190103 - Sun Soaked in Cali {A Poem}

Inspired by My Wave by Keith Urban (feat. Shy Carter)

Sounds soak the warm air pouring in the window,

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Your hair is free floating, lapping chin and neck,

Lazy spots speckle the dusted dashboard

And every turn feels like the beat just dropped. 

We’re out here in the California gold -

Whipping by the cool blue ocean on the rim. 

Bronzed skin and glossed lips, tanned limbs 

This is a paradise from the bitter north 

A reprieve from the sacred mountains and snow

And I am loving every minute of it. 

We park the car, step barefooted onto hot pavement, 

Feel it seep into our toes, up the arch and through our bones. 

Race you down to the tidemark 

And splash our way into the ocean 

For a brief moment, we are connected to continents we’ve never seen, 

All by a vast expanse of cerulean and foam. 

Sandy legs firmly planted on little hills 

Tall as pillars before the crabs and gulls and clams. 

Pull the tab back on a soft drink, 

Hear the puff and shrrt before the sugar sweet dance on tongue-tip. 

Pop the seam on a bag of chips, crunch and crinkle 

Interspersed with laughter around an 8 o’clock pallet fire 

That licks the seams of the skyline 

And high tales pass back and forth between smooth teeth. 

In the sun-soft glow against tan-lines, feel the breeze; 

Watch the crash of the waves mimic the impact of your words

Over the thrum of background music rolling out. 

Pull over a hoodie and sandals as the sun dips into the flames. 

I am melted in the moment, like a softened butter stick,

And the tropical smell of sunscreen ends the night 

On a Hawaiian note in the middle of a California summer. 

-------

Signed with love, 

Squeaks.

18.12.18 - Patchwork Beauty {A Poem}

On bloodied knees, in the middle of a whirlwind,

Everything is chaos swirling overhead. 

Darkened clouds, puffing out macabre stories

Of the past blanketed in a memorial silver chill.

If this serpentine existence is all there is,

I want no part, set me free. 

They danced in gossamer, rippling silk and glow

Every highlight in perfection glittered

Molded over porcelain flesh, mounded and rolled

Feminine beauty pristine and pointed 

Draped gold over mirrored flush,

Spy demure glances under feathered lashes.

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But what is this patchwork creation?

In the midst of the gallant and exquisite

Is a form of pieces and tied lines

Pulled together roughly by automaton hands. 

Can you tell me your secrets? 

Mystery of the dance floor, will you be mine?

Trilled steps like any other girl, but she's different

Laced up with leftover glue and stitching

Patched up with old silks and satins

Scooped up by tired arms and legs

Glance up, crystalline eyes sparking fire in mine. 

Why are you so different, patchwork girl? 

Why are you not like the others here? 

How did you come by this curious state? 

Will you dance with me out here on the floor?

She is ruffled and blushing and beautiful

And my eyes won't leave her.

A disruption to the perfection of classic beauty

This wildflower in the well-trained garden of a master.

Those who would pluck it out to discard,

Those are standing aside as I sweep her in my arms

Out onto the dance floor, as a prized artist of movement.

She wasn't quick on her feet, 

But the poetry of her missteps spoke to my heart

And unraveled the chains that bound me

To the standards I had come to think as rules. 

And my coattails mixed with her skirt

Finery and foolery - but somehow 

This was the way it should be. 

It was in that moment I knew the secret of living -

The beauty of the moment and the pieces,

Like a living chessboard upturned in a game

The unknown gave me my breath. 

And the air chilled to mountain water,

Greedily brought to parched lips and swallowed.

And I was the thirstiest wanderer. 

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This uncharted dance with myself is a mystery. 

I am both the villain and the hero of the tale

And in my slaying of the dragon,

I unravel my patchwork cloak.

Isn't it the pieces that bring us together? 

All the nobbles and knickknacks,

Blended into a wildflower garden

Behind my knees and under my throat. 

Every harsh line and gentle curve.

Sewn up in the freckles and scars 

Of a harshly-loved porcelain body. 

