Saturday Night Lullaby

It's crazy. Be gold, Loves . . . XOXO, Cindy

The method . . . I suppose

I love poetry that changes. Being able to catch some of the author's edits generally gives you an insight to their method. Every poet is different, I mean I've been told to read books on "writing" (most of those books are merely about how to give credit where credit's due) but that seems about as useful as reading a book on "how to be yourself." Untapped gem some of you internet-goers may not know about, the JFK library . That's all I'm going to say. No more. Just google it. So here's what I propose, here's the raw, raw, raw start of a poem.




I stared longingly at the blueberry pancake in front of me
Those berries bursting in my mouth seemed like something I had
Dreamed, vividly, yet never experienced
I looked up over the breakfast table, at my father grinding his dentures
Reading the Daily Item
The clanking, gum smacking noise
Was as rhythmic as a lullaby, a lullaby sung to me for my whole 20
Years on this earth
The result of a disease, that rotted his mouth, made him bleed
The taste of blood has always been a mystery to me, people have described it as
Rust, yet, I’ve never tasted rust
But blood, well my blood, I know what that
tastes like
Mornings spent doubled-over
in excruciating pain
Hoping for any kind of end
Like a pepto bismol chaser after every shot of hard reality
I’m terrified that this blood taste still lingers somewhere in the recess of my jowl
And it will infect my favorite foods
It will tarnish the breakfast with Dad
And instead of the melting-buttery taste each morsel of pancake fluff embodied
I’ll bite into the corner of 54th and 3rd. Waiting by the falafel cart for the
Walking man, eying the entrance to Barnes and Nobles
Refuge from the moments
It could be a 16 minute walk if one practically ran from 71st to 54th and I made it in 12
12 times I relived the moment in that office with the view of a fire
Escape
And a brick wall
The sound of the door closing behind me was really
Someone sucking the air out of the room, we were alone with his collections
as he went in for the touch
Telling me he knew why someone like me was in his office
I can tell someone like you has lots of thoughts floating around in her head, it wasn’t the thoughts he wanted then
As he brushed a piece of hair covering the horror in her face
His finger smelling of pathetic moments of rejections from women half his size
I puff out my chest and close my eyes and crawl out of the window with the fire escape
To a place where I’m simply fishing with my dad
Fuck vampires and werewolves there are worse clichés who haunt
The hallowed halls of institution
These monsters, refined by the time and the technology
Simulacra of the men they claim to be
Prey
In the loop holes and bank
On the embarrassment
And the blood runs
Starts as an unsuspecting cough boiling inside the lungs, but it isn’t from my lungs though I’m drowning in the Red Sea
Its lower, but the pain burns everywhere, I vomit
And then the splat
Such an extraordinary shape as its prominent red dots couldn’t be more than a quarter of an inch
As the tech-savvy 20 year old screams I have TB the crowd
parts
And I focus on the top dot it’s growing bigger.
No I’m getting smaller?
No I’m getting closer to it
I’m sliding under the moment
I pull myself together and cover the slither of blood in the corner of
my mouth
Tastes like slaughter. I miss her already.
I’ll write about that moment and relive it a hundred times
In a hundred different ways, places and with a hundred different characters
The combination seem endless
But her name, the one I kill for closure, the one whose blood I taste
The one I see in the face of every woman
Her name is Nadie.
She is nobody
She is everybody
She is me
That moment was her moment
To die, Bach contributed the soundtrack
A minor detail
I remember looking back at her through the window, yes I left her
I had to, I had to split, it was survival of the fittest that was the narration playing over the scene when I made my great escape
Self preservation, utilitarian
Dark clouds
Smell like spring rain . . .
Taste like shit.
But I stepped into the room.
That is my individual cross to bear.*

*As the author, I don't owe you an explanation. So don't ask.

I'll edit it some more over the next few weeks like I do all my poems. Check back if you'd like. Comment/criticize . . . it's a free country (thank God).

Please Mr. Postman

It was a strange day yesterday . . . but I dig the strange.

Dear Mr. Postman,
I walked by your UPS truck as you dilly-dallied in Panera Bread, delivering a package or getting a coffee, I'll never know. I heard the guitar coming out of your door-less cockpit, I bet you like feeling the breeze on that patch of skin that shows between the cuff of your pant leg and the top of your sock . . . your whole ankle . . . you exhibitionist. Mr. Postman I will not include you in the lost loves of my life, I find that I happen upon you men in the oddest times of my life. And Mr. Postman why I think I love you, excuse the word "love" (I know what the word means to me, and I LOVE to use it . . . ) but I'm pressed for time you see, so "love" will suffice. Yes back to my reasons, let me bullet them for ease

• I have a thing for men in uniform, but I can tell you're kind of a rebel which brings me to
  
• I have a thing for rebels (with or without a cause, a rebel is still a rebel to me)
• Seeing you at my door with a package generally makes my day
• Knowing you bring smiles to the faces of others makes my day even more
• you had THIS song blaring out of your truck and well . . . if that ain't fate, I don't know what is . . .

