Vent

Okay. I feel it is important that I say this. I cannot currently afford psychotherapy, nor do I have very many (or any) close friends in close proximity to my current home. I use this blog space, and really writing in general, as a way to vent ideas and emotions.

Please do not confuse me for my blog. This is just where I purge my undesireable ideas and emotions so that they don't creep out in my actual human interactions. If you WANT to know the stuff I don't say out loud - keep reading.

My Obituary?

In Loving Memory of
BILLY KEEFE

1921-2003
Billy passed away on May 22nd 2003
He played on the left wing
and was known to have one of the
best left foots in his day.

He played for Birmingham City Colts, Moor Green, Halesowen, Hednesford and Warstock

He supported the "Blues" right to the end
R.I.P.

Sour Cherries

Sucking maggot slime out of satan's rotten, blood-stained eye

Water's Edge (version 2)

Pattern is bird feet in mud.

No, pattern is finding bird feet in mud.
Pattern is looking at mud for bird feet.
Pattern is no longer seeing mud, only bird feet.

Oh, that I have lived this long
and never seen the bird do its mud dance,
though I have watched the mud stage
from across the river and atop the hill
from distances beyong the fear of shy bird
Only to have seen a single bird, or maybe two
Shyly sneak to the dancing place
To scuttle out to the water's edge
Sense the world watching her
and scuttle back into the tall grass

Oh, that I have lived this long
and never seen the bird
do it's secret mud dance,
that is pattern.

Wolfe Park (version one)

I am 27 years old.
There is a pattern we follow.
I drive us to the creek.
We walk the trail together.
Each step becoming less and less us
and more water, water, mirra! mirra!
bird, tree, squirrel, air,
until, finally, we reach

creek bed

and
jump, splash, dive bite, tear run leap hop paddle, claw
did I say jump yet, jump jump jump

You let your sharper nature unravel it's pent-up tentacles
into every mouse hole, birds nest, trail head, eddy, hollow,
paper cup, cigarette butt, discarded condom, compass point

Pushing the boundaries of our mutual affection, once limited to touch
which now is limited to sight, but perhaps, too soon, whistle
come back, I am right behind you

And

In my younger days I too would have run this creek bed up stream
but now I simply must stop to divine meaning from the shape of mud and rock
We will both cross this pair of felled tree limbs
You, under the first, then I over it
You, over the second, and I under it (on hands and knees!)
Because I must to get to the other side,
Because you must to be young and alive.

Woman of Color

Is there such a thing
As a woman without color
Would she be black
And white

Thinking Space

I remember us watching that movie about dying lovers
And us both being moved by the question:
When did we become the same person?
But for different reasons.

I did not know at the time that
evermore
every thought that came to my mind
would bear your name
and your name would hold open the gate
to the emptiness your body left behind
in my soul