Sitting in front of a mirror is a chore,

And staring into the eyes of a stranger, even more.

Who is this curious fellow looking back at me?

Full of feminine beauty and militant anger?

What lies beneath the skin and bones and organs?

Where have you hid the soul? 

It is with traitorous hands she gathers cream

And caresses her shoulders, arms, knees, legs

Smoothing out battlefield maps to soft canvas

It is a love no one else can give -

For no one knows this patchwork piece like she.

It is with a tender sweep she blocks up crying ears

Wiping their tears, she fills them up with sweet sounds;

And with gentleness, she laces her tongue with honey

And washes her storm-heavy eyes in pooled sunlight.

The fragrant scent of nutmeg and lemons cleanses the room

Then, pulling up her patchwork dress, she covers the burns

From unwanted hands and fists and sleeved brushes.

She is beauty and mystery and peaceful chaos. 

An enigma in a society of painted porcelain dolls -

Wildflower in a tended garden of roses. 

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And where has this love been learned? 

Ah, that is the question, is it not? 

She found it, many years ago, wrapped kindly

Between the pages of an ancient text 

And in a library of many words and thoughts,

She lost herself in the first love letter ever written,

There amongst the stars, she found meaning

And at the feet of the slaughtered victor

She stumbled over the secret to truly love herself again. 

---

Signed with frosted ice,
Squeaks.

18.12.14 - Little Sparrows {A Poem}

We put on our act like clothes, changing them out for better fitting forms.

I am cloaked in many layers - and beneath it all, a shivering frame. 

We hide from light like little burrowing creatures - 

Finding comfort in the thick, strong embrace of dirt. 

But these interchangeable outfits are getting old. 

And every year my roots tire as they sink wearily through the ground. 

I am a complex of deepening rooms - a maze of illogical disturbances to reality

Shrouded by the costumes I pick, to give you insight. 

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I have decided that the me you see is a tiny sparrow -

See how fragile and sensitive this bird presents,

Fluffed feathers and skittering heartbeat. 

You could crush it. 

With one closing of the palm, a light would snuff out, 

And the candle stick would stand, tallow - smoking in the dark.

I hand out sparrows like newspapers on a cold weekday morning,

And if you wake up early enough, perhaps I'll sing for you. 

We all want to be understood, but few want to understand -

So when a rich man comes along, spending time without concern, 

We open up our outer coats and step into the warmth of attention. 

But rich men only laugh when we're a thin layer of cotton

And no one sees past the helpless protection we wield to save our future -

No eye pierces the decorations on our flesh to the delicate soul within. 

We want to be spiritually known, an undressing of the act to glowing bones

And deeper still. 

I hand out little sparrows to everyone I see, 

Patting down my coat pockets as trinkets are exchanged. 

I gently hold a sparkling crystal ball, a chipped and glossy gold coin,

A luscious cut of lions fur, a silver bucket rimmed with sapphires. 

Each piece is a superficial presentation 

Individually chosen as ambassador of a skeleton army.

And I keep handing out nervous sparrows. 

   

My soul sits naked on a desert plain at a table for two

I pare apples with a small knife, setting pieces out orderly

Next to the goblets of grape juice, across from the sword and shield. 

The eternal sun casts shadows around me -

A soft melody leaves my lips, and my little sparrows in the hands of men harmonize. 

You don't really know me - we see as through a glass, darkly

What is now is a pale expression of the actual 

So when you think you see the soul, think again love.

A soul is an elusive thing; it tends to leak out of the eyes

Painting forms of its capacity to know in words and paints and pencils. 

And yet, despite this insatiable longing to be experienced by mankind,

It can only be touched by One, for only One can bridge the gap

Between fragile shell and desperate heart, 

Delving under glowing bones to the unknown

Where something deeper still lies dormant 

Waiting, wanting, to be loved back to life. 

---

Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran

Signed with love,
Squeaks.

18.12.12 - Silver Circlet Visions {A Poem}

I am confidence, stretched out across the glow of the city lights.

