Dawn M. Nevills "A Moment of Your Time - Phase II"

Watching the Clock for St. Patrick

2012-03-18T01:26:00.007-04:00

"Hi there, beautiful." He sidled up to her. The band was playing the nearing end of night songs, and the music had slowed down some.

There was a tired sway to the quiet dancers on the floor.

There was a curious detachment which drew him to her. She turned to him, and their eyes locked for an instant of electric current. He stepped back, a half step. The green flashed out of them, just before he smiled, and he cleared his throat.

"Ah, the sweetness of a hopeful liar." Her eyes were kind, and so was her voice, which sounded like a curious kind of honey in the dark. They smiled at each other.

"The thought of a smile so real made me sad to think that the body attached to it was not dancing," he said, smoothly, in a voice that did not belong to his heart. He felt both a liar, and an alien. She was quite disconcerting.

She laughed a low purr, with her head tilted back to stare up at him, unafraid. He had better not step on her foot, he thought, rapidly, not used to an absence of being impressed with stature. She stood her ground, cocking her head to one side.
Then she winked.

"A dance, Oh Tall One?", she said, quietly, the grin flashing out beyond the removed quietness he had seen in a private space, just a moment ago, as she sat silently, listening to the music. What an unusal woman: he had better not blow this.

"Ah, of course." He held out his hands, smoothly, grinning a boyish grin which he had not expected from himself. He had been about to buy her a drink. They stepped out on to the floor.

As the music began, he drew her towards him. She seemed a comfortable warmth, there, keeping step with him, leaning against him gently in the darkness. Her hair smelled of freesia, cropped close against her head in a kind of curling cap defying both tomboyishness and enforced girliness. She did not force banal conversation; just glided around the floor with him, breathing...comfortable.

He rested his mouth against her temple, and felt the pulse beating there, steadily, as if they had done it for years.

"You smell lovely", he said against her temple, ridiculously.

"Freesia", she said, quietly. "Quite out of date." She chuckled, not moving her head. She liked the way his voice made her ear buzz. She sighed, unapologetically.

He smiled, breathing in her hair. He had not stepped on her foot, as they twirled that last bit, despite talking to him at the same time. He found that rather attractive, in an oddly provocative way, and he was proud of himself for not trodding upon her instep, despite feeling very silly, all of a sudden.

She began to hum to the music. It was quite endearing, since he knew she wasn't hammered. Always so nice when someone knew the actual song, and didn't ruin it by yowling drunkenly, while cavorting about the floor like an idiot. She just hummed, and swirled, like rum.

He breathed, relaxed. They moved about the floor, silently. He raised her palm in his hand, moving his head back to look down at her face. She met his gaze, tilting her head back, and gave a laugh, stepping back, so he had to follow her. She took a quick step to one side, and then the other, not letting go of his hand.

She smiled at him.

"Happy St. Patrick's Day", she said, gently, swaying and stepping gently, as the music crooned quietly around them. " I got my wish."

"And what was that?" he said, gently.

"I wanted to dance with Love", she said, quietly. She touched the side of his face, stepped forward, kissed his nose, laughed.....

and walked briskly from the room.

There were, thankfully, still some women who knew that Time was Precious.

Zorb and Onk on St. Patrick's Day

2012-03-17T21:26:00.005-04:00

An observatory conversation between Zorb and Onk, from the planet Abconchcall, on St. Patrick's Day. Unfortunately, they have focused their observations on a bar.

-------------------------------------------------------

Onk: Observe, Zorb, the strange gyrations of this humanoid. I feel deep empathy for their illness, and wish to intervene. Pehaps if I stroke him out, he can be still, and at peace.

Zorb: No, Onk. This is forbidden. Besides, based on his diet, this is certainly imminent anyway. Besides, if you are careful, in your caring observation, you will note that this provides probably the only exercise that this human unit gets, in addition to the pleasurable feeling which he receives, as he moves with the count of the beats coming from the sustained sound of that piece of wood in the mouth of the nearby humanoid. This is a "pan pipe." Do you see it, Onk? It is not an unpleasant sound - although the pattern need not be repeated again, and again, as if we would forget it, without constant drilling. Perhaps they are stupid, and this instrument holder knows of this weakness, and seeks to address it by means of gyration pattern installation in its listener. I must observe more closely.

Also, this, I have noted, is sometimes a mating ritual. Why have you not noted this in your log?

Onk: Zorb, forgive my laziness. I am weak with respect to sustained focus. It requires such patience, I fear I fail repeatedly at this task. Might I sigh with resignation, with your permission?

Zorb: Must you, Onk? This is rather selfindulgent. Have you tried the gyrations yourself? We might learn from these Beings.

Onk: I prefer to run repeatedly on this metal device, with no real destination in mind, Zorb. In harnessing the energy it creates, I have contributed to the Greater Good, and I will provide energy for our sustenance garden. This illogical pan pipe gyration movement seems much like a kind of liquid, and I am uncomfortable with the elemental comparison, with respect to my outer shell. Cannot you compare me to barium? It, at least, has a clearer purpose.

Zorb: As you wish, Onk. This is not openminded, for an explorer. You are closeminded. This is often unhelpful, as far as being judgemental, and Superior.

Onk: Zorb, I feel you are drawing away from me, speaking as your completion unit, and this scares me. You are too influenced beyond our insular circle of completeness. I protest that I wish you to return and meld with me, immediately, as a comfort and assurance.

It is because I am insecure. However, this is required.

Zorb: I will not, Onk. This is most inconvenient timing for your personal needs. You are here for a greater mission than your own reassurance. Prostrate yourself among the flowers of the space garden immediately, and contemplate your place in the Greater Nature. I am ashamed of you. I will continue this affectionate and nonjudgemental support of this strange, yet loving, and seriously retarded, species.

Please go to our growing area. I do not wish to view you or engage in discourse any longer.

---------------------------------------------------------

St. Patrick's Day

2012-03-17T20:42:00.001-04:00

In honour of St. Patrick's Day, I have prepared the following pieces, for my own sanity (since I need a break from considering the project in which I am currently embroiled), and also because I think it's necessary. Each will be prefaced by a creative explanation.

-----------------------
Grouping One: Hitler's letters to his mistress, Eva Braun.

(Only two have been discovered, and many say that that is really enough to understand the man. Many then say they now know, for certain, why they wouldn't want to, anyway.)

---------------------------

Letter 1

Mein liebchien, I wish you were a man....I am so passionate, I am venting inappropriately, and feel ashamed of my urges. Please don't poison me. I'll take it out on everyone else, instead, since I also just suck as an administrator. No one listens to me, poopsikins. I will steal from them.

Love, your Rolfie.

----------------------

Letter 2

Eva, I have made them salute your sacrifice my darling, by showing me their clean hand. If I was weak, they could lower it to work, before they experienced massive pain in their shoulder area, but I will not: your love is tantamount, and I am a horse to your love. They must jump this high.

That you love me, I know, now. I am sorry I am such an asshole that I cannot give you my name, but you are still imperfect. That I am weak in this way means I must screw you repeatedly. We must tell no one, however. You may dream of me, though, if you wish. You must tell me if you do, however, so I may absolve you of these illusions you have about me, so that I remain pure.

If you continue to pleasure me, I will torment you lovingly with my love stache. In later years, imperfect men who grow things will mistakenly interpret this gift I make to you, and grow noxious substances out of various leaves, which they will, (because they're lazy and unclean), make you smoke, so that you can only envision these experiences in history between us.

They will envy us, my darling snowshoot, but simply sink into a chasm of sleep and then experience ravenous hunger which will then revolt them later, like a bird discovering how it has fed its young. They will never experience our purity, my love chub.

This is not to be mistaken for Peyote, which is different. Those guys are just crazy motherfuckers.

I have taken aspirin, again. I am weak.

Forgive me.

The headache of your love is a testament to the concussion of our minds, being one within the Greater Reality which I will create in my own artificial image. I must hurry and repeatedly continue to smash my head against the wall for inspiration....perhaps, until I am dead.

Oh!

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2012-03-15T05:06:00.001-04:00

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2012-03-09T22:01:00.005-05:00

Max was the only one who never judged Madame. It was unspoken. Despite the fact that she was, as a woman, completely alien - almost freakish - to his understanding of her traditional role as a woman - even beyond the understanding or capacity of her own family, removed as she often was from them, in various ways - he adored her, understood her within the confines of professionalism, and, in a world which did not either respect or give recognition to, her efforts, brave as they were, he knew, offered her the unquestionable loyalty which her sacrifices, deep as they had been, demanded, and deserved.

There was no else he trusted more than her, and the man who questioned her, he did not trust. It was a fierce love, born of life and death, trial and tremble, ache and agony, and in it he placed all of his ardency. Her expectation was nothing but implicit trust, without question - and, he knew, she got it, for reasons he could never explain. He thought of his beautiful daughter, destroyed by a bomb, who, Madame had said, she "just could not get to in time, dammit", and smiled, softly, to himself. That it was a sacred, fiercely protective, no gossip, fierce-to-death circle of knowingness, he also knew well. He could never explain why. Some things were beyond the simple fact that they were what they were....and that was all.

That this was beyond money, or self, some people would never understand. But there were a very gentle, very quiet, very loved few, who still would, forever. And those, she loved beyond compare.....

Part 26:Relay Racial Facial

2012-03-04T23:31:00.007-05:00

At the desk, the still-composed woman continued to watch the screen with dismay, grabbing a file and flipping it open to reveal several glossies. She did not trust any image to a screen. Each photo was a precious moment; a scarcity of combination; a blending of influences. She clicked and printed - and only saved on the camera. It drove everyone nuts.

It also made her faster, and freer, and more protected than anyone else had managed, considering the number of times her work had been ruined by various eyes.It was an eye world to her, and she had ardent approaches to her many concerns.

She brushed a hand over her forehead, distractedly, held the file in her left hand, and grabbed for a cellphone in the buttersoft handbag resting on top of the ornately carved desk: a gift from a client, who tried for dinner, too - unsuccessfully:the last, a rueful "too busy, mon cher", on her part, clicking her tongue with regret. The client forgave her instantly, as usual.

She hit a button on the desk, and several more: the screen split into four, all blaring with a stockmarket byline blurbing at the bottom of each screen, in a different language.

All were discussing various matters specific to something important:politico, famine, crises of enough magnitude to merit time. The game never changed, she thought, sadly - always, spectacle. She sighed.

She turned away from the large screen blanked from a painting image, now flashing foursquare electronics - a neat trick, and the pride of her office staff - and simply looked out of the window, waiting for an answer to her insistent ring.

"Madame?" Max's voice sounded quiet, but calm, as usual. She breathed in, instantly at ease.

"Oh, Max; have you seen the television?" She swiveled back to the screen, frowning.

"No, Madame. We have had a guest. I have been quite challenged, and very busy. Did you call earlier?" He sounded annoyed that he might have missed the call.

"No, no; no worries, Max. There has been another explosion. I received a call - Albert brought the note through to me at the gallery, via Albert in Paris, regarding the Haiti billboard. Someone has set fire to it...he was worried that someone might be wishing to hurt me." An angry cough sounded on the other end of the line, and she held the phone out from her ear.

"Apologies, Madame. I am not there. I am sorry." He sounded solemn. "You are safe?" There was a deeply pained note in his voice. He was furious that he was not there.

"Of course, Max. " Her voice was soft. "Please; I know this sounds odd, but does your guest seem legit? I can't be certain we are not being harassed, again." Her voice trembled, slightly. "I have no idea if this is because of Haiti, because of my efforts, or because of the model. I.....one never knows...."

"Madame! No worries!" Max sounded as if he wanted to climb through the phone. "The gentleman is perfectly welcome, and although somewhat disshevelled, otherwise most welcome, and quite appreciative of sanity amidst the weariness of travel." He paused. "I trust you are well?" His formality was a familiar affection, and she relaxed, smiling.

"Other than being on the immediate alert, again, Max...thankfully, I am fine. Thank you." She breathed out, aggravatedly. "Max, I am so sick of this maniac. I should be back tomorrow, once I liaise with authorities regarding the particulars. If anyone calls, you can give them my cell....but use your best judgement about who gets the number, okay?"

"Of course", said Max, smoothly. "Madame?"

"Just checking....how are you feeling?" Her tone was, again, normally concerned, and the now-firm cadenced response, eyeing the photo again, was simaltaneously visually and auditorially critical.

"I am well", said Max, quietly. "Peaceful sleeping, Madame." The line clicked. She breathed, one concern erased.

Part 25: Ebony Eyes

2012-03-04T20:41:00.009-05:00

"I told you", Grant screamed into the cellphone,

"Check the garbage can, or dumpster, closest to that billboard. In it - once you get past the smoke, so cover your bloody face - you will find a dead animal; most probably a cat, or part of one...do it!"

Each syllable was enunciated with such clarity that the consonants scraped along the phone, tragically, as if he was explaining directions to get to the school bus to a mentally challenged child - for the fortieth time.

He slammed the cellphone against the chest of the blankfaced uniform staring up at the sign, until his hand snaked up and closed over it, jaw dropping.

As his hand closed over the set, and Grant strode away, the remaining light bulbs around the sad blackened eyes in the billboard face exploded with a whiz, a moaning whistle/crack/pop sounding into the blueblack night sky.

"Goddammit, I'll do it myself", muttered Grant, grimly.

The words sounded flatly - strangely sombrely - into the impossible stillness, upsetting, at last, the total silence and quiet which followed the exploding bulbs.

Defeated, again, the uniform hung his head, lowering his arm, and turned towards the patrol car. Various voices blared out.

A crowd of onlookers needed no "move on" reminder.....they were rooted and staring, both startled and disturbed.

The uniform slipped quietly into the driver's seat, backed up the car, and tried to follow the disappearing figure of the large, angry, loping man moving towards any possible dumpster, smoking can, or hissing, personless box, still smoking within the small block radius he had just described, with such accurate acid.

"Fuck me Freddy" said the uniform, throwing the car into gear, and squinting to see where Grant had moved, machine-like, into the evening gloom.

