9/25/10
The Moon of Man
The moon full on the night of equinox, clouds shadowing her fullness. The night of the wolf exists, I think to myself. The perfect moon, the moon to play hide 'n' seek, the moon to kiss under, to bite under, to tease the one you love. I feel the pull upon my heart and wonder who is my wolf tonight, will she allow me to have a wolf tonight. The clouds heighten the craters, which are just visible to the human eye. These clouds make the moon look rugged, like a man gone unshaven for a day or two. A little ruggedness isn't bad, in fact, some intimidation is needed at times, but not against the love, against those who would take the love. The moon loves Earth, loves man, without man, she would lose hope of being, her little control a delight of life. She gives the sign when birth is to come, when conception is possible; she guides the heart like no other at night, especially in her fullness. There are times, man should fear her, a woman should fear her, when all of Earth should fear her. She has more control then we want to believe. Time has not made her more than what she is, it is because she is and man cannot deny her. The equinox has only heightened this time, this night, emotion swelling without a place to let it go, without a source to give it to. She will not give me my wolf, not tonight, she knows it is not time.
9/20/10
A sketch
A third day of writing a sketch. I have no idea what to write. I know this can be done. I will put into practice what I tell my students for their freewrite journals: “Write anything, don’t care what it is, write, even if it is the Goober for two lines, just write.” So, here I am writing. I thought about a sketch of me, and then sketching out a grandchild, but it hasn’t inspired me. Well, a sketch of the tattoo that is on the mythical me for my upcoming story. Yes, that shall be done.
She stands in a candlelit dance studio, lightening dancing through the sky. She is only in her skin colored, low-heeled dance shoes. The butterfly wings were completed but two hours ago, butterfly wings that have taken a little more than a year to complete. She has made herself madam butterfly. The wings begin at her ankles: the curl of the wing wraps around the ankle bone and rolls to the back of the leg, flaring slowly out with small jagged, caressing, edges. Those edges smoothly jet to the sides, but never completely around the leg, the outline of the design just visible to a person who may stand directly in front of her. At the back of the knee, the wing widens more, little do the jagged edges appear as the wing caresses into the curve of her inner and outer thigh, but never reaching the front of the leg. Upon reaching the buttocks, the division of the wings begin to meet between the each individual cheek, the coloring of the wings are a marbled-lining of deep blue hinted with silver, a light turquoise, and the deep blue of a lavender flower to this point. The colors become more defined upon the cheeks of the buttocks, as well as blending into each other more precisely into a pattern of chaos, of memorizing tranquility. Only if she leans over can a person witness the separation of the wings. At the bottom of the buttocks the wing wraps toward the front as it does from the top of the buttocks, taking in the entire hip, narrowing as the lower wing travels to just below the navel. The colors once again take on the pattern of marbling. The wing loops below the navel into the opposite lower wing, an intricate gathering that makes a low lined “V.” The upper wing begins above the navel.
Just as the lower wings connect, the upper do as well, the “V” turned opening down. A diamond, laying on its side, encases the navel. Each wing pulls back in its elegant, intricate entanglement. Just a small area of the lower wing is hidden as the upper wing begins to widen. The top of the wing reaches the first two lower ribs before wrapping around the side to the back. The colors continue as they did before and after the buttocks, reaching around to the back, slowly edging up the shoulder, becoming jagged in areas as parts dart out, but not too far, never reaching around to the front again, the pattern hovering at the very edge of where arms lay at rest along the side. Not quite under the arm, heading towards the shoulders, the wing begins to narrow, the division of the wings in the center of the back visible again about three-fourths up from the waist. From this division a wing begins its movement up and over the shoulder—covering the curve of the shoulder and just hugging the neckline—where a wing plunges inward, slightly, narrowing greatly, until an inch from the areola to go around the darkened flesh but never entering the teat area. The wing ends with a small balled-hoop, just as the wings had connected above and below the navel.
She stands in a candlelit dance studio, lightening dancing through the sky. She is only in her skin colored, low-heeled dance shoes. The butterfly wings were completed but two hours ago, butterfly wings that have taken a little more than a year to complete. She has made herself madam butterfly. The wings begin at her ankles: the curl of the wing wraps around the ankle bone and rolls to the back of the leg, flaring slowly out with small jagged, caressing, edges. Those edges smoothly jet to the sides, but never completely around the leg, the outline of the design just visible to a person who may stand directly in front of her. At the back of the knee, the wing widens more, little do the jagged edges appear as the wing caresses into the curve of her inner and outer thigh, but never reaching the front of the leg. Upon reaching the buttocks, the division of the wings begin to meet between the each individual cheek, the coloring of the wings are a marbled-lining of deep blue hinted with silver, a light turquoise, and the deep blue of a lavender flower to this point. The colors become more defined upon the cheeks of the buttocks, as well as blending into each other more precisely into a pattern of chaos, of memorizing tranquility. Only if she leans over can a person witness the separation of the wings. At the bottom of the buttocks the wing wraps toward the front as it does from the top of the buttocks, taking in the entire hip, narrowing as the lower wing travels to just below the navel. The colors once again take on the pattern of marbling. The wing loops below the navel into the opposite lower wing, an intricate gathering that makes a low lined “V.” The upper wing begins above the navel.