I take on the world, staff in hand, hair whipped free by the wind. 

Red and gold ribboned bruising of laughter,

Shaking down the trees and little streams

A thick thunder ripping the fabric of time into pieces of eight.

My arms are strong and sure - my legs unmovable pillars. 

Watch me conquer and divide the sons of men

Stern warship threshing the crowded waves 

Waves that perch aloft before they slide away in secrecy -

I know you're there. 

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I am cloaked in stately crimson; a silver circlet resting over brow

Gemstones embedded in cheekbones, centurions of the peace. 

Ebony waves of silk flow down the backdrop as if water - 

Cleanse me in the warmth of your voice, 

Speak poetry, fantastical turns and twists of a rope theft 

Down my throat to the center of my heart, 

Weigh out the prized furs and features before a judge

And bereft me of the unfit hopes and dreams. 

They dance as blended colours across glazed eyes -

Sugar sweet yet bitter with reality.

One candied drop of could-have-beens rests on tongue tip

Before a descent to the endless vortex of space 

That leaves us breathless and hungry

Constantly craving the culmination of experiences 

To be exceeded by that perfection, ever sought. 

Spin violet songs through my mind 

Spin, drenched in toils of a drop so deep there is no final point -

In a descent of harmonies, shaded purple and silver, 

Comfort is found -

Confident stretch of bone and sinew 

Against the drum that is our beaten lives. 

I step lengthwise across the gap of reality

Into the unknown where the minor sounds and tones 

Captivate pointed ears and nose

Hound it down the mysterious passages that delve

Far below the surface of the moon. 

Tunnel far, tunnel through - unsatiated poet

Every word a thread that leads back to the unborn fetal hope

Resting dormant and petaled on a pedestal of dreams. 

Where the hummed thrill of the honey-maker 

Drips down open ears 

To rest as a torc upon the skeletal collarbones 

That uphold the starlit skin you abuse.

Your beauty is a noble, regal statue of creamy night

Where starlight paints over exhaled joy and pain 

And midnight is softly brushed with wildflower shades.

Tainted by perception through a dusted mirror

Your milky eyes, streaked with mushroomed clouds,

Cannot possibly comprehend the unending mystery

That is your life. 

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My footsteps echo the halls of time, 

Shoulders back, standing mountain-esque 

As granite and marbled glory streaks through the windows

Down the shafted light plumes to pool on cold floors.

In-between the build-up of hospitality 

Reaching out with liquid limbs to grasp for something,

Yet jilted by the turning-back of foxed faces

That stare me down these eternal hallways. 

Do you hold the thrush of visions gently between shaking fingers,

Until it sings you the song you beg of it? 

Or have you let her fly free

And taken up the chalice of unknown poison

That perhaps you might drink and live 

Or drink and perish. 

If it speaks an unsolvable riddle,

Will you accept peace with the unknown

Or will you choose to mercilessly slay avian messengers

In an attempt to make sense of the senseless? 

Peace is in the letting go,

Despite the trumpeted chaos that seeks to snare 

Entrapping us in the web of spherical echoes.

An opened fist fits in the opened palm 

Far better than the closed fist. 

I smooth memories over as the tufted fur of an enraged feline.

Clasped around a slender throated glass, I tip back

Contents of ruby red blossoms and orange peeled citrus

Breathe in the minted chill on the air,

Exhale the lavender sweetness in your pinned-up lungs. 

This robe draped over youthful shoulders

Is a heavy price to bear for the purchased freedom of the soul

And with confidence we are shrouded on the other-side. 

---

Signed with the wind,
Squeaks.

18.12.10 - Wordless Mornings {Short Story}

The sky bloomed in wispy brushes of the palest orange, tinted red, and robin's egg blue. It was ice cold outside and frost blanketed the glass of the coffee shop where I had nestled myself. My laptop was opened to the Spotify search page and my journal was laid out to the side, near a hot cup of coffee. I thumbed the tassels on my scarf and breathed out with a mildly annoyed huff. It was a beautiful morning - too beautiful to be doing what I was doing. Who even know what I was doing. I was just sitting and thinking, at the moment, but I felt an itching somewhere below my ribs to do something magical today. 

