 

Ha! The bitch loved you in front of her friends. Dance trained monkey, dance for Mother!

My legs wavered under my weight and I clung to the bannister. No. It was perfect. Mother would love it. She'd be so proud of her son. She'd laugh with delight over her friends' jealousy. She'd soak up the attention like a peacock shaking it's glorious feathers. I'd gotten it right this time. 

I walked back to her coffin with confidence. 

"My apologies for selecting your gift in error, Mother. But I suppose this will have to do as a substitute."

I slammed the heavy lid over her serenely frozen face. The dustpan made short work of the broken vase and blood red roses she'd flung against the wall. I paused. The knife was still sticky with residue. All I needed now was...more bleach.

Abyss

Words once written live
Like soundless ghosts
Broken text that echo
Hearts unspoken

Quiet moments 
Lest you jest

Memories that fade
Old friends who've said goodbye
I know you so well
Yet you're stranger than strange to me

A force I'll never know 
A face I'll never forget

A voice that haunts my soul

Freedom 
 
Love lost

Questions without answer

It all drifts away
Fragments
Splinters
Emotion too fleeting to capture

Let it roll
Let it flow

I'll never write the way I wrote for you
Never feel the way I felt
So fully alive
So intense, so pure

And the truth of it
Is death anew

Love Is a Crispy Egg-roll

“What’s this?” I scornfully pushed the brown gelatinous log around my plate.

“What’s what?” Mary looked at me with sincere confusion, eyes red rimmed with fatigue.

I pointed at the mutant morsel she had set before me. She rolled her eyes. “It’s an egg-roll, George. Eat it.” I frowned, not quite sure I believed her. I stabbed it. I swear a small, strained voice shouted, “Help me!”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked her. “Nothing,” she retorted. I speared it again with my fork. Death spasms gripped it and the guts came spilling out of the limp, lifeless wrapper. White chicken meat for blood—it was a massacre on my dinner plate. “I think it’s dead.” She scoffed, “Perhaps it’s a bit soggy, but it tastes fine. Just eat it.” I flipped the crime against Chinese cuisine over and gaped in pure horror at the clear slime oozing over its rump. “Why isn’t it crispy?”

Annoyance stiffened the angle of Mary’s shoulders. “I microwaved it. I was tired. It’s been a long day and the twins had me up all night. I just wanted to fix something quick and easy that would at least be warm in your tummy. I’m sorry!” Her head tilted forward and I could see that she could barely keep her eyes open. The twins, huh? Yes, I could see those adorable little soul-suckers keeping her up. But there was still no excuse for the travesty she was deceitfully passing off as food. “I see,” I said, crestfallen. “You don’t love me anymore.”

Her head snapped up and sleepy disorientation pulled her eyebrows together. “Huh? What do you mean I don’t love you anymore?” I turned slightly away from her to hide my smirk and continued in a wounded voice. “It’s okay Mary, the last two years have been great. I knew having the twins would change things, couldn’t really expect you to love me forever. Don’t worry about it.” 

She sat up straight in her chair, suddenly awake. “How can you say that?! The Orange Chicken and rice are okay, aren’t they? No complaints there, right?”  I sniffed softly to myself, but loud enough that she could hear me. “Well…I didn’t want to say anything…” Her bloodshot Hawk eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s wrong with the Orange Chicken, George?” Her words ground against her teeth.

I shrugged. “It’s nothing…it’s…” I paused for effect. “Well, do you remember back when you used to love me?” I heard her outraged gasp of protest, but plunged on quickly. “You remember you used to make the Orange Chicken look so pretty? You’d put diced scallions over top, a lovely fringe of white rice edging the tasty, perfectly golden brown chicken. The orange sauce would gracefully cascade over the top—pretty as a picture.” I looked at the pile of slop all mixed together, no scallions in sight and sighed with sweet reverie. “And the egg-rolls! Oh the crispy, delectable egg-rolls! That’s when you loved me, Mary, that’s when. Do you remember?”

I met her stunned, slack-jawed expression. It was so hard not to laugh.

Her pathetic protest: “You can’t be serious! I was so tired…I made it exactly the same!”

I squeezed her hand to offer comfort. “It’s okay,” I said. I stabbed a soggy chunk of egg-roll and tried to pick it up, but it slid defiantly off of my fork, plopping on my plate in a gooey slush. “I’ll eat the egg-roll of decayed love. I won’t complain.” She jumped to her feet and spirited my plate away. The sad lonely, smashed egg-roll bit—that I’d finally speared successfully—hung from my fork in midair.

She said nothing, but the slamming of cupboard doors and pots spoke violently. I sneaked a peek into the kitchen. Even the stove seemed to complain as the tic, tic, tic gave way to the angry whoosh of flames. She poured oil into the skillet. I walked carefully into the room, tossed the diseased disfigured roll in the sink, and clapped my hands together like a little school girl. “I knew you still loved me!” Mary whirled on me, a frozen egg-roll clutched dangerously between the talons of her cooking tongs. “Babe,” she snapped, “dead man walking.” I grinned broadly and risked a quick kiss on her cheek. I practically skipped to the dinning room. Yup, I thought, nothing says love like a crispy egg-roll.