Please Mr. Postman, you don't have to bring me any letters, just play that song from time to time and think of me.

Dream hard and play fair
XOXO
Cindy

A life lived is a lesson learned.

If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell. I'll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days. Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar.

It is a blessing . . .

to feel anything for a change, I suppose.

I'm building ratopia with legos today, eating lunch with Soapface, spending time with my mother and letting the cards fall where they may . . .

Last night I listened to a heart beat.

My New York Diary Revisited

Look, I kid about not liking red heads because I had to share a bedroom with one for 9 months, give or take, who made my life miserable. She wasn't even thaaaaat bad. I'm just a creature of habit, my deodorant is always on the left hand corner of my dresser, if it's not there, I forget to put it on. I stay up late most nights, I play music all the time, I prefer writing of some sort on the wall, and I HATE having to always talk. All of these things seemed to clash with her so I compromised . . . a lot. I like to share things (books, music, movies, clothes, etc) and while I'm pretty lackadaisical about getting things back, my red-headed college roommie managed to make off with some of my most cherished belongings, my first copy of My New York Diary by Julie Doucet--- she had to do a writing assignment on comics as literature and didn't want to use that manga stuff she liked to read, no offense if that stuff floats your boat, and she left it at a Starbucks . . . good-bye Julie. Then there was my copy of Vivre sa vie --- we had a Godard Movie Night at my dorm (NYC film students . . . meh) she missed my contribution to the evening, so I lent it to her over spring break NEVER to see it again. I had two great Amnesty International tees . . . now I have one (she wanted to wear it to impress some guy, I probably don't want that one back). I had Van Morrison's Moon Dance . . . she just took it right off my desk promising to return it. Lie. Bye bye Van, it's still a marvelous night for a moon dance.

Anyhow I ordered another copy of My New York Diary and it came in the mail Saturday. I love getting mail that isn't bills. And to show there are no hard feelings to all the other Reds of the world here is a list ::shudder:: of red heads I actually love.

1. Lucille Ball (I was her for Halloween a few years back).
2. Anne from Anne of Green Gables (ahhh, yes fictional characters will be here)
3. J.B. Fletcher (aka Angela Lansbury, I loved Bedknobs and Broomsticks)
4. Strawberry Shortcake
5. Maureen O'Hara
6. Mary Magdalene
7. Carol Burnett (my Nana's favorite)
8. Samuel Clemens
9. Emily Dickinson
and last but certainly not least
10. Andia!!!!!!

Tis a marvelous night for a moon dance . . .





And a little Substitutiary Locomotion would go a long way at the Marsh . . .

Mr. Fish . . . you continue to astonish me

My Life On the Court is Stanley Fish's latest post and as the title of this blog implies, I am continually surprised by this amazing man.

I was introduced to Stanley Fish's blog a few years back by my friend Sara. As a project in my global ethics class I had to lead the class in a discussion on Defining Terrorism. I searched the UMASS database for literature on the subject and found myself inundated with 15000000 bagillion scholarly papers on the matter. Sooooo yeah, tons of literature but something was still missing. I had been talking to Sara about it and she sent me a link to one of his blogs that just happened to be on the subject of defining terrorism. More importantly he discussed the NEED for EVERYBODY to be having such a discussion, people had to realize their definitions were not as clear and consise as they believed. It was the best way to end my class prompt. Look here are what some learned scholars think . . . but what do YOU think? And more importantly, why?

I quoted Fish, and made sure to mention it was a blog, because it seemed a little less pretentious than someone's Master's Thesis. Have you ever tried to open up and be real with someone who acted like they knew it all? Yeah, I know. I hate those people. Well I hate talking with them.

But Stanley Fish, nope. I think I could shoot some hoops with that old geezer anytime.

Alternative Tentacles

Coffee, sun and napping have made me decide to tell you all to go here,
Alternative Tentacles

and listen to this
Children of the Lord

and read this
Thank You for Clapping. Tarantella

Remember, dream hard and play fair. Have a sinful Sunday, Loves. XOXO Cindy

Oh and don't you dare go shopping today. I mean it.

Saturday Night Lullaby