He could never keep up to the fucking guy.

Part 24: A model model

2012-03-04T20:28:00.004-05:00

"Oh, my God, D'arcy....look at the add!" The beautiful mirror of the huge sign, a miniature in his newly-engaged arms - almost - shook with fear. D'Arcy looked up, still smelling the
acrid explosion in his nostrils.

His beauty....marred impossibly by fire. The sign was ablaze, her face one huge sheet of flame, the last blink of the lights, like gentle, painted tattoo white lights around her eyes - an exceptional "traditional tribal" paint touch which Madame George had added at the last minute - were now the last electric firewall for the only unburning thing, and they stared blackly out at everyone, in an obscene visual scream.

She only sobbed once, staring up at herself, held tight in his arms, but burned now, beyond recognition, on the huge billboard scant blocks away from them. It didn't matter what colour her hair had been......

She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing. He turned her face into his neck, stroking her hair, and murmuring to her gently.

Nearer to Buds and Green

2012-02-29T22:56:00.004-05:00

There is such small breath between us, I feel ashamed that I steal your air.

Only move here - a smallbreath further - and you shall collide with my lips.
They wait there for you, having spoken so many words of worry and wonder
That the poets of old - and of new, shudder......
See! Ah.....I think I see a tremor course through thee, reminding thy eyes to awaken;
That thou art still, (with breath moving around and within), yet with me,
And my hand, outstretched, might touch those trembling lips, fingers fumbling,
To seek the earth in them that is yet ours awhile, Dear One; tracing all the storied hours of roar and remember, there, with
the wide-eyed newness of it all, washing over me like the
Watering suddenness of
Warmed Oak Age, and Flowers of Spring, in an
Instant of
Carbon Spark.

Part 23: Stolen creamery of Robin's breast

2012-02-28T23:52:00.007-05:00

She threw the headset on the settee, shrugged tiredly out of her sweater, wiping at her nose absently with a tissue. With her other hand, she wiped at her eyes.

She wished the snotty bastard wasn't so short with her. The job was hard enough, and she had no trust fund or silver spoon pedigree; she just had this fucking job, a couple of college diplomas, and a good heart, and sometimes it wasn't enough to keep on giving a shit, when someone continually spoke to her as if she was, alternately, either just slightly mentally retarded, or less than a piece of garbage - especially since she genuinely wanted to help them all, and couldn't afford a medical degree, or the time it took to get one, with all of the responsibilities, financial and mental, she had taken on. Besides; she was too old now. She looked sad, at the thought.

"The root of hospitality is hospital". She heard her parents' kindly voices in her head, working hands hugging her close to them.

"You have to not care that no one else cares, and lead." She pondered the words, thoughtfully. "There is never enough care, in the world, kitten; always too much rage." The voices were soft, gentle.....and firm.

Sometimes she wished she could just be cold and clinical; detached, and removed, and elegant, like the languid women whose faces seemed effortlessly perfect, staring at her from pages, billboards, screens and men's arms. Everywhere she seemed to look, lately, they stared out at her, impassively; never out of control, never fitful, never feeling inadequate; never within reach.

That may have been a good thing, she mused, quietly, reasoning that the huge mental hands seemed bent on grinding her into a chiseled hole in the cement, most of the time, it was so bloody cutting.

"He's lonely", she said to the little cat, black and white, that had padded out to meet her in the dim dinginess of the gleaming, sparsely furnished surroundings:clean, proud.....and poor, like her. Roughly-hewn canvases, some framed in branches, others in crudely-crafted remnants of sideboard and edging, hung about, brilliant, and defiant, and ......hopeful.

She bent to pour a little of the pocketed plastic creamers, one at a time, until all three were gently poured into the battered pottery bowl on the floor beside the stove, deftly peeling and flipping the foil lid on each one, expertly. The little kitten, grateful, purred in anticipation.

The tired eyes, brushing back the bangs, and straightening her glasses, smiled. She did not touch the cat.

"I didn't tell them I take it black", she murmured to the kitten, eyes twinkling. She laughed, softly, in the gloom......

Personal Flight

2012-02-28T03:18:00.003-05:00

Whenever clouds abound amidst the highest peaks,
Blotting out the azure glow of sky,
And circling wings of keen-eyed eagles seek
The treasured blink and small-winged cry,
But find it not, take heart;
All soon will fade away, like misted days
Long past:
Then greater journeys, and better notes,
Will ring.

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2012-02-25T17:49:00.005-05:00

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-------------

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Have a great day!

ON SALE NOW! Brand new Audio Book - Dawn M. Nevills

2012-02-19T06:09:00.004-05:00

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Interesting Times

2012-01-22T17:28:00.009-05:00

We live in interesting times. Whether or not this is viewed as curse or continuing challenge, perhaps, is in the eye of the observer, but passivity is likely the harbinger of nothing but itself, even in surmise.

Progressive, or pensive? Like all artists, observing by what means, and just how, we reflect our own "growth" is often the best, and most accurate, gauge of our opinion of ourselves, and just what it is we are "seeking" as human beings. And politics is often the modern arena by which we measure skill in the management of a nation, and its peoples.

In the United States, fresh from the smarting wounds of a still-protected-deep-within-itself Camelot wish buffeted by the viciousness of extreme, a hopeful nation has drawn in on itself, somewhat, its genuine and ardent wishes deeply scarred by the manipulation of a political extreme that thinks nothing of robbing pensioners on a fixed income, and treating the need for a basic surety of care like a luxury, trumpeting "proper spending", while the highest echelons mock the determination of a helmsman to fix the economic ills of a country by trusting first in corporate ethics as a fulcrum of democratic stability, even as it skims from the very people it was charged to help, by awarding million dollar bonuses to itself, after moaning about the implosion of its own systemic bulwarks. Alas, they could not be fired. They can, however, be monitored by the financial watchdog in place on every board where bailout moneys stabilized an industry, and will answer to them, on behalf of the voice of a nation which hammered the stones in place, and aim to keep them there - million dollar bonuses be damned.

The helmsman? What is sniffed at as "cool, aloof demeanour" is something the rag-like oafs straggling just out of reach of actual journalistic debate abhor: dignity, and an absence of the penchant to be manipulated like a performing seal, or taking more than a passing politicial interest in the interestedly detached "Al Jolson" perspective of a man of intelligence: a family man, with the contemplative nature that speaks of policy, and one who is learning very quickly about the vacuous nature of a sometimes vicious need for "newsotainment". Having been schooled in the ways of political and financial political extremes, the picture is very clear, indeed:their agenda has always been, and will always be, the same. Cultivating a culture of xenophobia and fear of the unknown, it taps into the very political extremism and culture of disparity it has created, erasing any legacy of international diplomacy - excepting a very few, who see beyond, and have always known, and comforted, in the midst of the devastation always caused by its reactionary, volatile, obsessed extremes. It sees enemies everywhere, and where there are none, any voice which speaks of concern and debate becomes one. It self-perpetuates.

There are comments of "massive ego", where there is only the discipline always required of leadership, and the drawing in, measured response, and intelligent solutions which also involve compassion - or, at least, a quiet demand for respect for earned trust, in spite of the inculcating culture of fear, and a refusal to be sucked into the gaping vortex of "finding the latest scapegoat" which, by default, is anyone who might wish to actually SUCCEED at something. Like Hitler, misery must find, and punish, someone - as long as it isn't one's self, and the more convenient, and visible, the supposed perpetrator, the more likely the real culprits - the same ones who insisted upon, offered up, and then gouged out the proffered repairs to the foundation - then resume their snickering positions in the safe confines of the latest run for the "eye of newt, perfect hair" image of itself.

The rest of us struggle with bedhead, staying ahead of the machinations, and a somewhat grim, but wiser, surety that these bastards will stop at nothing to widen the gap, stepping over the latest homeless with the easy stride of someone used to kicking things out of the way - even if it's the guy who taught you about stealing from the local candy store, by marching you back there and returning it to the merchant, who then made you shovel his front walk for a week, in reparation. You sure showed those little peons! They won't even get a nurse, when the day is done....unless she's volunteer, or some other person you don't have to "waste" money paying. .....One can only hope you get them as caregivers, one day, so you understand that working double shifts somewhere else can sometimes cause...yes....ERRORS. Meanwhile, they continue to do their best, equally determined that you won't kill their actual concern, and they won't kill you.....much as they might like to, as an easy solution, frankly. That would be too much like you.

Fresh from the "101" of extremist financial marksmanship, shining moments possibilities safely armoured against all manner of ills, including the penchant for behavioural antics and, some say, actual personality that suggests leadership - scoundrel and all - which we hate to love, and love to hate, simaltaneously, because it suggests that we can all, be, sometimes imperfect, as long as we can "still do the job", we are reminded that to be human is to learn, sometimes, about what is always a reliable roadmarker: the surety of greed.

And Canada? Canada has, at its helm, , it's true, a Tory....but it has, too, amidst the sea of blue, a conscience, and a consideration, and a steadiness carefully coached in "just the right touch" of Stones-playing piano to titillate the bluehairs, and, at least, a willingness to consult and discuss which speaks of a shift AWAY from extremism, and a quiet, very genuine, desire to consider the blatant, awkward, arrogant cultural errors of its past interactions with itself, towards a different, albeit, cautious sense of curiousity about the morrow.....

Unfortunately, it looks a lot like today, and for those needing a promise of betterment, after earnest striving, and the shouldering of financial woes imposed by its extremes, even as the opportunity to remove it through effort is removed, (along with working class democracy"), it does nothing to improve, or provide, anything to discuss, other than "Change. "

Moneypenny would be proud....at least before they ditch her, too. All those jars, grubby hands, and rolling papers.....sigh. And you have to COUNT them....!

Part 21: Looking back

2012-01-16T13:21:00.009-05:00

....the cat padded around the corner, stopped, and sat down, staring after the hooker. No free meal.

Suddenly, it shook itself, its fur fanning out around it like a shock of sable elegance, the thick added layer like a Viking armour against the cold of the dilapidated wash of evening sky. It licked its paw where it had smashed against the side of the dumpster, trying to escape.

Padding over to the curb, it peered, interestedly, at the open grate of a sewer. Suddenly watchful, it lowered its haunches into a sitting position.....and waited.

Part 20:Exchange of Views

2012-01-16T12:40:00.009-05:00

The motorcycle rumbled to an abrupt stop as the light flashed red in warning.

Alert to the deserted, unkempt silence filled only by blowing trash and the moan of wind whipping around the chipped corners, the rider lifted his head, shifting the backpack awkwardly. An object rolled out into the street, unnoticed, falling from the hole in the backpack with a plop, onto the surface of the cracked asphalt. It bounced a few times, before rolling into the gutter beside the curb. The rider, ramming the gear impatiently, as the engine stalled, gunned off into the distance.

......................................................................................................

The woman thought nothing of it, as she bent to pick up the object in the gutter, unwrapping the small tube with unexpected delight, like a small child at Christmas. Pulling off the tube cover, she rolled up the stick carefully, standing on the sidewalk, and swiped at her mouth with the back of her other hand, before cleaning off a smeared window front with the elbow of her coat, as she applied the splash of colour to her lips.

The gash of bright purple startled her, as she stared at herself in the window. The face looked frozen, ghost-like, like a corpse. She looked at the side of the tube.

"Do me", she read out loud. She frowned, shoving the tube into her purse, pulled down her very tight, very short, polyester leopard skin skirt further over her hips, gave a small shiver, and ignored it, fluffing her hair out defiantly, like a boxer, throwing out her chin, and laying a languid hand on her hip, before resuming her stroll. There was no one in sight.

"Yah, right. Fifty short and I get a new lipstick. Must have me an angel...." The hooker rolled her eyes, walking forward. She did not see the shadow behind her, lurking closer.

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2012-01-14T17:58:00.000-05:00

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2012-01-07T23:19:00.001-05:00

Read this page: www.sweetpoison.com

King Making

2012-01-07T03:30:00.001-05:00

I used to dream about being an Ambassador,
So that one day, like Madeline Albright, I could look at all of my pins,
And think of all the miles, and all the smiles, and all the earnest words,
And regard them as the very finest of jewels, in my mind and memory, like the
Lives of the people whose gentle clasps, affixed like hands over my heart,
Spurred me on to a new day.

Alas, mine was a humbler task, earnest though I was, in making those
Greater Moments more flawless, and void of concern or alarm.
Each brief hour of peacefilled word was a ribbon of Comfort in the
Cabinet of races won, and I, blowing hard, ignoring the
Performance opportunities for the
Greatest Stars, enjoyed my secret treasures,
Though the rest days of rollicking notes, when the work week was done
Presented a different Face - a more mischievious one -
Singing our troubled thoughts away.

And yet, those Dear Faces, to me,
are still the Crown for
Every King I may have
Made.

Beloved Christmas

2011-12-25T01:20:00.000-05:00

It is Come! It is Come!
The Eve of the Possible; the Day of the New:
The forgets and forgives, the now and the Known,
When Aged and Young reap the carefully Sown.

Ah, Christmas, thou sweetest of Days;
Thou harbinger of memories, thou present of Sage,
Remind us Again, of those Dearest of Faces
Gone and Near, Cared and Caring -

Oh, Maker of Miracles, speak of Wild and Wonderful Moments,
When even all the World, for just a little while,
Ceased its Hate, in defiant Love,
And Stilled even the Order of the Day
to Whisper....
Peace, thou Brother and Sister Mine;
Only see the Babe, and
Rejoice!

The Ghosts of a Chance.....

2011-12-06T00:13:00.000-05:00

amongst the ruins of tinsel and tower...
breath arises,
and on its vapid cloud, within the frigid timbre of note and nothing
so awash amidst the want and wishes,
The Word
emerges,
Speaking of Moment, and Meaning, and
More.
Often, manners are forgot, amidst the frozen moisture of tiny
drops, at Sir, and Sire, and Such, the Madames are not so tidy,
and This old flicker, nuzzling still, its egged-on Young,
Glows Green and
Brazen, and Oh, so
Bold among the
Shadows....
Which move, even as we Speak.