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The bell on the shop door tinkled merrily as a trio of college students walked through and joined the line. I felt my brow furrow and I turned back to my journal. It was opened to a blank page - the paper was creamy and thick and tempting me to write down something beautiful or dangerous or amazing. I had nothing in any of these categories to share with myself. 

Normally I loved journaling, but the last few days I had been on a bit of a stint and the flow of words in my head felt blocked. They were there - they were always there - but I couldn't seem to transfer them to the page. It was like digging for gold in a child's sandpit. Pointless and useless. 

I wrapped my fingers around my coffee cup and took a nice long sip. The brew was strong and alive; I loved how you could feel it sink down your throat into your stomach. There was a spot right behind my heart that it seemed to warm especially well. If you thought abstractly enough, you could almost pretend it was giving you a hug from the inside out. 

I smiled to myself and turned back to my journal. A black, fine-tipped gel pen sat uncapped on the page. What do I document. What do I tell. What part of my heart do I spill out onto the page today? It was as if the door to that wealthy library had been locked shut today - barred by ice cold wind and sleet. It was hopeless. 

I tilted back on my chair and gazed up at the ceiling. A fan, mounted to it, was turning lazily to spread the butter-warm air back down to the traveling customers. Someone had painted it various shades of purple, so it looked like an ombre swirl of pastel beauty against the stucco. I liked it. It made me think of icing and vanilla cupcakes and eating cookie dough before it was baked. 

The wall across from me was decorated with abstract art. Not framed art, but rather the entire wall had become a place of expression for the patrons of the cafe. I adored it too. There were a lot of green and blue swirls mixed in with shades of orange and red. It was like looking into the minds of several dozen people. I think it gave a lot of the customers a warm feeling in their hearts; or at least I hoped it did. Art was supposed to make you feel something. It was supposed to capture your unexpressed desires and longings and fears and splash them all over the place for everyone to see and interpret and take ownership of. Art was delicious. 

I took another sip of coffee and returned my gaze to the journal on the table. I could write about art and how it made me feel. But I could do that anytime. I wanted this moment to be something special. How could I capture my life today in a way that it would never be captured again? What was special about this particular moment? 

How can you pinpoint the unique qualities of a moment when it blends into all of the ones you've had in the past and all the ones you anticipate to have in the future? That's the question of the age. You never really know until you do it and then, at some point later on, you look back and thank your past self for being brave. 

These were the moments that I really wish I had been born a naturally talented artist. I wanted to pick up my pen and sketch my day, pull the fantastical pictures in my minds eye out of my head and splay them on the page. I wanted to mix colours and shade them into something mysterious and glamorous. 

Unfortunately (at least I thought it was unfortunate), I was left with a myriad of synonyms, verbs, nouns, and so on and so forth. They all crowded together like buzzing creatures between my ears. Spinning them out without taking the time to contemplate what order they deserve would simply be inviting chaos onto my page. I admit, I admired chaos - there was something poetic about a spinning wreath of disaster and meaningless babble. However, it didn't do justice to this particular day. 

This day called for something more. Something big. Something memorable. I wanted to capture every single breath and the melody it sang. 

It was impossible. 

I drained the last of my coffee and exhaled loudly. Sometimes the words just didn't come. They stayed rooted in the rich soil of my mind and teased me as I walked through them. Their little leaves and fruits swaying back and forth against my legs. 

I often dreamed of living the idealized life of a writer or a poet. I wanted early mornings with dramatic sunrises bleaching the sky blue. I wanted strong coffee and little shops filled with the warm scented smell of fresh bread. A room at home, all cozy and filled with blankets and pillows and creamy drapes around big windows overlooking the ocean. Long walks on chilly beaches, scarves wrapped around red noses. Dripping forests with heavily ferned undergrowth and lush moss, silencing the toe-footed steps of deer. I craved deep conversations about the strangest topics with other people - I wanted someone to read me like I read them. To be understood amidst the hundreds of thousands of humans in this city - to stop being a number and somehow become a pivot point in history. 

