Quandry
It’s like this: You have gotten yourself into something. It is up to you to get yourself out again. Barring divine intervention, it’s got to be done, and it’s going to hurt no matter what you do. You can just stand still, but if you do, things will most definitely get worse. You can make a plan–choose the shortest route, or the one with the fewest obstacles. Or. Just bull your way through it all.
You may be a mess when you get through, but you will be out of it.
September 12, 2007 - Posted by barbara_y | Life, Thoughts | planning, solutions | No Comments Yet
No comments yet.
Leave a comment
| Next »
Myths Grow Feet
Myths saunter through our lives as effortlessly as Hercules could rip your check in half and say your money’s no good here or Pecos Bill could spin a three day novel out of tumbleweeds and moonshine They walk among us in disguise Medusa’s masked and pixilated but she’s there and stoning the unwary from a screen Dragons dress innocuous and sell insurancemantid days
these last few have been mantid days and every where it seems pale are and tender green insect miniatures posed in attitudes of patient prayer. insectile pharisees of the fall. * * molted, or to answer prayer relieved of mortal shell chitin coat left for the needy.Ladybug
a tickle on my neck I brush and crush a red and spotted lady beetle soon they will be clustering and cloistering dropping from the ceiling into soup and wandering among the potted plants like tourists from tokyo or mars but now the scent like fig leaves on my fingers reminds me to be careful as my feet disturb the earthplasterform
If I cast plaster over my small world would it create a white inversion of my polychromic chaos? Could the negatives of cat hairs seem arranged processional as lines of poetry, and etch the wet lime inverse with platitudes of order? What cryptic shapes would come from ball point pens, remote controls and coffee cups?Summoned to a Lady’s Room
he stepped into a dimness dressed for winters ruled by kings and queens of bone and dust now memory a parlor wearing wealth in saturating dyes, dense to hold an ember’s warmth through nights without a whispered hope of summer fire, heat wrapped in velvet and in silk against a life of white, black, of a cutting blue. steel and ice. venous ravenous.Three Scarecrows
they left him and two other scarecrows on the dock beside a canvas bag of mail its brass lock half ripped off beside a bale of something smelling dead and three bare sea bags flat as hunger
Moonshine Tunes
covered all in creekslime and smelling like the guts of worms, dead fish, and honeysuckle later we would find ourselves the hosts to countless tiny ticks too small to find until they’d gorged themselves and swollen large as mustard seeds. stay aways, not run aways we were wild and fearless singing moonshine tunes like nursery rhymesAfternoon’s too long
The afternoon's too long and bright sing down the sun and bring on night with music use ukeleles, piccolos and chimes to lift the stars and when the time is right bring on the moon flute a sliver from behind a cloud or sound out full and rich the sweet bassoonDOWN TIME
Sirens’ echos screaming off brick facades and black roads are calling down the stars Faceless men making dark rites in back room whispers and coupled lovers pleading for completion chained hounds belling in staggered chorus join in calling down the stars Listen.Dawn Emergency Room
the dim dawn startled her like walking into daylight from a movie matinee time playing tricks again she stumbled over nothing caught herself and stayed upright, too tired to fall with none of the raw fear that brought her here all adrenaline and energy departed hours ago.May be truth
May be truth should wear a label hang a sign around its neck and give us leave to waste our time on more important puzzles (Hamlet was a fool to care) May be the night has fooled your eyes, you see gray recollections shades (see fire curl in spectrumas damp then peach
Odds are in your favor missie if you buy this car you won't be sorry true she's got some miles on her but she 's got plenty more you had your own mechanic look * * * Imagine top down wind and Mose Allison exhaling cool irony nowhere I got to be no just flat blue highway and night smelling baking bread and coffee soft leather seats and smooth responsive powerful and ripe as peaches headlights picking out the lines stars blurring mine we usGuitar thirst
We got lost one night outside of Crossville, three girls in an old convertible no spare tire, when the radio hit static, engine light winked on. out on this tar blacktop road, not hardly two lanes anywhere and not a sign of anything in sight, just our headlights on the road. We wound up at this roadhouse, white cinder blocks and black paint trim, the smell inside was old stale beer and french fry grease from last July. We meant to get directions and get out of thereBefore Remembering
he stands in the dawn humming last nights music blind to the world and the pearl morning light blue alcohol fire burned away yesterday sometime during the night he waits for the past to show its face now a reminder to lead him back home he drank to escape memory sang to re-wake memoryRest somewhere sweet and listen
Morning rests inside the darkness. Sorrow comes where sorrow will. Mourning is no cure for loving. Stars unseen are with you still. Starlight rests inside the morning. Rest. Work will still be here tomorrow.