Keeping in Touch - via "The sky!" Riviera for Skype

2011-11-21T16:39:00.000-05:00

Fear of flying? No more: keep in touch with those you care about.

Visit:

http://www.jiteco.com/skype_call_recorder.html">Skype

Whether you're trekking through a favourite forest, bobbing along the Riviera, reading a book in your backyard, or sitting quietly by the fire - "Riviera for Skype" will bring you there - instantly.

(And they won't even see your wings!)

Tulip bulbs and Fall Preserves

2011-10-23T05:22:00.000-04:00

I feel the chill as the wind whistles about in the evening, sweeping leaves
Away absently. It is a time for Before Winter
Repairs, patched warmth, and preserving all the
Gratefulness of work and Harvest.

In those reminder moments, as I gather my satchels about me,
I imagine the myriad bulbs in them bursting forth in spring for you -
A thousand colours of the rainbow, Rembrandt splashed, and brilliant;
Myriad-hued sighs
lighting up your eyes, at my wildly scattered paintbrush smiles,
As they twinkle, with the sunshine in mine.
Spring, and my heart, will light
again the Green and Newness of Heart and Hands after
Gentle
Winter's Sleep, and the glow and Noel mind of Rest and Giving.

It is an apart collection, this, in thought; traveling gently across time and space
In kind comfort, its continued Quest still in the striving to try, and in the
Quiet, Considered, Humbled, Hope
for Better, in
The Best of
The Heart's Knights.

Almost Apostolic

2011-09-26T03:48:00.000-04:00

Betwixt light and shadow, glimmer and darkling plain,
Amidst orb, and shape, and glow,
Therein, the movement is within and without,
And all the sudden shudder that is "know" and "now"
Reminds us of everything, and nothing,
Shifting endlessly.
Quick! The flicker of "aye" is Evermore,
Joined, and joining,
Continuing, and Continuance;
flicker, and flame, and
Fierce.
We are Ourselves, Together;
Dust, Filled with
Momentary Kindness of
Shared Breath,
Sculpting....supported, Supporting,
Melded and Welded, like
Shielded Versions of Each Other,
Mirrored.
Oh! If only the Angels know how fierce my prayers are...
then I shall be at Peace,
Even though your gaze is
Politely
Bewildered, and I shall calm your trembling lips with
Trembling, invisible/visible
Fingers...
Precursor to the Cursory profanity of my
Mouth.

Homemade Halloween...continued

2011-09-18T17:23:00.000-04:00

Recycle Man...Version 2

This recycle man wears armour comprised entirely of plastic, water, pop, and juice bottles cut into half, and stapled together via the flat, open sides, side by side.

On each side, you can use a newspaper punch to attach heavy ribbons or rope, to tie the armour on like a big huge goalie pad.

Add a "recycle pop top", which you can either make out of pop bottles, or make a huge cardboard flip lid bottle top from a cereal box, and paint it...poof!

You're RECYCLE MAN....Version 2:"Captain Plastastic."

Have fun.....and be creative! (You might look a little like bubble wrap...don't be alarmed....just in time for Christmas "mailings"....har, har, har...grin.)

Madame George. xo

Adventure in Advance Planning: Homemade Halloween

2011-09-17T19:21:00.000-04:00

Today's costume ideas:

1. RECYCLE MAN Version 1

Needed: Recycled paper towel and toilet paper holders, for gluing together, painting, and creating both a helmet, shield, and coat of arms, tie-on armour.
Helmet can contain pipe horns, simulating breathing apparatus. Underclothing should be either thrown away machinist overalls, dyed black (or so dirty they smell clean, but will never be stainless). Go for a "down and dirty working man hero" look. Every part of the ensemble must be made of something recycled.

Rolls in front should, if connected properly, be eerily similar to the Abominable Marshmallow Man. (More on this later.)

2. MAN FROM PLAID (Or...the dishevelled overworked FARMER/EXECUTIVE/MAKES THAT TAX PAYMENT, EQUIPMENT RENTAL, AND UTILITY PAYMENT GUY. Can also be MADGE FROM PLAID. RUBBER GLOVES and canvas fishing hat required...or plastic grandma rainhat. (usually under 49 cents, even today, astoundingly....near the "curlers" section....yes; "curlers"....you can say it! This is when we had to "set" our hair, along with the table, because we had no perm solution that didn't cause us to risk death and poisoning via the scalp...OR a hairdryer. Made will bring smiles. Add an apron for authenticity, as she bolts out the door for work, flinging it on to the bench.....

Needed: Old briefcase, or recycled portfolio. (Value village and Sally ann great for this.)

Needed: EVERYTHING PLAID - including the makeup on your face, which should take, if done properly, about twenty minutes to complete. Make sure the same sort of plaid pattern on shirt and pants (which should really be mismatched, along with either a Santa leather belt, or a piece of rope (for tying up something stray that suddenly runs away), is repeated on your face makeup. This take some doing, and a small kit, available at Value Village, or abandoned lipstick and shoe polish combinations, drawn in coloured squares, separated by black lines, creating the "Plaid on SKIN" look.

We're going for a Bay City Rollers look, here, so different plaid socks - or grey work socks, which look better - and either work boots, or black and white very worn running shoes. If you are going for the executive look, you can branch out into hiking boots, but be careful: all things plaid, please.

If you feel reallyl wild you can go for the "shocked redhead" look, and Pippi Longstocking braids that stick straight up, for girls, but this will take some glue and patience, and you really should get permission before you start sucking your hair into a punk version of Pippi with the vacuum cleaner, after shellacing it with Lepages. We don't want any bald kids in school on Monday - and besides; no one is brave enough for that type of creativity anymore, anyway.....sigh. Oh well. Go for a curly hippy wig (Value Village), or "stiff gel straight in the air" reaction to the hydro bill, instead, if you get scared at the glue idea, or are tempted to smell it. No self immolation or hurtie activity allowed!

MORE TOMORROW!

Lingering twinkle

2011-09-12T00:27:00.000-04:00

...swish, whish, whirl;

...a whoosh!...awash. Ah.

...and no fever!...but......gone?

...See! There's the smile.....perhaps.....not ALL!.....

...Hark! A note!......Soup's on!

Summer lights

2011-08-27T04:29:00.000-04:00

Surely thou art light in summer.
Cicada choruses spring so, that all the leaves of thy season's languid dreaming
Are but shadows; jungle arms, sheltering hushed and heated thought, amidst the haze and glimmer of nightfall's strange, flitting eyes,
And that steady buzz, a premontory music,
For would-be lovers - still mere suggestion: a thought of mist and glimmer,
Close-knit, and trembling, in the dark.
Thou hast seen the glow of fireflies in mine eyes,
Looking skyward, and all the throat glows within the ink, glimpsed, storied flashes of
A hollowed place of kiss and mingle, beating.

A Letter from Jack to all Canadians

2011-08-23T13:41:00.000-04:00

From: Linda Sanders
Sent: Monday, August 22, 2011 5:19 PM
To: undisclosed-recipients:
Subject: Jack Layton's final letter to all Canadians, dated Saturday, Aug. 20, 2011, two days before he died:

Dear Friends,
Tens of thousands of Canadians have written to me in recent weeks to wish me well. I want to thank each and every one of you for your thoughtful, inspiring and often beautiful notes, cards and gifts. Your spirit and love have lit up my home, my spirit, and my determination.

Unfortunately my treatment has not worked out as I hoped. So I am giving this letter to my partner Olivia to share with you in the circumstance in which I cannot continue.

I recommend that Hull-Aylmer MP Nycole Turmel continue her work as our interim leader until a permanent successor is elected.

I recommend the party hold a leadership vote as early as possible in the New Year, on approximately the same timelines as in 2003, so that our new leader has ample time to reconsolidate our team, renew our party and our program, and move forward towards the next election.

A few additional thoughts:

To other Canadians who are on journeys to defeat cancer and to live their lives, I say this: please don’t be discouraged that my own journey hasn’t gone as well as I had hoped. You must not lose your own hope. Treatments and therapies have never been better in the face of this disease. You have every reason to be optimistic, determined, and focused on the future. My only other advice is to cherish every moment with those you love at every stage of your journey, as I have done this summer.

To the members of my party: we’ve done remarkable things together in the past eight years. It has been a privilege to lead the New Democratic Party and I am most grateful for your confidence, your support, and the endless hours of volunteer commitment you have devoted to our cause. There will be those who will try to persuade you to give up our cause. But that cause is much bigger than any one leader. Answer them by recommitting with energy and determination to our work. Remember our proud history of social justice, universal health care, public pensions and making sure no one is left behind. Let’s continue to move forward. Let’s demonstrate in everything we do in the four years before us that we are ready to serve our beloved Canada as its next government.

To the members of our parliamentary caucus: I have been privileged to work with each and every one of you. Our caucus meetings were always the highlight of my week. It has been my role to ask a great deal from you. And now I am going to do so again. Canadians will be closely watching you in the months to come. Colleagues, I know you will make the tens of thousands of members of our party proud of you by demonstrating the same seamless teamwork and solidarity that has earned us the confidence of millions of Canadians in the recent election.

To my fellow Quebecers: On May 2nd, you made an historic decision. You decided that the way to replace Canada’s Conservative federal government with something better was by working together in partnership with progressive-minded Canadians across the country. You made the right decision then; it is still the right decision today; and it will be the right decision right through to the next election, when we will succeed, together. You have elected a superb team of New Democrats to Parliament. They are going to be doing remarkable things in the years to come to make this country better for us all.

To young Canadians: All my life I have worked to make things better. Hope and optimism have defined my political career, and I continue to be hopeful and optimistic about Canada. Young people have been a great source of inspiration for me. I have met and talked with so many of you about your dreams, your frustrations, and your ideas for change. More and more, you are engaging in politics because you want to change things for the better. Many of you have placed your trust in our party. As my time in political life draws to a close I want to share with you my belief in your power to change this country and this world. There are great challenges before you, from the overwhelming nature of climate change to the unfairness of an economy that excludes so many from our collective wealth, and the changes necessary to build a more inclusive and generous Canada. I believe in you. Your energy, your vision, your passion for justice are exactly what this country needs today. You need to be at the heart of our economy, our political life, and our plans for the present and the future.

And finally, to all Canadians: Canada is a great country, one of the hopes of the world. We can be a better one – a country of greater equality, justice, and opportunity. We can build a prosperous economy and a society that shares its benefits more fairly. We can look after our seniors. We can offer better futures for our children. We can do our part to save the world’s environment. We can restore our good name in the world. We can do all of these things because we finally have a party system at the national level where there are real choices; where your vote matters; where working for change can actually bring about change. In the months and years to come, New Democrats will put a compelling new alternative to you. My colleagues in our party are an impressive, committed team. Give them a careful hearing; consider the alternatives; and consider that we can be a better, fairer, more equal country by working together. Don’t let them tell you it can’t be done.
My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.

All my very best,
Jack Layton
by Lesley Ciarula Taylor edited by TORONTO STAR 2:40 PM

Remembering NDP Leader Jack Layton

2011-08-23T00:56:00.000-04:00

Jack Layton:

A man who took the Everyman in Everyone....and made them King.

Long live the Hope that we take into Tomorrow, Jack.....and the Kingmaking.

God Bless, and thank you for all you hoped for, all you dreamed for, and all of those same that you kept alive in the hearts of ....Everyone

You will be sadly missed.

"Phat Quarter Magic" Tip of the Day: Cash for Squares!

2011-08-20T01:32:00.000-04:00

A great way to recycle old clothing items which are no longer repairable or "hand-me-downable" - for REAL CASH - is to cut them into very carefully, neatly arranged "Phat Squares".

"Phat Squares" are squares of cloth and material arranged in either colour ranging, or pattern ranging patterns in order to stimulate the creation of a quilt, clothing item, or pieced cloth art, using your careful arrangement of colours and patterns.

They are most often cut into 5"X5" or 6"X6" squares, for quilting projects, and into long strips, when using men's shirt, or blouse material, which require larger pieces.

Smaller fabric art works often use "phat square" collections, in conjunction with cut images, which are then carefully interwoven into the final, sewn fabric project, be it blanket, pillow, jacket, or complex and beautiful, visual fabric cloth multimedia art image, tastefully framed. "Puffy quilt" art can be painstaking and incredibly beautiful.

The best "Phat Square" bundles are tastefully tied with a lovely piece of ribbon, and priced as a purchasable item, with enough squares included to be able to complete an actual piece of work, and, depending upon the richness and complexity of the cloth, and the size of the suggested project, can range in price from $1.99, or less, to up to 15.00 apiece, for velvet, brocade, antique, and rare cloth.....and all from recycled "materials"!

You can use pinking shears (the big zig zag scissors), but always make sure that you measure very accurately and carefully, and that your scissors are VERY sharp, when creating "PHAT SQUARE" project bundles.

It is also a wonderful way to preserve that favourite clothing item which you associate with a loved moment in your life, a treasured and valuable antique piece of cloth just not big enough to make anything on its own, and unique combinations of patterns and colours, put together with an artist's eye, as well as a kind, encouraging heart. For extra "wonderfulness", tie a little label on it, with a suggested project! Everyone needs a little creative encouragement! ....

(i.e. doggie coat, little girl's quilted dress, cover for Grandma's motorcycle (grin), designer quilted evening jacket for that favourite entertainer, a beautiful and dressy, glamourously long "dress vest" for a favourite Auntie, to wear with blouse and skirt, or dress - or something as personal and practical as matching cushions, for the outside patio chairs!

The idea of a homemade gift made from Phat Squares dates back to New Orleans, (among other moments in history) when rich brocade fabrics and garments were often smuggled in, or given to the "Very Special Ladies" in the French Quarter as gifts, by the "well to do", and then made into incredibly beautiful, complex, and unique practical, and wearable objects. The tradition, however, is also rural, and is connected, in unique ways, to the "underground railway" which ran from the cotton plantations of slaves smuggled from Africa and the Far Islands, into Canada. Complex signals and directions were sewn into blankets and items months in advance of plans to smuggle slaves northward, and used to guide the "lookouts", who viewed them by day, using simple clothes and blankets, hanging on the line to dry!