I could dream and wish all I wanted, I suppose. Some things were simply that - dreams and wishes. We all have them. Some of us have more of them than others. My daydreams are filled with thick fog and daring adventures. I wanted to partner in quest with a band of travelers interested in the same journey as me - but to find such a thing was impossibly rare. 

I closed my laptop and put it in my bag. My journal eyed me tauntingly, as if to say, "You're too cowardly to dare crease my skin today." Well - yes. Have it your way then. If that means I'm a coward, then I'm a coward. My head is too full of cotton and brass to do justice to paper right now. I picked up my gel pen, capped it, and closed my journal. The artwork on the cover-page was beautiful and inspiring. It was medieval in style and depicted a strong, bold border that encompassed a deadly looking mountain range in the distance. In the foreground, there was a meadow filled with wildflowers, cut one-third of the way through by a sparkling stream that disappeared into a dark copse of evergreen trees. The border was slightly raised, and I ran my fingers over it twice before picking it up and placing it beside my laptop. 

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Another day, another mysterious story trapped forever in my mind. Stepping outside now would mean the absolute death of this particular beauty I saw in my imagination. 

I sighed and resigned myself to this dreadful fate - creative murder it was. Another wordless morning, another lost tale. Onward then, to uncover the secrets of the real world. 

-----

Signed with snow,
Squeaks.

18.12.05 - Trish Keld Gets Stabbed {Short Story}

Perhaps you clicked to read about a stabbing - I regret to inform you there won't be details. However, you can enjoy a fine introduction to a newly minted character of mine, Trish Keld. She's a sassy buttercup :) Enjoy!

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I stripped off my gloves and let them fall to the dirt floor of my rented room. Bright red drops hit the dust with disturbingly loud plunks. My teeth worried into my lip as my jacket followed my gloves. It was a mess. My shoulder had swollen up already despite my quick work to shove it back in place as soon as I could after it was dislocated. A long, angry gash stretched from the top down to my elbow. It was dripping blood at an alarming rate. 

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I found my way carefully over to the little matchbox dresser and jammed the first drawer open. A pair of spandex tights were neatly folded in the corner - I grabbed them and made myself a makeshift tourniquet. It wasn't a particularly good tourniquet, but it would do for now. 

There was a sink at the front door; I turned the faucet on and gently washed out the wound. It hurt like hell. I pulled a bottle of antiseptic from my night-bag (oh yeah - you run in a business like mine and you bet your buckets you'll be carrying several of those guys in your luggage). I gave my arm a good dousing before applying heavy-duty steristrips and bandaging the whole thing up so I didn't have to look at it anymore. 

That being done, I left the mess and slumped into the armchair beside the bed. 

What a mess. I suppose I should explain. After all, if someone comes staggering onto your page with a gaping wound and medical skills but no former explanation, I'm sure you'd want the gritty details; the backstory - surely I deserved this. Must be a mob, an angry ex, or a secret agent showdown, right? Right. Well. Grab a drink and sit yourself down for this one. 

My name is Trish Keld. I worked for a dry-cleaning company for 5 years before I was initiated into the underground services of the Boss. Sounds mob-ish right? Right. It wasn't. I just wanted to make some extra change on the side so I could actually afford to have a life instead of a basic existence. Consider it leveling up in the real world. You need money for that, sweetcheeks. In any case, the Boss sent someone called Halfish (weird names, I know - don't ask me, I didn't pick them). Halfish smelled like old cigars and cold nights. He was tall and dark and had a glint in his left eye that spoke of adventure and chaos. He was also graying at the temples - probably around 34 years old, maybe older. If I slugged him hard enough he'd likely send me packing to the nearest corner for a time out.

I was intrigued; I guess they knew how to draw me in, because as I found out later, they'd been scoping my place for quite some time. I digress. 