Just as the lower wings connect, the upper do as well, the “V” turned opening down. A diamond, laying on its side, encases the navel. Each wing pulls back in its elegant, intricate entanglement. Just a small area of the lower wing is hidden as the upper wing begins to widen. The top of the wing reaches the first two lower ribs before wrapping around the side to the back. The colors continue as they did before and after the buttocks, reaching around to the back, slowly edging up the shoulder, becoming jagged in areas as parts dart out, but not too far, never reaching around to the front again, the pattern hovering at the very edge of where arms lay at rest along the side. Not quite under the arm, heading towards the shoulders, the wing begins to narrow, the division of the wings in the center of the back visible again about three-fourths up from the waist. From this division a wing begins its movement up and over the shoulder—covering the curve of the shoulder and just hugging the neckline—where a wing plunges inward, slightly, narrowing greatly, until an inch from the areola to go around the darkened flesh but never entering the teat area. The wing ends with a small balled-hoop, just as the wings had connected above and below the navel.
9/11/10
Two Stones
1.a
Evening fails to end the day.
Starlight and moonlight stand over me.
In the church, an urn stares at forty people.
The last bee flutters over a flower.
In the cemetery, a casket blindly looks at the tent ceiling.
I can only mix these two days into a moment
when the urn resides within the casket. At each moment
the preacher says, “. . . bow our heads,”
2.a and only the motion happens.
I’m looking at the flowers and wandering with my feet
the intention of this day when he says,
“I do,” and I follow. The preacher gives his blessing,
collects his twenty dollars, and two signatures
record the record of the gathering, a gathering
which could come
1.b from the sorrowfulness. It is only fitting to bury
ashes with the embalmed.
I can’t help remembering words: “his huge body
splayed over a Lazy Boy; an Arby’s bag below
his left hand on the floor; the television
sounding “Bad Boys” as the coroner
pronounced him dead.” The last time I saw him
2.b he limped with a moderate gut and a cane. His disability
locking his mind up into believing
his body couldn’t do, wouldn’t do: too much pain
to deal with; pills lined in the clear
plastic case labeled with days of the week wasted
on swallowing
1.c
pounds of meat for the five years I didn’t see him.
He could have been anything. A voice troubles me
as I hear the speech like a poem:
“He gave whatever he had to a hand out:
a pauper himself and a spender when he saw a want.”
I never knew this man. Maybe it was there,
2.c not in my little girl eyes of 31 years ago when
he took me to be his bride, 32 years ago when I allowed
him to take me, to take me
3.d 40 years ago for coffee to Sambo’s, where some big-busted
waitress would laugh and giggle, and he would point out,
“She’s my niece.” I was bait. The seal slides down
as I stand at a distance with my toes facing another stone.
Evening fails to end the day.
Starlight and moonlight stand over me.
In the church, an urn stares at forty people.
The last bee flutters over a flower.
In the cemetery, a casket blindly looks at the tent ceiling.
I can only mix these two days into a moment
when the urn resides within the casket. At each moment
the preacher says, “. . . bow our heads,”
2.a and only the motion happens.
I’m looking at the flowers and wandering with my feet
the intention of this day when he says,
“I do,” and I follow. The preacher gives his blessing,
collects his twenty dollars, and two signatures
record the record of the gathering, a gathering
which could come
1.b from the sorrowfulness. It is only fitting to bury
ashes with the embalmed.
I can’t help remembering words: “his huge body
splayed over a Lazy Boy; an Arby’s bag below
his left hand on the floor; the television
sounding “Bad Boys” as the coroner
pronounced him dead.” The last time I saw him
2.b he limped with a moderate gut and a cane. His disability
locking his mind up into believing
his body couldn’t do, wouldn’t do: too much pain
to deal with; pills lined in the clear
plastic case labeled with days of the week wasted
on swallowing
1.c
pounds of meat for the five years I didn’t see him.
He could have been anything. A voice troubles me
as I hear the speech like a poem:
“He gave whatever he had to a hand out:
a pauper himself and a spender when he saw a want.”
I never knew this man. Maybe it was there,
2.c not in my little girl eyes of 31 years ago when
he took me to be his bride, 32 years ago when I allowed
him to take me, to take me
3.d 40 years ago for coffee to Sambo’s, where some big-busted
waitress would laugh and giggle, and he would point out,
“She’s my niece.” I was bait. The seal slides down
as I stand at a distance with my toes facing another stone.
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