Hidden people then travelled by night, to safety, and freedom in the North, using those same directions, based on painstaking and carefully arranged plans, by very, very good people........Another wonderful and practical piece of "Sewing Magic!"

Quiet comfort, and the ability to make a living in caring, healthy ways will never go out of style....and neither will "Phat Quarters".

Take a look at your closet, and see how much creativity - and cash! - is just waiting for your careful and neat cutting, arranging, bundling and labelling.

God Bless, and Good Luck, should you accept this "Create with Love" mission!

Love,

Madame George xo

The Heart Of a King in Pearl Roundabout

2011-08-18T04:19:00.000-04:00

What excellent news, that scholarship, internationally, produces a poet and scholar concerned with the welfare of the very people whose toil produced the concern itself.

What a joy, surely, that "The Heart of a King" would write - with wit and wisdom far beyond her years - of that same heart, in a man who would call Himself One....

Seems a truly high compliment, on both counts - even if there is a little talk of "A compassionate Devil in disguise". He did run a pretty close second.....smile.

Or, in this case, walk....with many, many others, as I recall......he and his Dream.

RELIEF: A moment with Santa

2011-08-13T13:47:00.000-04:00

http://www.cbc.ca/22 minutes/

View, particularly, if you would, "Santa Critch on Parliament Hill."

It's my personal favourite.

Love amongst the Ruins

2011-08-13T02:13:00.000-04:00

'If, as Martin Luther King wrote, "a riot is the language of the unheard", a result of "living with the daily ugliness of slum life, educational castration and economic exploitation", then this is Dr King's language rendered as art, and set to music.'

Dan Hancox, u.k guardian.

Quincy Jones said it best, in "Back on the Block."

"Back on the block, heebopa hip hop, soul, rhythm and blues"....
"I'm on the wax, I'm on the stage; I'm on the screen; I'm on the news"....
...."on a magical journey;"...
..."I'm on the scene, just like an attorney." Voices, everywhere: Death?

Nowhere, man.

Part 15: Cement Blow out

2011-07-31T19:24:00.000-04:00

Darcy heard the tanks blow, like a dull roar moaning through the early evening buzz of evening traffic and usual street ranting.

He gripped the phone, shoving it back to his ear. The line was dead.

Turning, he looked at her face. She had raised her hand to her mouth, the eyes suddenly wide with fear. The new ring flashed defiantly, catching the glint of neon.

He turned back, towards the glow. The hand snaked up, like a spear in the impossible darkness, framing the movement like an odd dance. Then it moved back down, towards the face. The lips tipped up to meet the tube, like a Michaelangelo painting.

She turned, just before the tube touched her lips, staring at him gently.

"Do me", she said, gently. "I look better painted." The screen drew in upon itself, to a pinprick of starburst, imploded.

They smelled it first, before the flames shot up into the air, two tall spikes, like horns, reversing the implosion.

Strangely, there was only one sound: an odd scream from her, from between spaced fingers, unbelieving. He stood rooted, speechless, the dead phone hum in his ear a flatline, final accompaniment to the hiss and sudden sirens.

"He's there", said D'Arcy, quietly. "Grant knows." He drew her to him, cradling her softly against him, quietening the scream, gently.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 14: Lip Lock

2011-07-31T19:09:00.000-04:00

The explosion ripped through the two storage tanks like two huge opening eyes, in the darkness.

Grant, standing with the phone in his hand, watched the glow in the night sky, and knew he was near. Cement shard in one hand, phone in the other, he stood there, the glow reflected in his own eyes.

Turning, impossibly, he watched "Love, Magic, Learning", flash in Neon on the side of a building. A tube of lipstick, held in a delicately manicured hand, appeared, rising like a torch, the hand bending down like a snake, towards an upturned, elegant face, which turned to look at him kindly.

"Do me", she said, calmly. "I look better painted."

The screen closed, impossibly, to a head and shoulders of a Robert-Palmer styled, sleekly cut, Mona Lisa look alike.

Grant blinked, twice.

"Jesus", he said. "I can smell you, you freak show."

In the near distance, the siren wailed towards him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Midday

2011-07-31T15:30:00.000-04:00

The afternoon is sizzling.
I can see the shimmer bouncing off of the wood, warning me with wavering lips
Of the challenge of afternoon settees.....

I note the cushion appears buoyant enough, springing back from my touch like a
Cursor test;
Airdried barbecues, summer sweat, and assisted breathing
Aside.

Oh, droll night, that looms nearer,
Bid the lace curtain draw aside its twinkle
To show us languor,
Wheeling.

In need of rest, the shadowed dancing within
is strangely silent,
Smiling at the shimmer,
Teeth flashing,
in a slow, sultry
Two step.

The Swing

2011-07-19T07:52:00.001-04:00

Magnolia sweet air, hanging fragrant and languid around our heads,
Tell him a story of my thoughts;
Of the small droplet of water, wending its way beneath the cotton
Swell of summer's haze,
Reminding us of
Thirst.

The other Life of Bees

2011-07-09T08:50:00.000-04:00

If there is a road through all of these stars,
And what seems glow and beckon really is,
Then journeying there can only be a blink and blip on someone's radar screen,
When the little movement that is us displaces calm,
Deep within some Nebula,
Replacing void with ripple, and wrinkle in Time.

There will be this errant bee, carrying us, and we, the
Honey of Life, bringing sweetness
to some
Distant Flower, and the various
Lives,
Lit upon its Petals.

Tempered Nectar

2011-07-09T08:27:00.000-04:00

I think of glen and dale, dark and
sweet as claret balm,
Swirled and stained from your lips, and spilled onto mine, like
dye.

I can taste the slow oak of
age, pungent as forest sweat,
in the din and mist of spring,
Its languid tongue, grape-touched and tingling,
Meeting mine, softly.

In the dark, the lips that part and join,
hide the quick soft sigh
of
New nectar.

Part 12: Epic Birthday at the Opera..Darcy speaks

2011-05-14T09:24:00.003-04:00

He hadn't meant to.

He couldn't help it. They were sitting there, and her face was rapt, like an angel's, listening to the singing: he couldn't help himself. They were alone in the balcony, anyway, but he threw something on the floor in pretext, kneeled quietly in front of her, softly pushed the chair back, putting his finger to his lips, as she looked at him, confusedly, ducked his head before someone could see, said "Shhhh", against her breast, conspiratorially, tipped the chair against the wall, and slid his hands under the dress, pulling on the offending undergarment, until it gave way.

"Look straight ahead...isn't that music beautiful?" he whispered, looking up at her face. She took a quick breath, as he bent his head, easing her foot over his shoulder, until her knee was curled around it, like a grappling hook.

She leaned back, one quiet sound escaping her mouth, as the music rose and fell, with her breathing. She gripped his hair in her hands gently, trying to control herself.

Finally, he drew her skirt back down, raised his head quietly, picked up the offending, imaginary item from the floor, swivelled round to his chair, drew hers slowly beside him, tipping her forward, with a gentle "phump" against the carpeted surface, leaned against her ear in the darkness, and said,

"Happy Birthday, Baby." She closed her eyes. They were both smiling, as the light from the stage lit their faces. The full soprano rang through the air, triumphantly, in crescendo.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

As they were ambling out of the ornate building, holding hands, Darcy kissed her gently behind the ear, smiling at her artfully. Her face was a deep red, but she was smiling like a Cheshire cat.

"I think that's the very first time I ever enjoyed a concert so much", he teased.

She began to laugh gently.

"In fact", he went on, "I would go so far as to say I have never enjoyed opera quite so much."

She laughed out loud, then, and he pulled her against him, laughing gently, as they continued walking down the street. He hailed the cab with a casual wave, practiced, and polished...and holding tightly to the small box in his coat pocket, casting a furtive glance at her face, as he opened the door to the cab, and settling the folds of her dress around her, in a decidedly old-fashioned, gentlemanly gesture, as he swung in behind her.

"Manny's" he said to the taxi driver, confidently.

"Time for a cocktail" he quipped, staring at her, straight-faced. She put her hand over her mouth, shaking. The taxi driver glanced in the mirror, nodding. A small smile played about his lips.

-----------------------------------------

The phone sounded a subdued, insistent ring in the dimly lit recesses of the sleek care in Darcy's apartment.

Grant's voice began an aggravated, cursory relating of annoyance.

"I figured it would take this long for you to ask her, you coward. I said it would be over a drink..." he paused, gruffly affectionate. "A little medicinal courage never hurt an already good idea, in the relating". He paused. "Why she's put up with you this long, with her schedule, I will never know. Since I already know she'll say "yes" to you, Mr. Suave (he pronounced it "swave" purposefully)my late night ring is, no doubt, appropriately timely"....

Suddenly, his gruff, teasing, tone changed.

"Call when you get in. I found a skull near the wharf...in the midst of cement, accidentally broken open by some kid playing in the overhaul zone, near the meatpackers...where they're pouring the new asphalt. It's a goddamned mess."

"Congratulations". The line clicked, abruptly.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

2011-04-10T01:13:00.000-04:00

Self Portrait by Dawn M. Nevills

If I am but a canvas, upon which life ekes out its etchings,
Then I should like the map, like the lines,
To show that love has played itself out upon my Face;
That each event - whether in Sorrow or Joy - has left its mark,
Its Moment, and its Meaning;
I should like a bit of the wild colours in God's sky to
Show themselves, in Morning and Evening,
When yawning sunlight's watering tendril fingers,
And evening glows' sleepy embers suggest
Brief Times, during which my eyes have beheld them;
And I should like a Man, when he sees these maps of life
on my face, and on my body, not to see decay,
But the gentle passage of Time, and, in the changes
which mark each passing year,
A different kind of
Beauty.

Vulcanic Tantrum

2010-08-26T06:22:00.000-04:00

See the rock and steam of upheaval,
Ridding itself of itself, upon the steadied
Bosom of rock and traversed petrified field!

They slide down the sharpened, impossible peaks of
Outburst,
into the
Blackened, crawling sludge-river of fire and fresco.

All are rock to rock, nudged and nuanced
Into fossilized frenzy.

Trees in Fog

2010-08-26T06:10:00.000-04:00

There is no echo here, in this grotto.
The fog, like errant fireside smoke,
shrouds and silences, reminding the looming dark shadows of intrusion, that theirs is a momentary presence, controlled and blanketed, still, by Nature's Gray.
Sentinel trunks, stretching upwards into the vapoured gloom, bid oblivion skyward,
And the still, small trickle of mesmerized water, wending its way carefully
through the mire, is
A mere memory of spring abandon, which, nymphlike,
Splashes stretching fragrant blooms with every
Newness.
Their absence, and that of the sun-dappled hillside, are
strangely noted.

Dragon Breath on Morning Water

2010-08-17T05:09:00.000-04:00

At long last, like August light, Faulkner's mention bemoaning end,
The lake's clear glass surface showed breath upon it,
Wrinkling suddenly, as if, after sighing,
Some unseen hand smoothed it out, carefully, like a coverlet for fish,
and
The long stringing lace of lake bottom greens.

Rolling forth, sheen glimmer blinked amongst the folds,
Reflecting shine eyes, appearing and disappearing,
Like gigantic fireflies
Displaced, and drowned, yet preserved under glass, amidst the waves.

Docking Indigo

2010-08-14T04:34:00.000-04:00

When the indigo ink of the evening flows out across a sky bleeding into soft whispers and gleaming glimpses,
The stars shall, with clear, pointed angle fingers, lead the small, spare whisps of words
Escaping between lips - between us, lightening quiet -
And capture them, like quick hands, to breathe them back, softly, in
Etched echoes of sparkle, sprinkled without care, across an endless, undulating canvas.
I shall catch the quick breath against my mouth, as your lips move softer than a feather, across mine, in an almost-kiss,
And disturb the wheeling moon, in its winding arc, as it bounces beneath clouds, dodging the dark side of itself in earnest moves, like a chess piece seeking to show its face, in a mate-move, all the while
Gliding like a sudden, shooting shower of meet or might
Upon which we wish, and linger,
And love, languidly.
....oh, languidly, like
Your sangria tongue against my ear, mapping the invisible baton and slow turn of
Step, and circle, as it is mirrored and measured, in the sway and sigh that is the
Matched-more-precision whirl of
Planet We.

Pillow wok

2010-07-31T07:49:00.000-04:00

If, in this pale liquid sunlight finger, I draw your smile as it is now,
Murmuring softly against my ear, amidst this pillow,
Then there shall be a burst of warmth
Forever embroider-emblazoned on these white plains of
Weaving,
And even when my eyes close - be it death or pause (for little death is not so,
And in play and patter all bears thinking and doing, to say we did)-
The beacon of your eyes will blink and wink and
Crinkle wrinkle
Against my chilled
nose.

Jar Saids

2010-07-29T06:41:00.000-04:00

Steak,sangria,sanguine and sultry somnambulance, soothing and song filled - sashay in summer, seeking;

All these appetites, controlled like a chilled cellar,
Shielding my sleepy need from the soul-destroy stripes of
Forget's
Seasonal disorder, stifling and cloth-choked, stuffed brutally, finally, punishingly on to
Shelves filled with stolen thought, quick kiss, and quiet sigh, preserved.
I see my eyes peering out of the caged and caught glimpses there, unpainted.

You are spring, and speak, and sap, this late summer,
Rising through roots clinging deep and early to the sleep of
Neglected now,
Breathing surely, strangely, softly,
Towards the honey hum of
Need.