Halfish asked if I wanted to make some cash and I told him no. I was a good kid, I knew a mobster from the get-go. I didn't want no part in their dirty business. That's when he asked me to coffee and said he'd need time to explain, because it - and I quote - "isn't like that". Alright, fair. I'll give the guy a chance. After all, what half-starved 22 year old brat doesn't want to sit for an hour, get a free coffee and doughnut while they listen to some crackpot spout a ridiculous story that you'll never buy into? So I agreed. 

We went to coffee. He bought me an extra strong espresso and a maple glazed doughnut (bit sweet for me, if I must say). He then laid out a tale that I simply could not resist. 

The Resistance, run by the Boss, was an underground group (yes - Halfish was part of it, obviously ... what turniphead hasn't figured THAT one out by now). They mostly dealt in secret documents and information. They were bought by various governments, your suspicious spouse, the CIA and FBI, mobsters (these cases were rarer, as I later discovered), as well as investigative agents and lawyers. They were a highly trained group of intelligent men and women that really did make a difference in the world. 

I was fascinated. Halfish told me of their key part in the translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls and other highly prized religious documents. He also spun terrifying stories of high-speed chases and gunfights. I was thrilled and frightened. What on earth could I possibly give to a group like this? I was a laundry-girl; I hadn't even gone to college. Sure, I had my GED, but that wasn't enough, was it? 

"You do realize we've been keeping an eye on you for some time now, right?" Halfish grumbled into his mug. 

"Um, and you realize how stalker-ish that sounds? Freaks. Gosh - I'll have to ask my landlady about getting new blinds installed. What are you - a pervert?" I retorted, licking the crumbs of my doughnut off my thumb. 

Halfish hadn't been impressed by that, "Look, I'm not interested in arguing with a kid. You want the job or you don't. If you don't, we'll have to fix the fact that you know what I've told you. We have ways of doing that. Not exactly pleasant ways, but ways nevertheless." He quirked a sharp brow at me. 

"You're going to off me?" I laughed and pushed my chair back, "Whatever man, I know your kind. Sure - hit me up, count me in - don't actually hit me up though, I'm not your type. I've got a job to get back to."

"That'll change kid - this is full-time work. We'll move you to the base in a few weeks when things get sorted at the top."

That was my initiation, I guess. I moved to a small base about a month later. Didn't even have to give my two-week notice to Clarisse at Wishing Waters dry-cleaning services. I don't think she cared though (gotta say, I did feel bad for like...two seconds). 

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It didn't take me long before I was back out on the streets, holing up in little drafty motels and securing documents from various targets. That's what the Boss and Halfish called them. I preferred to call them my clientele. Sounded better, in my opinion. Most of my work was done with Halfish supervising during my first year. After that, I began running my own solo missions or heading up teams. Fun stuff.

Five years later, having risen in the ranks and completed over 77 successful missions, I now found myself with my first serious injury. The only thing running through my mind at the time was dang kid, that's gonna be a fine story-scar. I think it was the moderate shock I was experiencing - who even thinks that stuff. My thoughts briefly traveled to memories of Halfish. He'd been my uncompromising mentor for two years before he was taken out in a fluke drive-by shooting that wasn't even part of our mission. Some dips from the crummy side of town decided to rumble and we were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes, I'd wake up at night, soaked through with sweat from my nightmares. That's what happens when you see someone who felt like a father get offed standing right beside you. It was hellish for a while there. Got better after a couple years though, but I'll never be the same. I haven't forgiven those dips yet though. The Boss told me grudges didn't work in this line of business, but he didn't know Halfish like I did. 

Anyway. Whatever. 

So, here we are, I'm in my cheap armchair in a cheap motel on the cheap side of town hoping I won't bleed out through my makeshift taping job. 

It had come down to a knife fight. Me versus five brutes. How was I to know some lower east-end lawyer was going to hire thugs to guard his files. I mean, I guess it was understandable. Dude was the defense lawyer for Kris Trevolta, the very same guy that murdered 36 kids at a daycare. I won't go into details, but it was brutal. Word came to the Boss that the lawyer had some incriminating evidence buried in his filing, so he sent me to nick it. Should have been an easy job. I mean, I did get the evidence - pretty good stuff too. It was already swirling through the interwebs to people that would take care of the job properly and make sure that dip ended up behind bars for many torturous life sentences. 

I let my head tilt back against the chair, but the chirping of my cellphone started up before I could really allow myself to relax. 

"Ugh." I grunted in annoyance, but I got up anyhow and answered the phone, "What." 

"Hey, where are you right now?" a soft male voice inquired.

"Jameson, I don't have the time." I snapped.

"Trish you've been gone for days. What's going on?"

Jameson was my ... I don't know. Friend? More than friend? Distraction? He was great, but I wasn't in for commitment just yet. Life was too chaotic. I knew he liked me, but I always put the brakes on things before he managed to get more than casual conversation out of me. It was for both our sakes, I would tell myself. 

"Trish?" his voice crackled over the crummy reception. 

"Yeah I know, I'll be back in a couple days. Got some out of town business." 

"You realize that sounds shady as heck."

"Yeah well, welcome to my life. Shady as heck bruh." I cringed at myself - who says bruh these days, "Look, I'll call you when I get back to town. I'm really busy right now."

"Your house was broken into."

The line went silent for a moment. 

"The police were there and everything. Your landlord called me up - said you had me down as an emergency contact in case of ... well... emergencies I guess. Anyway, he said he wasn't able to get a hold of you --"

So that was who had set off my phone during my mission. Dratted landlord. 

"-- and he sounded worried. That's why I'm calling. I'm no snoop and I don't care to know your business, but you should at least come home to deal with the cops on this one. The guys did a fair bit of damage. Sounds like some of your stuff is missing too." 

My face paled; it was already pale from blood loss but I felt it pale more. I knew exactly what those dips were after. I was annoyed before, but I was murderously mad now. 

My job here was done - I'd better just book a flight back home and sort that mess out. The Boss would help, I'm sure of it. If the dips found what they were looking for, then things were going to get very very messy. 

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"Alright, thanks Jameson. I'll head home as soon as I can. Appreciate it."

"Are you ok? You sound a little shaken." His voice was calming, but I knew mine was a little quavery... for OBVIOUS reasons, but he didn't need to know that. 

"Of course. I'll talk to you later." 

"Alright, b--"

*BEEP* I hung up and let my phone slide from my palm to the floor. 

Things were about to get very messy indeed. 

-------

Signed with a burnt wick,
Squeaks.

Vulnerable Poets Unite (or not)

A post wherein I mostly just blargh all of my thoughts on the page with no specific direction or mental township in mind. If you stick around, I presume you'll get to know me a little better (or maybe not - my mind is incredibly confusing sometimes, even to myself). 

The innumerable possibilities for writing topics can be a little overwhelming. It’s like standing in front of an endless well; you dip your bucket down and heaven knows what you’ll bring back up. I have been standing in front of my metaphorical well for quite some time, daring myself to see what I’ll find. It’s a little terrifying sometimes, this delving into the soul. Sometimes it makes me feel like I don’t know myself. I am more certain of this latter fact today than I was five years ago. I think we always give a nod at the concept – that we are mysteries – when we are young, but it never truly solidifies itself until one actually bothers to investigate the matter.  

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As of late, I’ve been observing myself as if I were a private investigator. It’s not as easy as it sounds. I’ve come to the conclusion that I am a terribly difficult and obnoxious person to myself. I treat myself rather cruelly – I’d never treat my friends the way I behave towards myself. I am berated by waves of negative thoughts and caustic remarks and sarcastic commentary. If I treat the people around me with kindness, compassion, love, and tenderness then why can’t I behave that way towards me? I live with me – I’m not getting away from me anytime soon – so shouldn’t my kindness be greatest towards the the body and mind I have to tend and provide for? Of course, all this discussion makes me sound very curious to the uninitiated soul that has yet to consider these ideas. I promise, I’m not crazy; I’ve simply come to realize that I can’t keep on burying and repressing problems and concerns.