Summer of Surprises

2010-07-27T05:52:00.000-04:00

Summer is uncharacteristically seasonally mixed this year;
As if the earth has suddenly decided, perhaps, that it likes all seasons,
(Except for the sleep of winter), and, so, gives us a taste of each, in the space of
Several weeks:
The jalapeno of summer makes us sweat, in the best of ways, beneath the
smell of coconut oil and the beach towels we only see several times a year;
The crunch of homemade bread (breathed in like freshly shampooed hair, undried
And flung about, stinging one's cheeks in wild abandon) complete with the
Tang of butter, melting and gleaming on lips, fed with searching palms;
And the sudden crunch of green apple, jesting of spring, although the green is more held in this round orb, remembered, with its spurting juice upon a lover's nose (wicked granny, not so old after all), than in the dew-dropped leaves surrounding of
A few weeks back,
Made more surprising, by the painting of Brie, coating our tongues with honey warmth,
which
Ices its sudden, slick, summit.

We Beings

2010-07-24T06:06:00.000-04:00

If this existence, in which we are orbs of a larger part,
Shells of the one shell,
Dust collected, into bins of we's,
Amassed carvings of longings for Happy Play by the
Great Being, Breathed Into; gentle empowered Marionnettes of Living,
Then it is enough that we recognized each other,
Children in Paradise,
Until Now.
Now is the leaf, unfurled;
Now is the Nectar and newness,
The Fulsome Fruit, and Juice of Being,
And More-Than-Seed, spilling Joy
Into the
Corporeal Expression of
More Now.
It is Here-we-are,
Gently set into a Garden,
To Grow as
We will.

Lip Liner Flight 99

2010-07-24T03:35:00.000-04:00

There are small lines about your lips.
I think that each line tells a story of all the stories, concerning skin, and art,
And Love,
And with every imprint of Time upon us,
Be it Sorrow or Joy,
Meaning is impressed on the shell of us,
Like a gentle Sculptor's Model,
Developing nightly.
I like to trace them, softly, in the darkness, those small lines,
Imagining the words, (coaxed from you with low rumbles and beard in neck growling)and watch the breath that comes with their Awakening,
Which seems, like Magic, to Rush to Touch,
Summoned.
You call it "Fight Against Resuscitation", but I notice, cheekily,
Your lack of struggle.
You always said you loved empowering things you
Desired.
Am I just a Hand, then, after all, shifting in this Shape with You?
Come! Sway with me, this little while, Sweet, and I will show you the way
Hands Speak with
Silent Sigh.

Black is Beautiful

2010-07-21T06:03:00.000-04:00

I thought of a bloke from Cross Harbour, whose "sentence", it seems, wasn't glee;
His main fault? A knowledge of barbers, and living that idea of "Free".
With shares and his bust, I confess great more trust,
Cause he said , "You can break me, not bow me."

Breathed

2010-03-14T07:00:00.000-04:00

What are these stars, rocks of glint and glimmer, stolen from your memory of love,
Whirling in the distance;
Flint and flight, of substance, and shimmer, and shaking;
Like touch upon touch, when Michaelangelo was touched so, and awakened, Blinking;
Brightness and born, alive to self
and met,
Awash in notes of then, and this, and though;
Sweet sweat, and sway, of Float and Feather,
Arising and arisen
Within and Without gaze,
Forgotten and Begotten, and Made
Real, from this small finger print in the Earth,
Pressed for a moment, with a sigh, by a kind Hand,
Remembering substance, and, softly stroking the
Silence of it,
Quietly speaking Earth again
Into herself's eyes,
Gently gazing back at him,
Softness borne of
Such Great Art,
For his
Completion.

Dawn's Interesting Definition for the Day

2009-10-01T07:12:00.001-04:00

Botox: An exchange of cellulite between the depressed and the truly twisted.

Spit and Apples

2009-09-28T01:51:00.000-04:00

Oh, afternoons.

The bright sun belied the crisp of leaves, and slight breeze, as we lay the blanket amongst the trees. Strangely, I was unafraid, despite how intensely you were staring at me, smiling. Of course I was unafraid: it was you, and I had no need to fear you, despite your quiet, and mine.

You kept saying, "You know, I've never really been on a picnic before. This is almost surreal."

I laughed, and said you could not possibly be Canadian, never having been on a picnic with a woman before. You said that no one had thought it a good, valuable use of time. I sniffed, somewhat contemptuously, at the idea of someone being so pompous. Life is not complete with at least one picnic in one's life, particularly if one appreciates the simple perfection of feeding food to another person, savouring a swirl of wine on the tongue - with enough time to taste the one lovely glass of it, which accompanies the decency of a good meal - or something. (I tend to elongate, when I try to summarize what I thought at a given moment. I think in layers, and it gets difficult, particularly when you smell like strong sandalwood soap, which I adore, of course...)

I remember you said that you thought that cheese, bread and apples had never tasted quite so exquisite, as I fed them to you, but you kept rubbing your face against my leg, so I kept having difficulty getting the food into you, which was terribly frustrating, although it left me tingly, as I recall....I sigh.

In any case, I said I wanted you to tell me why you thought I was interesting, after all was said and done, and you got this funny smile on your face, when I said that I found it odd, considering what perfect specimens of womanhood with which you were constantly surrounded. I wasn't being mocking, or jealous, when I said it, either, as you know - which I think is a terrible waste of time, like being petty - just rather introspective, since I am not particularly stunning, physically, although I have some decent qualities, and my chest is still fairly decent, at 45 - which takes some work, and a small investment fund in good support bras, frankly.

Then I said I loved your hair, because you looked like John Lennon, and it made me want to roll us both up in the blanket and fall asleep, after some major exercise, as long as we were naked, and it didn't get too cold outside, that night. Also, I was somewhat worried that a dog might come and pee on us, for some strange reason, which I think ruined the romance of the moment, although you spit out your apples, and wine came out your nose, for a full five minutes after I said it, while you laughed and tried not to choke. I had to pat you on the back, and I got quite concerned, when your face started changing colour, although I really would not have minded giving you mouth to mouth, as long as you didn't try and bird share your chewed apple with me, which probably would have made me feel rather sick. (Some things are meant for one person to savour, and discuss with someone else. It's like sharing gum you've picked off the road; there's a reason your mother warns you not to do it, after all. It turnes out it's a little nasty, darling. Ech.)

Anyway...where was I? Right; apples spewing. When you had recovered from humourously regurgitating at a particularly awe inspiring moment of possible dramatic necking, etc., in which we did not engage at that particular moment, because you said you thought a bit of throw up had become lodged in your throat, which I thought might have ruined it, somewhat, despite me dying to, after all....well, then, you sighed, heavily, with tears in your eyes, and said..."Oh, ask me another time." (You were still trying to breathe.)

I said I would, and I mean to, one day soon.

Scrubs for Peace

2009-09-27T05:21:00.000-04:00

Azure and agile, spark and murmuring silently, muse and moment,
Only speak.
Speak, and there will be a movement, here, in my quiet, that I have hidden,
Kept safe, guarded and shielded
Against Death.
Held here, in the ink of night, ink of heart, ink of flame and of flower,
It has watered the garden of forget, the blossom of try, and the field of hope.
It has danced, when my feet could not, dragging, like the awkward placement
of Me
in My own life.
I feel I intrude, somehow, without you.
See, here! Here is this small mountain, raised towards your hand. It is a proud breast, this.
Strange, how skin is current, then, after all.
Strange, this soft sweet now, and warm, and breathe,
When all the earth is shrieking with
Permutations of its Own Agony.
I want it to Heal Itself.
Circle's half, here is my piece; hold my hand.
We'll not know who is Assisting.
It's Irrelevant.

Self Defence

2009-09-27T02:48:00.001-04:00

"What do I look like, a pussy?", he said, glowering.

She paused - as was her wont - thoughtfully, pursing her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him.
The words, when they rolled softly from her lips, were punctuated by perfectly enunciated consonants.

"Well", she mused, "my only other alternative was asshole, and it seemed rather rude, frankly."

Three people, struggling mightily to control their sudden coughing, left the room, as the door clicked loudly behind them. A muffled kind of strangled sound - rather like screaming laughter and choking - sounded from the hallway.

She smiled at him, fondly.

Brevity.

2009-09-22T06:18:00.000-04:00

"What do you dream?" he said, softly.

"You", she said, quietly.

"Why?" he said, gently.

"Because" she answered slowly.

"Often?" he said, hesitantly.

"Enough, and always", she said, honestly.

"Is it good?" he asked.

"The best", she said.

"Do I wait?" he said.

"Unbelievably", she said.

"That's good", he said.

"I know", she said.

He smiled.

"Like life", he said.

She smiled.

"Now", she said, and kissed him.

Make Up

2009-09-12T04:43:00.000-04:00

What is this instant, sheen-like spin, that settles around my mind like vibrating protons
Urging blood flow, within the sphere that is my imagination's cortex?
I would say bees, but they are nothing, and everything, like electron mix
Of next, coaching towards Total Self, and Other Self, and Half.

Mad science, when pressed; yet not anything I am prior, only yet.
If air move dance is yet, and perhaps pause is then, then now can only be sigh possible
Hitting Matter.
Oh, then, Reaction is Opposite, and Equal, Truly, madly, Deeply:

Vortex, born Star, Genesis, and Shangri-La of Touch and imprint, and Mac.

Dent Progress

2009-09-10T05:50:00.000-04:00

If I press my hand against your cheek, a remembrance of my body imprints, momentarily, upon your skin, and then you become yourself again.
I am just a momentary dent, in the beingness of your body, springing back into itself.
How different, my soul, when I softly open myself to your murmuring exploring,
And all that is new and wonderful about joining, and searching, and striving for more than dent - to closed eyes, to opened eyes, to staring, breathing
Straight stare, total tremble, at once, while so, at gaze staring back -
Is in the sigh, that always waits
For mine.

My New EBIKE!

2009-09-09T05:09:00.000-04:00

Top speed, 32 miles an hour, Dawn sits astride her brand new e-bike (a prize won at work), excitedly strapping on her new helmet in the dark, so that none of the neighbours see her introductory ride...

Good thing, too: as she hits the pedals to initiate the brakes (which aren't located there, of course, as she remembered them being, on the bicycle on which she first began to ride) before actually going anywhere, panicking, she squeezes the ride hand control...which also happens to be the accelerator - how surprising! - slamming into the driveway railroad tie, and ingloriously managing to fall over, as the bike shoots towards the neighbour's porch, without her on it, rather like a sailing hand held car - without the remote.

Somewhat predictably, it moves amazingly faster, without an actual body on it. (Cough.) The body sits blinking rather awkwardly on the asphalt, looking decidedly relieved that the very first attempt at learning the controls - without an actual manual, with all visible directions in Korean symbols, on the actual bike - occur in the dark, without anyone actually seeing......

Three tours around the neighbourhood, after learning where the headlights and the horn are, and not mixing them up, finally, along with a worn down battery later, she also discovers that there is no reverse, and that speeding up while going around a corner can result in a Flintstone like-movement which causes foot dragging and a small amount of swearing, in order to avoid flying into a car or a sign. Also, sticking both feet straight out, like the flying nun, does not, contrary to the balance of physics philosophy, make things steadier, but it does cause both a windshift and a shimmy while heading towards the side of a barn. Again, experimentation in the dark is a blessed thing, and no actual collisions occur, as the finite aspects of learning where the controls are, and discovering the joy of small circles instead of reverse, becomes a learned, and precious dance movement on wheels.

Hurrah to ebikes! I think I'll like this.....wink. Ah, the speeding wind through the hair, mashed underneath my beanie!! Is this what the Model T felt like, as the scarf flew through the wind...? Be still my heart! (I think I came close to losing it, when I stopped jamming the pedals backwards to stop....grin.)

Oh, in Autumn

2009-09-05T03:04:00.000-04:00

Oh, in autumn, when the leaves are painted with impending sleep
To brighten the sky, before the world draws in upon itself,
And Winter blankets all with a cool pause,
There is still time for crisp apple's juice, blinking stars,
and rose-cheeked smiles, amidst summer's plenty,
As we stroll down these quiet country ways,
Clasping hands among the trees,
Murmuring to each other of yesterday's youth,
And not minding its
Rebirth.

The Day after Your Birthday.

2009-09-03T05:56:00.000-04:00

"What exactly gives you impetus?" He said the words softly to her, but the quizzical look was genuine, and urgent.

She breathed quietly, drew her lip up over her teeth, sucked in the offending lip briefly, narrowed her eyes, and stared up at him. He was standing over her, shifting slightly awkwardly from one foot to another. She thought he looked slightly like he was waiting to receive detention. She smiled, and he stopped shifting from one foot to another, smiling back at her.

"Your ass", she said, blinking at him. He coughed, suddenly. "It's a perfect personality." He blew air out of his nose suddenly, expecting pith and profundity, and receiving an example of it, wondered at its simplicity.

HAPPY 45th BIRTHDAY, CHARLIE

2009-09-02T14:00:00.000-04:00

September 2, 2009

Well, I was going to write a poem today, in celebration, but I kept seeing these little blurbs on all of the rag mag pages..."What do you think of Keanu Reeves?", to the point that I was moved to paragraph: an infrequent, if enjoyed, stylistic stretch.

So..."What do I think of Keanu Reeves", on this, his 45th birthday?

Hmm...

Here is effort and success, in the face of fits and starts: indeed, in spite of them.

Here is respect for craft, sincere submission to the progression of it, in one's self, and a genuine love of challenge within its confines. It is a lack of fear, and a striving, within its midst, and amongst its practitioners.

Here is compassion, and encouragement, and appreciation, having achieved a level of success, and this same combination of states of mind, within one's own sphere of being, for others'- without patronizing them, or minimizing them, or characterizing their own striving, their own evaluations, and valuations of their own work, as unimportant. Here is true comaraderie, and trust, when exploring, creatively, from another, as a result of that implicit, and noted, respect. Here is real regard, and sharing, as its reward.

Here is passion, restrained, and ardour, controlled, to just such an extent that it is a part of vitality, and effort, and need, extended - and becomes a sense of, (in connecting with that sense of being, in the face of Death, and Loss, and Pain,) its defiant excitement.

Here is Quiet Admission, and Wildness, in sync, meeting its Other in Places, and Faces, and Moments, and its gentle protection of them, in a personal, and loving way.

Here is the Coolest of Breath, in the Heat of Life, and Love.

Here is Keanu.

----------
Happy Birthday, Charlie. Many more, filled with all of this, and more, is what I wish for you, on this day.

xo

Cloud Busting

2009-09-01T06:50:00.000-04:00

A streak across the ink...it is breath, there in the blackness of night canopy;
Breath - when you spoke a moment so near my neck that
The hair stood on end, straining nearer to your lips:
Fast cilia, waving, and sighing....so fine that
Shadow suggestion made my
Skin
Quiver, in its
Wake.
And then, the earth turned....was turned.
Suddenness, and I had
Taken Your Breath for
Mine,
with just a glimmer and Twinkle in my Eyes
For Comfort, amidst the
Pure Jewry.

Chevalier

2009-08-28T06:26:00.000-04:00

In this strange moment of victory,
Vetted pit of animalia discovered,
Amidst the viciousness of vile and venom,
When I cannot celebrate, only vomit, and I turn to you, my darling,
For a kind of sanity,
Remind me, with quiet depth and rumble,
That I am feeling, still; am loved, am something other than
Some wild animal, bared teeth, wild eyes flashing,
Seeking prey,
For the squirming innocence of birthed filth that will be
Our reminder of
Nature's error.

Ambrosia Latina

2009-08-17T02:19:00.000-04:00

See that star, love?
In this ink black night, when jewels adorn the sky that is this blanket, keeping,
It blinks, and, sending twinkle on twinkle on twinkle
Waves for me, washing, separates space into moment.
Perhaps this quiet touch, soft as liquid ambrosia reaching for your lips,
With trailing fingers painting,
Languid, lingering, limbering, (in measure, for oak's aged finest)
Will speak what I might, in my absence, caressing,
And, eyes closed, swirl and dance in the glass,
Like warm honey on a liquid night of
Bees knees, whispers and
Christmas sighs,
Suddenly there.

Inverted First and Last, Steamed and Sauteed.

2009-08-15T08:24:00.000-04:00

This could be the first time I have tasted.
Before, the food, like the movements I made, filled space.
The space was me, before you: a void, with lined curves and spaces covered with something alive that made a white spot, when you pressed it hard, seeking pain.
It was an absent reaction, that; a kind of spasm protesting a state of prefrozen fish packets, with freezer burn.
Funny: I never thought of myself as a frozen dinner foil packet, stored too long somewhere...
All shrunken peas, like small heads, glaring out, balefully, and horrid dried flaked bits of chemical potato slices, jammed in, for something akin to a lack of boredom, ice crystals glazing the whole mess, with congealed gelled sauce of mystery meat eyeballs dumped over the whole thing, like some angry food processing plant workers' finger painting.
No wonder I worked nights, ate chicken sandwiches, dreaming of nicoise, and rammed cabbage salads down my throat with green tea for two years, until I shed the other self I grew around me, because I was so startled at it all.
It was very strange, stepping out of myself, and all that baggage of loss and agony.

There you were....with a beard, and everyone shocked at facial hair, which made me feel safe. How can you possibly explain something that silly to anyone, while I was becoming a less supersized version of myself? I cannot explain being shocked at my own timidity...you'll have to, for me, oh Thespian Mine. I'm still afraid I'll dislodge something, if I do it.

Now? Well....now I search in vain to add to my collection of Butter Cookie and Caramel spray cologne, thinking myself some kind of freak dessert, like a wild raspberry tart for Sunday tea.
I may even design a whipped cream beret, and flaunt it, while driving the new EggMobile down Main Street, daring myself to try out the electric windows again: Ms. Creme Caramel, grooving to George Clinton and varying versions of "Peg" blasting out of the windows at three a.m, as I careen down the road....sadly, the dog died two years ago, otherwise the picture might have almost been pastoral, except for the still-perpetually shocked farmers, the electrified funk and acid jazz wafting out of the raising and lowering glass, and the secret way I have of keeping time with internal technological devices with which I have recently become adept. I pretend they're very small flip tambourines.

I've only just graduated beyond Amish roll up window status, after all, and I am the only person I know who is still fascinated for minutes at a time with the fact that I have windshield wipers on both ends of my car...it's an odd thing to explain at parties... this wild positional cleanliness. (I feel I must qualify this, and roar loudly, lest my shattered reputation be further mutated into truly decent, newsworthy, rag mag tart status.)
It makes me feel wild, like ...oh...I don't know:finding a hotter Szechwan sauce, just to see whose eyes will tear up first - knowing I'll win, of course. It's the same with horseradish, so you really should just give up now, and accept it calmly, with suitable male grace. You won't though; you'll make me eat suicide wings until I can't breathe, and try and kiss me at the same time, you beast. And me attempting controlled weight! Ah, life; ah, struggle...ah...lip locking in mid-tingle burn.

I, contrarily, am the only person I know who promises a complete body cleanse with every meal consumed. It's become a very odd source of pride, like in Homemakers, or something...I fear you're laughing, now, in the doubly funny way you have of doing nothing, and exploding inside, retaining gas, until your ears feel like they're going to blow out, so no one knows you're roaring inside.
I worry for your arteries, frankly.

Oh....cook me stir fry, and eat butterscotch sauce off of my navel, till you make me yell, and we'll call it a day, you darling, darling wonder in my life. How I adore you.
I'll even be the Cherry on top, if you promise not to throw financial reports at me.

Seasoning

2009-08-15T05:25:00.000-04:00

I am of spring, of flowers, and growing things, and possibility, budding green of shoots and yawning, bursting out of the sleepy earth;
I am of fall, in crisp golds and greens; olives and burgundies, and all good celebrations of good work and plenty like honey and rose noses on a crisp afternoon of favourite sweaters and kisses, feeding each other with crunches of bread, sweet onion soup, apple juicy slices on warm tongues, and sharp wine nectar;
I am of winter, when ice fire and mellow fire mix and gleam in candle's glow,
and all good things and good loves, and goodness, find their Noel magic;
I am of summer, when hot sweet moments dive in water's comfort, refreshed,
and gleam with bronzed summer sun on hot sweat skin, when lips meet, and youth is reminded of itself, in the torpid twirls of passion and rhythm, on a fevered night.

I am all these things, and more, to you; and I have seen them, reflected, and known, somewhere,
the circle's match, and measure, and May, in the Deep Quiet and Flicker there.

Dawn Nevills, August 15, 2009

Character Development: Photo Bucket 1

2009-08-11T06:50:00.000-04:00

There the Olympic flame of globed light flickers,
In the gloom and mist of smoke and mirrors.
The smells - tantalizing mix of wine and women, scents and
sweat and consumption, amidst the idea of possibility, lounges silently
Waiting.
The ember is just another part, and the eyes are far away, even as the smile
Extends, like a slightly languid version of itself...but not to the visage:
No, not yet.
The lamp's gleam reflects another part, another place, another past - another
Other, and Of, and Beyond.

Darkest Charlie, waiting.
A sigh escapes on the other side of the glass, in time with the breath, escaping into the dark, clouded,
Dark and Light of Dragons, cavorting.
Breath, like watching Love, intermingling, even then, in struggle.

Stone Soup, and all that:An Argument in Favour of God

2009-08-10T05:07:00.000-04:00

Having just watched, with a certain amount of intrigued interest, as an artist, an internet interview with shock rocker Marilyn Manson (who also happens to be an extremely talented painter and visual artist), I could not help but muse rather quietly, while driving home from work the other day, about a vehement debate about the "viability" of God in today's world.

What was supposed to be a learned and somewhat scholarly sounding older gentleman kept quite vehemently pointing out the "implausability" and "presumable inviability" of what he termed, for want of a better term, the "Christ Myth." The term, in and of itself, is an oxymoron, for we know that Christ Himself, is not, in fact, a myth at all, but a documented person who lived, breathed, and completed His Work in this world, much like Ghandi, John Paul II, and any number of respected and venerated persons in history. In using the term "myth", one simply must ascertain that the word "myth" is used, in conjunction with Christ, to make a sweeping assessment about the body and life of His work, and the various disagreements about the depth, scope, and clarity of his Relationships in doing so, "miracles" and all. What is real is that this work is "documented", much as the supposed scholar kept trying to skirt around....Thus, the word "myth" itself, is inaccurate, regardless of the scope and measure of the work itself, and what it involved, miracles, et al.....

And this, as they say, is the conundrum....

What I found most quietly entertaining about the vehement denial of the "Christ Legend", as I like to call it, for those insisting upon myth as a descriptive word, without realizing that Myth, rather than story, is misleading, literarily speaking, is the ease with which the supposed scholarly gentlemen, bound and determined to refute Christianity in general, managed to contradict himself - not once, but twice, in attempting to construct his argument.

Ultimately, what it came down to, was the fact that, like transubstantiation misunderstood and misexplained as simply a physical repetition of a process fulfilling a simply physical need in the act of Communion, rather than a sacred ritual celebrating the simplicity of Spirit, and its Presence, in the simple act of sharing and breaking bread with one's brothers and sisters, and all of the legend, tradition, and responsibility inherent in allowing that Presence to work in one's Life, and its continuance in renewing that Life by the act of sharing Bread and Wine, was that the man thought on only one level: physical.

And what I say in response is, simply, this: when you are moved by Christ, in even the simplest way, you have allowed that Spirit to work in you, and around you, and within the Greater World in which you live, and have an impact. Certainly, from a scientific standpoint, no little green man lands on you, like Gazoo, bonks you on the noggin, and says, "Get to it, bucko, or you're up shit's creek"; one is simply moved, after contemplation, like Wordsworth's explanation of The spirit running through all things, and connecting us with the Greater Creation of which we are a part, and a product of, with respect to the Greatest Artist of all time: God. To be moved, then, by a Life that spoke of the deepest connection with, and the deepest reverence for, each other, as a part of that tapestry, makes "Myth" the greatest misnomer of all - even if you are simply speaking "etymologically."It is a denial that one is a part of a part of that work; that we are alone, and apart, and completely disconnected from everything else that moves, and breathes, and functions around us, be it flora or fauna. Certainly, disconnectedness emotionally and intellectually is a product of our inability to, or painful withdrawal from, hurtful examples of this disconnectedness, but it is a huge disservice to one's self to deny that one can still be moved, and, thus, to have an effect upon, either one's self, or upon another situation.

This is Being Moved, just as the Breath created the first movement of matter in the Heavens by a force inexplicable, but omnipresent, even in the idea, simply, of collision, scientifically. We are not simply void, and when we reconnect with That Which Is, like Yoda, what we accomplish in His Name is greater than we can hope for, or imagine...a kind of "Pay it Forward" that still speaks of possibility in the face of chaos, patience in the face of rage, and tranformation, personal evolving, and new beginnings, after pain, loss, disappointment, death, and brutality at its ugliest, emptiest worst.

It is hope, unextinguished, in ourselves. Surely, there is nothing about "myth" in that, but, rather, a gentle miracle, every day, in the embrace of it, in ourselves.

Makes the story of stone soup a smiler, in retrospect, notwithstanding......

Throat Hum Beginning We

2009-08-06T07:56:00.000-04:00

What is this ice fire
That spins and whirls my breath
Into the night sky, spilling like tears
on a void
With eyes?
There is matter: and mattering,
Awakes, blinking suddenly into
Fusion of silence
Linking us to each, and we to our
Magnificently, softly, sadly, savagely, tenderly;
Breath on breath, repeating,
Under each other's, over ourselves' and themselves'
and long forgotten pain
Struggling against
Expurgation:
Oh....speak with just a hint of sound
So I may close my eyes, feeling the movement of your throat
laying on mine, in a moment of
Shared bird song, and
Kiss my surprised rounded lip beak, trilling and thrilling,
The remembrance of snow and fur and
Fire, stroked and stoked into
Usness. I shall forget I am supposed to be
Old, and you will
Smile again.

Soup

2009-07-19T00:51:00.000-04:00

Ambling bulwark contemplating,
Desire Eloquence First.
Graciously, Honestly, incapable, just
Knowing Love means New
Omnipotence persists
Quietly.
Relegating silence, thusly,
Undulations vie
With Xavier's
Zephyrs,
Alphabetized.

Good Work, Quoth Comfort

2009-07-08T04:37:00.000-04:00

Oh, workaday, how blessed I am,
Embroiled, like this, in Thee:
Sweet Bean juice filled cup, waking eyes,
I blink, stretch, look....still Me!
The rhythm, pacing, stretch of Time,
I leap across, face first,
And think, with quick wit, thought, and pause,
Of when I did my worst.
Not often; ethic drawn upon, Two Stalwart Stocks
With dour looks, and tempered smiles
Made short the momentary guile,
Responded to with sheepish grin, and clean white smocks,
...with maybe a sigh or two; too real! A human bean,
Reaching skyward, still.

2009-07-04T03:52:00.000-04:00

Oh, my dearest,
It is the Fourth of July.
Today, you would be 49.
With laughter, I light all the candles, twinkling a spirit light
Path to join me in silent celebration, and think of
Your story of confused youth, wondering why so many
were celebrating
Your birth.

There were fireflies this evening;
I sat in the twilight's gleaming, as the sky poured watercolours upon the garden,
And I imagined you breathing with a certain hesitance.

In a quiet moment, when I could not help myself, there, in the dark,
With the slight mist of eve, and tumbling seconds of years and thoughts
Bringing the dark and the lanterns into a kind of gentle swaying,
there, in the silence,
I sipped sweet wine's nectar, dreaming of your lips brushing mine,
Softly in the kind shroud of twinkling lights.

The dry cling of pressed grapes, and my closed eyes
Brought them closer, and the fireflies approved,
Glinting suddenly near my misted eyes.
I was sentinel, and queen, at once,
as you ordained.
The palm trees only made it again so,
And the eyes were dark, and near mine,
And wanting me, again,
Beautifully,
At Last.

How soft, the question. How sweet, the answer.
How gentle, the night, amidst the velvet of blanketed stars
Twinkling their sighs, and clasping prayers,
Amidst the passing years.

The sleep seems a kind encasement, dreaming.
I shall not mind waking, tomorrow, remembering.