Wait! but wait! Not burying or repressing problems means v.u.l.n.e.r.a.b.i.l.i.t.y (ew). That is terrifying. Don’t worry though, I’m not going to open up my stored cans of worms and invite you to the mariachi mess. I mean more so that I need to be vulnerable with myself, because apparently I have been blockading myself from the chaos for far too long. Bring the walls down! – slowly though…actually, let’s just chill here and observe the walls for a bit. Ok. Maybe I’m not quite ready to deal.

Does this sound confusing to you yet? I don’t blame you if it does, because it certainly is confusing as heck to me. Ever wonder why poets are so good at evoking emotion and depth in your heart? Ah yes, it is because we write from the soul – we dig into the soil that is seeded with memories and feelings and thoughts, and we bring up the old skeletons we kept for such a time as this. Then we shake those old bones around, let them rattle extra loud, before we throw them back in the graveyard for next week’s classy attempt to make sense of life.

I’ll be honest with you; I am writing all these meaningless (or so they seem to me) words right now so that I can get the traffic jam out of my head and onto paper. I have so many words boiling in my mind and setting them free to do as they will is the best form of therapy. It makes me feel a little wizard-like, to know that the words I craft and spin impact the reader. That’s making a big assumption that people actually read what I write. I don’t have too many high hopes for an audience, so I have convinced myself to simply write for me and if a stray eye comes waddling along then well… welcome to this mess.

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Crafting poetry is a beautiful thing. I love doing it and I love reading what others write as well. I particularly love it when my readers come to me with their own interpretations of my work, describing unique ideas of what the symbolism means to them and what they think I’m talking about. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m writing about until after I finish, then I go back and read and realise my heart is absolutely murdered upon the page. It’s an angst-riddled, gorgeous mess. I love poetry. However, sometimes I wish I could share a written explication of my meaning. I don’t do this for fear of impairing my reader’s interpretation and experience – but sometimes I wish people knew exactly what I meant and why I wrote it a specific way. At times, this is an impossible task though, because it is less about what the words say and more about how they make you feel. The rolls and undulations of a soft tongue over the crests and troughs of clipped and smoothed syllables. It’s a whole-body experience. This is what makes poetry unlike any other art form. Not only can you hear beauty and pain or experience the emotions it causes to well up inside of you, but you can taste it – feel it in your mouth. That is an intimate thing – if you read what a poet writes (or what any writer writes for that matter), it’s as if their fingers have dipped themselves into your mind. The words carefully formed and patterned by one human have now slipped into your head and you recite them as if they were yours… but really, you have given the author entrance to your most secret place. Reading is glorious. I wish more people would take the time to read and appreciate the beauty of language.

I have long loved the English language and the art of writing. I don’t think I will ever grow weary of mixing my words as if they were ingredients for a cake. Make it bitter, make it sweet – make it something all can eat ;)

I suppose it goes to say this is likely the reason I love music so much. Music is a unique type of poetic expression – it is, in my opinion, a bit more rigid than poetry because the interpretation of the stresses and flavour are given to the artist (be they musician or vocalist). Pure poetry, on the other hand, is entirely viewed through the life of the reader. They choose how to interpret it, and that is exquisite to me.

Anyhow, I have rambled on enough for now. I will certainly return at some point with further discussion on the topic of poetry. Feel free to agree or disagree with me :) thanks for sticking with me to the end. You’re a gem.

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Ebony silence, stilted night

I am fallen under light

Moonshine glow, tortured – slow.

Heaven speaks and hell dissolves.

If you join me in this dance

Earth will stall; axis, chance

Changed romance.

Clipped peace,

Tacked to teeth

Words are broken,

Shards prevail

Stuttered down to ships unveiled.

Sinking through the folded clouds

Diamond dagger, spiraled down

Your frown, my answer –

Distance is a fated cancer.

-------

Signed with a bit of bark, 
Squeaks.