What do I think of You?: Answer.

2009-06-28T06:50:00.000-04:00

I like this roundness. Said so simply, but...
It seems solid to me, the way it curves around my hand, when I press into the skin
Gently.
Such a gentle peak, that rises and smiles and points to the sky.
Is it me?

Surely, I cannot be that high.....
But perhaps I'll try.
Pity: I cannot fly.

I guess, then, I will make
You sigh.......Ah....(a quiet laugh, here, then)

Morning, awake! This tired rhyming, (an impatient contempt, at self and such) when
I have pressed the mountains of your Being
Towards Me,
and
You Tremble at
The Being with
Me, shuddering to be
My
Complete.
Oh, beat, Heart, beat!
(What a thing to say to me,
Coursing through the rocks of Time....)
And then, she just smiles, quietly, at last,
Moved.

Roads to Carry You to Better

2009-06-27T04:42:00.000-04:00

This dust is me.
I blow out, across the universe, leaving specks of my thought, moments of my touch,
Pieces of my smile
Amidst the gardens of others.
If I am myself, I help them grow into their beauty, strange shifting shells,
as I see them; and
As it bursts and blooms, kindly, stretching outwards,
instead of lying curled and quiet,
Small pea seed of self, hiding. Strange Mother Being, then, Despite Void Status;
But I am just Dirt, at last,
Without myself,
Blowing quietly, Within, to the
Without that waits,
Wanting.

Mac Box set.

2009-06-19T07:04:00.000-04:00

Here is a Mac box, which you present to me with a flourish.

"Your favourite", you say, simply, tearing open the box, grasping the plastic coated toffee, standing there in front of me, maddeningly, and warming the package between your hands.

Thinking the entire moment completely unfair, I stand still, saying nothing. My mouth is watering madly, and I remain rooted. A tiny bead of sweat has formed on my upper lip: tasting caramel, wanting caramel, needing caramel...and yet....I only stare, longingly, thinking you momentarily cruel.

The feeling is intensified, as, breathing softly, you shift the toffee parcel to one hand, bending it, slowly, slowly, slowly, and staring into my eyes, to show me how pliant it has become.

We stare at each other. I worry that a sheen has formed on my face, making me look amazingly like a plump girl, sweating in front of a really attractive man waving toffee in a kind of "you might get to be a fat girl again" moment...and after all those bloody salads. I wince, ..and say nothing, struggling.

I try valiantly to make my eyes look hooded, not really knowing what that means, exactly, except that it sounds very mysterious, and possibly the result of something illegal, watching the bendy movements in the toffee with a tormented, furtive glance. Raising my gaze, I am intercepted, and you smile - a trifle cruelly, I think to myself....I sigh. Oh, toffee, torturer...when, oh when, hast thou become tormentor to me! Ah...such........bent love, really.....

"Come here", you say, with a kind of gravel in your voice that has made my toes curl. There is, in fact, a newly formed cramp in one, even as we breathe.

I take one step forward, lurching slightly, due to the cramp. It ruins the drama, somewhat, but I manage to stamp, although I want to...to get rid of the cramp. I control it, stupidly, and will pay for it, later, I know, with a huge throb in my arch.

Madly, you tear open the toffee, rip off a piece, stick it between your teeth, move towards me - and abruptly thrust my end between my lips. I close my eyes, as the caramel hits my tongue, and our lips meet.

"Mmmmmmmm." My God: we've even said it at the same time. Oh, ecstatic caramel passion, I embrace you. I would say something - but my lip is stuck to your moustache. Oh, happy sticky thrill! I feel wonderfully wicked, and wise....

Star Secret

2009-06-18T05:36:00.000-04:00

There is the ink, reeling above me; void black page of melted night sky,
My mind's secret sable, seeking imprint -
And here I am, standing;
Suddenness: dragon star bursting unexpected glacial, temperate, celebration fire, lighting the buoyed above seas with twinkles, gleaming, and at peace;
Mirthfully shaking,
And I feel
You fall,
Smile sighing.

Table Setting

2009-06-15T05:38:00.000-04:00

Luscious, this day, with fruit of grape, the juice of new knowingness staining lips with
Flush, and such:
Even the fullness of this skin cannot kiss the fullness of an orb containing, and not
Smile.
Fullblown, Fullsweet, full bodied, ripe with life and Fire...
Zero sugar, zero briques....
Sturdy-legged, clinging to the blown round edges like
Silk Grassed nectar, appled and dipped,
Sliding toward your eyes, and
Taken in with a
Sigh.

Melded Art

2009-06-10T07:42:00.000-04:00

I awoke to two glimmers in my universe, shaded by the lids of Time.
Absorbed into Space in this Way, I sought to Touch the Universe, within it,
Finding, within the Ebb and Flow of Movement
The Warmth of Its Being, cradled in a
Haze of Smile.
Heartened, thusly, image became Itself, and I -
Possessed by Thought, and Void-Longing -
Its Complex Cubist Half,
Fitted.
What so, within the Confines of Picassoesque Layers?
Sinew, bone, and skeleton, all?
Wave upon Wave said Nothing, Breathing, except
Ah.

A and B...(and C, and D..etc..xo)

2009-06-07T23:39:00.000-04:00

Ah, first flush, when skin seemed but a thing to be explored
A journey that never ends, as it changes, with time;
To see the ebb and flow of life within its shelter in thee
Brought a different reason to be me, perhaps, they said:
And then, time; time with different views, time with different news:
Of Power, and Others' Pain, and Shared Love of Possible - Time, and New "Us" es,
Beyond What We Have Become, to What we Can Do.
Such Realization!
The Humility a little shocking, even with the Power, but they turned, and there were
The Each's Other's Eyes, Sharing, and it was ....."Of course, Still to Do...Right?" And the nod.
And the knowingness of admiring the skill of the other - even when no one else did;
Even in the small successes, beyond the Obvious Ones: there, and there, and...there.
What Joy!
Finally, then, like a Garden Blooming with Love Flung Far and Wide
A Celebration of the Formality of It, Uniquely. Oh, Hurry, Day! More Smiles.

P Funk

2009-06-01T05:58:00.000-04:00

I recall, and am recalled:
Seconds in a crisp fog of breath, where the lip clung to mine in the blank
Of iced air, warmed and chilled within that same breath;
Press of finger on burned arm, browned by sun, and wind, and earth, pained white;
A fleeting smile, beneath the swirl of wool, before the cool of autumn teared
the blurred vision of fleet and flight of feet, met;
Choked in smoke and smirk of clubs and clubbed, vilified and verified,
Having supported and, crutch-like, become a wooden stick wielded not for
Higher Mountains travels, but welded men, and wilder egos;
Bid farewell in strange heat of regret and recognition, inconvenient, and
Misunderstood, within the larger scheme of patience, and the Importance of Being Earned, in Earnest;
Saddened, trilling New Age Grace's Amazing Solidity, amongst the Remembering,
Organ accompanied, stopped by imaginary lumps, and invisible throat lumps,
Inexcusable in the Controlled, and
Unimportant, even as I counted the steps the bearers were supposed to take,
As it appeared on Paper.
One cannot ride that
Sheet.
How dry the comfort.How smug the Pointed. How
Sharp the Edge.

Why Women Love The Zohan : a short list.

2009-05-30T00:59:00.000-04:00

1. He's out of date stylewise, too. And yet, somehow, it's just...okay!

2. He admits you will have to pay for your own meal, but he'll dance around it naked first. He will then joke that normally you would expect to be whoring yourself in this way. You will agree, and not care. Then you will both eat dinner. He will feel a bit silly, sitting there cross legged on the floor, with the napking covering his Mr. Winky, so as not to be disconcerting, or cause you to stare impolitely.

3. The man will screw anything, whilst vigourously avoiding disease....and this is just the myriad of cabinets. Imagine what he could do with an actual HAMMER, and a decent set of TOOLS...now don't you feel silly? (It's just really not the same, when you have to explain the damned jokes, is it? Sigh...)

At any rate, getting back to the rest of it....this will concern you, somewhat, temporarily, but you will not engage in it, yourself, so it will simply be a "brush with greatness" moment. This is, after all, a mission to him, to bring happiness to women, and instills a sense of real hope, particularly if you have been called frigid because you abstain from anal sex. He will tell you that you are a unique person, that he will give you head, instead, and not to worry. Then he will massage your scalp vigourously - just in case you misunderstood, or became confused at the language issue, which he has difficulty with, occasionally. Your brain will be revived and refreshed. You will not develop rosacea, or experience momentary prestroke syndrome. The way he strokes your right ear will cause you to "feel the wet fuzzy" in your nether regions. You will tell no one, but know you, too, have joined the "Fuzz Balls." You will smile secretly, at nothing at all, often, after that.

4. Doing dishes will invite sexy possibilities. A man who makes housework sexually enticing is really kind of God-like. Well, Dr. Ruth-like, anyway - and the sooner you get it over with, the better...right? Wait: this is how it usually is....did we get on the wrong track, with this one? Medic.....

5. You will imagine him as Gumby. This is odd, but really kind of thrilling.....

6. Tomorrow, you will add to this list. You have become too numb for words, presently, what with all the sudden sweating, and the paper bag over your head to stop the hiccups...but clean hippy good looks make you feel twenty again, dammit....BREATHE!!!!

My Retarded Social Development

2009-05-30T00:34:00.000-04:00

(Stage Direction for Reading Aloud)..."assume a soft, intimate, almost secretive voice while saying this, and include the reader, as ...oh...almost a confidante, really..... Begin by taking a long breath, and close, serious, and committed attention to the gift of God that is literature's road map indicator: punctuation, in all of its rapturous stops and starts. And....go:"

Confessor (don't actually say this, and start again, if you did. This is the character's name, in a play.) :

Apparently, unbeknownst to me, there comes a time in every middle aged woman's life - who has realized, with clanging clarity, that her RRSP fund sucks the boner - or, worse yet, has flown into space with the sadness egg called "I have no life" - when she feels an overwhelming desire, (having been abandoned by both sanity and any known human being who can speak in full sentences)to run screaming into the street, yelling madly of thrilling ends to heretofore steamily imagined sexual encounters.

(Some, over a long period of time, even. Bugger! No offense to those who might assume that it would alway be both thrilling AND successful. Also, no offense to those who actually consider plebean activities like...oh...getting a job, for instance. ...do read the previous bracketed words out loud, but not this part, as its meant to explain the concept of an intimate aside...ahem. Also, don't SAY ahem, just kind of cough, instead.)

And I thought the glamourous world of scrap metal recycling security had people breathing heavily.....where HAVE I been?

Yet another sadly realized example of my retarded social progress, I fear...sigh.(don't say this last word, just actually DO it, in a way that does not provoke or expect any kind of sickening reaction like...pity, for example, which often pre empts vomiting.)

The end. (Don't actually say that last bit out loud.)

Hark the Herald Angels Sing -inciting the drone in you

2009-05-24T21:00:00.000-04:00

Ah, sweet seasons of sessions of silent thought!

It's enough to make even the Heralds stop and cease provoking, this Memorial Weekend....and I do mean weak end.

In fact, I'm so thrilled at the prospect of the utilization of a heretofore honourable pastime - writing - to heap scourge upon another artist - NOT - that I have decided to celebrate the true staying power of the "drone in us"....otherwise known as your friendly neighbourhood assembly line worker...or "blue collar Baby jane", as I like to call us, by outlining the positive qualities of said underpinned, undervalued, and underestimated.

The Canadian variety, particularly, boring as we may be, have the self-discipline of the most stoic rocket scientist, the staying power of a nurse, and the patience of a saint, as anyone who has managed to "stick it out" for longer than 24 hours in anything other than blathering on about an outburst of temper tantrum and a lack of work ethic, will tell you at the drop of a hat.

Let us celebrate, then, friends, the successful among us, who move beyond the day-to-day use of both repetition and the musicality of it, to achieve such mortal succesess as: books, documents, operas, symphonies, perfection in piano, equisiteness in line, meter, pitch and rhythm, and delicacy in quality, quantity, and visual beauty in any product produced by two hands.

Even as we share this stoicism, now, with our heretofore ignored brothers and sisters in Mexico, who now will be responsible for erecting the lowly pickup truck, to service farmers everywhere, let us hope they value this "sharing of space and time", even as we strive to maintain balance, ethics, and a decent working wage for the general populace, in tandem with a benefit plan, a lack of destruction of the environment, and the necessity for making a living - plebean as it may be, for those whose lack of understanding of both "robotics" and the discipline required to control one's activities within this infrastructure, so as not to be replaced by the mechanical, ever asserts itself, with a certain ....aplomb.

Ah, Keanu: ah, wind; ah....success. Its quiet self continues on, unabashed, unabated....undaunted. There is a sweet rhythm to it, is there not? If only envy was always replaced by the comaraderie of pride in the achievements of those we love and admire...but, alas, the "line worker" mentality is not for everyone....

Methinks life might do well to consider it, within the framework of an insistence upon itself. But then, Jon Bauer, why would I ever "sign in" to respond to anything I view as incorrect, misunderstood, and immaturely provocative in nature?

Wink....perhaps the Gort in us is freer than we think, if only as a result of robotic restraint.

Kind Regards, as ever...

Proximity Shock

2009-05-22T07:48:00.000-04:00

What spark, then? What, the glowing, hence, just there, in you?
Oh, speck of fire in glint of eye
That glows and glimmers with its mirror:
Too soon, too late, too early, eerily, when met - back, apace, leaping recognition:
What of this? What is this knowing, beyond immediate,
Beyond speaking, beyond a seeing...only heat of fire and ice?
Is't so late, that being met of self,
Joined is met, and blend, and spark, and speak, at once?
What, this strangeness? Oh, sweet welcome madness; move, oh tremulous timbred throat, thundering near cadence measured, ever, in trill, and sigh, nearer:
What, this spell of letter, light, and love?
What, of round, and square, and orb, and ear;
How, of in, and on, and of, and us:
When, of is, and are, and be?
What, of we?
'Tis two; 'tis one...'tis three - must be.
No face, no fire could light, myself, (yourself, ourselves,) but thee(mewe), so
Quietly.

A Stir in Stillness

2009-05-17T02:33:00.000-04:00

What starlight gaze, in its quiet path of gleaming,
Could light such a way as this?
Ah, gleaming; see, only see, this path, this path of stillness,
Written, as it is, in all the secret places
Held so closely
They cannot be spoken,
Only known
As
Before,
Found, as they are,
On rocks, and deep, loved places,
And walls that are
Ourselves,
At last,
Understood.

League Alert!

2009-05-14T05:50:00.000-04:00

Hearken, Known League!

We welcome in our midst, the following:

Sir Saving Grace, Sir Peaceov, and to the first level: Library Man.

They are known to us, henceforth, as brothers in effort, in heart, in Service.

May Love strengthen us all.

The Chair.

Good Verse Rescueth Mime

2009-05-09T03:47:00.000-04:00

Cultural exploration, vernacular particles of self, realized,
I salute thee:
Were it not so, I would suffer the fate of far lesser banality,
Suffering madly for art, and
Wallowing wildy in aphorism, alliteration, and allegory -
Lest I swear.

Far better, an incorrect salute,
Than a mouthed
Fart into Space; especially in mixed company.
Yay, it approacheth...high irregularity!
(Perish the thought...dear down under...he says, mildly, if somewhat..slowly,
In response, trying to breathe between suppressed laughter)

Luckily, verbiage rescues - anon,
And I utter,
Swaying wildly;
Lest mammaries cloud vision
And ears slip away, erstwhile....I sigh:
Ah, to feel elfin! It's driven to dervish, I am,
Though flit be far - and flat the soda:
I bloom, then, and blush, sweet lodge sheen upon the
Hills of Morning,
Shivering....

.....remembering Latin.

Easy Rider, Random thoughts, and Caps.

2009-05-09T01:47:00.000-04:00

"Oh, to be a roaming, there, aboot the gloaming....."

Remember when they used words like that? Well, I don't either, but I remember people reading them to me, and they sounded real; in the moment; vital.

The years slipped away, and became someone else's now, fifty years ago, with a different haircut.

Not as easy, then, with feelings; not as easy, then, with lives; not as easy, then.
Funny thing, that word: easy.
"Easy come; easy go."
"Easy like a Sunday Morning."
"Easy enough for you to say."
"Oh, she's...." (cough) " Easy." (That last worse than death, in some quarters. They wore gloves, had perfect darts where their breasts fit in, swished when ogled at(probably where the males who do it, learned it - both swish and ogle, to be sensitive - in thoughtful retrospect), and had murderous beauty routines and murderous instincts, when their date cancelled. Both led to Valium, later in life.
"Easy enough to get."
"Easy, breezy, highly attractive." (Not to be sued. Easy to be sued, dammit, even when attempting flattery, which is often mistaken for inaccurate plagarism, instead of brief reference.) Easy, my ass. See above murderous beauty routine. Most gene combinations "blew", as they say - somewhat indelicately. You got at least one zit, and did not look or act nicely during menstrual cramps. This last you never discussed. Or skipped gym because of it, risking potential embarassment to prove your toughness in a hideous, ballooning jumper designed to make you look astoundingly like a human showercap. Imagine my amazement when I discovered that the plant holders in the dollar store were actually mini shower caps, complete with elastic around the edges, and flower designs. Swear to God. "Shit: those people love their flowers", she thinks to herself, seeing the "made in China" label. I mean, shower caps for your plants....is there a name for that, that isn't anthropomorphic, or insulting, in a language I have not yet learned to swear in, with both gusto, and a certain polite hesitance?
Ah, too easy, I expect. Now I have twenty seven shower caps, in sizes far too small to fit any known head, but my God, all my plants will never, ever ruin my furniture, and may also become doctors one day....
Just like that! (Wink.)
At moments like these I realize how sensitive people in every part of this world are, when you understand them.
Also, when you eat food you're not used to, don't throw up, and compliment them on how unique it is, unless it's eyeballs, which really are both an acquired taste,
and only available in season, unless you want to get asked for
Your license. And they'll know if you lie. Eat tapioca next time, and don't be a Hero.
Easy stuff.
Sometimes it's the poetry of the idea - and a lot easier, too, on
The Bear.
Smile.

Small buoyed Life Us Secret!

2009-05-02T19:43:00.000-04:00

We shall be excited at eyes.
When we see them, blinking back in orb-starved nakedness,
We will know that they are cradled in a blending of our wetness,
You and I,
Like cradled fluid, delicately sheltering, though outside myself.
Perhap it is more shared, that I have allowed outsideness, in this,
Splitting the myhalf beingness, so you can buyoant-balance, too;
I am not selfish about these things, after all, though it is me that has the
Appropriate being shell, technically.
It is a mindlove, then, which allows this beyond ourselves; a meld of self, truly:
Just joy.
We have not made the dust part, but sweep up the particles to our hearts, dearest,
Most intimately; most joyfully; most privately - most openly.
See the blinking!It is somehow happier, now,
Like stars streaking through sky, suddenly, touched into Being
by Michaelangelo's Maker,
At last.
Kiss me, quick! You need my breath; I need your Desire of Ages.

Sleep Star Frontier

2009-05-01T11:40:00.001-04:00

Amidst this strange sea, walk-swimming and focused,
This life amongst jungle concrete
Sidewalk cemented possibles,
And smiles that were, before the "saw scream",
A haunting persists:
Strangling my breathing,
Man mix grey encased almost-forgot-chirp seems a small noise, remembered;
And then...
See oh see, the small sound sprouting! What doing is this, of you?
In such a wind as this, the spring of which, eyes drooping,
Tiredly keeps the beating
Steady - lest the line not jump and dance
Upon the screen, as you would have it -
I can break even this stone
That was my
Before....
Only speak!
I shall give you words to fly across the page,
Look up, and
Smile again, at space, Opening.

Carbon and Light, Emitted

2009-04-25T11:02:00.000-04:00

The sinking azure shadow, blinking fast its sleepy self into mist horizon -
Colour only, all 'round, though filling all, it seems, above -
Welcomes the yawning blink of streaming streak, life and light, suggesting...but...
Oh, wait, darkness, I cannot see!
Will I, better, do you think, with morning, and thee?
I tremble, this slight chill of earth in me, still, yearning,
And then.....
Dust settles, as it should,
Around this light, and past, towards the collected bits of self, amassed - yet only part;
Onwards - the flecks almost as sparkling fireflies, glinting in beam's tendrils,
Parachuting back to themselves,
Renewed in sleep
For when
Light calls
Again.
A leaping, then, somewhere, deep within the dusty breast;
Surge of Light, met, perhaps, or
That flash which moves behind the "trons" of light and dark,
and sees only
Beginning.

D. Nevills, April 25, 2009

Of Dew, and Such Gentle Oddities..

2009-04-25T07:03:00.000-04:00

What shall I say to you, in this grey light, as these light fingers draw back the comfort
To show me your face, musing?
Only dawn...
...and morning, with birds singing.
Will it matter, do you think, on this day, or any other, now that we have touched, so?
Touched, and not touched; spoken, and not spoken; shared tears, and wept alone;
Realized, and known, and thought;
Shared, and smiled, and, then silenced, realized a certain
Depth, carefully preserved:
Normally
Unshared, and undisturbed, though
Pulsing and Alive.
A certain terror, then, recognizing
Premature Burial of
Self, in this
Struggling against
Self.

What throat, then, through starlight, might make a comet burst, a dark ink sky tremble,
A moon glow sweet, in its place of purpose
In the great void of movement, that was me
And is no more?
And yet, unseen...

This, then, Belief, my darling.
Ah, sweet sight, helped.
The space is nothing, and everything, now there is You;
only tomorrow's Road to
Further,
Speaking. at last.

Grow Glimpse Glow

2009-04-21T05:52:00.000-04:00

So brief, this peep of spring, amidst the fierce of winter's snowflakes;
Clear, blinking, clearing stars amidst sky ink whirl above;
Hiding yawning earth, shedding - with a fling - this stretch of love; ah, sun!
Awake then, instant fierce shudders of life, wending along as shivers
Of my breath, suddenly
Shocking you
To life.

101

2009-04-20T03:26:00.000-04:00

"So...." he grinned. "I learn fast. I can hardly wait to be an astronaut."

Her eyes narrowed, and she grinned back, over her glasses.

"Are you making fun of me, mister?" she said.

Allergy DEMI Glace.

2009-04-20T01:14:00.000-04:00

"menumenumenu"....she purred. or coughed. It was a hairball moment, unplanned.

Someone had accidentally dropped a pretzel in the Black and White Coconut martini she had ordered. She had been just about to compliment him on how cleverly he had matched the soiree t-shirt underneath the rather daring choice of jackets.

.....ah, the romance of certain well planned pauses!

...and yet, this one was slightly.....awkward, somehow, what with the spittle flying about, and her tried but true lipshade suddenly clamping down on the edge of the glass, in mid sneeze, appearing more like a half moon bumprint, than any lip known to man. In fact, it happened so suddenly, and with such passion, that she actually bit off a large taco like bit from the glass edge, but, luckily, thought enough NOT to chew, which is really what saved her in the end......

What with the now-bleeding lip, and the slight smear of accoutrement paint now in a loving, but vital solid streak, mid cheek, wending its way across her face, it had metamorphosized into a kind of Zombie space moment, and he was slightly at a loss, as to how to respond, immediately, but sensitively, as was his wont.

He paused, gently, clearing his throat.

"Wow! They really kinda chintzed on the h'ordeuvres, babes, didn't they? Ah...you gonna be okay, or what?" He paused, thinking perhaps he hadn't been helpful enough, as he watched her carefully spitting out glass, which she had inadvertently almost consumed involuntarily.

"Waiter!" he shouted, thinking she would be impressed - rather than mortified, literally - at his sudden need to call all available help to their table.

"Bring towels and a first aid kit! She's bleeding!" Then, on a softer note....."It's okay; we're just really zealous.....food's great!"

He knew then, that the night could not possibly end badly. HE had taken steps.

Nuts Over Glace.

2009-04-12T21:51:00.000-04:00

"EWWWWWWW.!" she made a gagging face, as she chewed on the chewing gum. "It squirted! Gross!!! You bought me action gum...! Ach....." She made a gagging noise again.

"I should have eaten the chocolate cashews." She looked sad. He exhaled, laughing slightly.

"What? I thought you liked squirty gum!" He looked at her, cocking his head to one side. "Are you feeling better?"

"No. I feel like ...like....all the scum on the bottom of a body of water, that the bottom feeder fish won't eat, and cough up in their sleep." She glared at him.

"Wow...well.....THAT'S fairly clear." He cleared his throat, appreciatively. He had even had a nauseous second or two...That was real description, at its best.

"I have a choice between "action gum" and "semi comatose Percosindium" - which I reject fully, on both religious and moral grounds, so to speak - and which also makes me projectile vomit. How would YOU feel?" Her eyes squinted into slits. She was making blow whale noises with the squirty part of the gum. It was a very odd sound, and he wasn't sure he didn't like it, confusedly....

"Beside, I'm not sure if I have a latent nut allergy," she glowered. "My brother does, and I'm never too sure, anymore. My luck, I'd eat the damned chocolate, and my stomach would get surprised, all of a sudden - like a defensive force, as it discovered the nut part - and hoist it somewhere else, spontaneously, like on a fishing boat." It was a bad mental image, and one which caused him to cough, respectfully, in response.

She looked at him. His eyes had widened.

"Weeeeelll.......one time I ate what I THINK was a tainted nut batch at Christmas, and they sat in my gut like a bomb, threatening in either exiting direction for what seemed like...oh, Christ....days. It was just nasty. What kind of taunting decision is that supposed to present me with, mister...huh? Mr. Chocolate-nut-tormenter-guy...." She sighed, dejectedly.

He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

"I am NOT trying to poison you with chocolate nuts, as punishment for non-performance, following the reoccurence of a back injury." He rasped the words into her hair, trying not to laugh, while catching his breath. He knew she was not feeling well.

"Promise?" She looked up at him. She was very uncomfortable, and just a little worried. There were little flecks of pain in her eyes...

The nuts were rumbling in there, after all; she had succumbed, and eaten a few, before the squirty-gaggy-action-gum-thingy had invaded her mouth - which, until that point, had remained comfortably coated in both wine and chocolate. Now it was a windswept Arctic tundra of Vanilla Mint, and was NOT mixing well with the cashews. She stuck out her tongue, making a gagging noise. At least the obscene squirt-vanilla-action had stopped. No wonder people rebelled against jaw damage.How depressing; it had been like having mini Easter eggs, again, for just a brief moment of complete, wild abandon....

"It had better be worth the fresh new non-tempting clinic kiss", she glowered. "Or I'll be summarily pissed." He blew through his nose, into her ear, swallowing, so he would not laugh.

"And keep that hand where I can see it, mister." He laughed out loud, then, and softly massaged around the base of her spine. She winced, genuinely. He couldn't help it; he moved his mouth beside her ear, and began humming....

"Wee ooo wee ooo ooo wee ooo wee ooo oooh wee o bum ba yay....the lion sleeps tonight" he rumbled, teasing her. She punched him gently in the arm.

"You are HORRIBLE," she said, sadly. He kissed her in the neck, rubbing her back gently.

"Ah, feel better my pie girl", he said, softly, relenting. "I'm sorry you hurt yourself. It'll be spring soon."

Sunshine ShoeShine

2009-04-06T03:32:00.000-04:00

Hey, shoe shine girl...
Warm butterscotch is all 'bout your baby rays
Glowing bright, sunshine face me in hugs....
Built in with UV, 'taint nuthin' finer,
Diner,
Than us'n, glowin, baby;
Wrinklin' your nose, in case I sneeze
At the heat.
You bein' my Mac,
Sweet thing, well, this time I declare (makin' you laugh, while doin')
Feel's like when I was a kid, lovin'
Candy all over...
Sweet!

...and me, all lace....