Dreaming in Tennessee

Anecdotes, general musings, and registered work from a wannabe.

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Location: Nashville, Tennessee, United States

Saturday, July 23, 2005

The Rat's Star

So, I got spanked three times yesterday. It should've been four, but generic hasn't kicked my ass yet for that comment I made. After the third spank, I cut over to her blog, looking for something funny, & (I think bc of my expectations) I felt like I was reading something out of "The Employee Handbook, Chapter 7: Rules for a Politically Correct Conference Meeting." (http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=12199804&postID=112199882972220891 )

The first spanking was on "The Blank Page" by Derek (http://www.theblankpage.us/archives/2005/07/sources_for_dom.html#comments), & I understand his point and agree on a level. But while a constant dreamer on the inside, I am a total pragmatist to everyone else. I think if I hope too much, it's just that much harder when you fall. Depressing, huh? Ok, I'll stop.

The second time was from David (http://www.davidanaxagoras.com/2005/07/21/my-procrastinatin-ways/#comments) & this is the only time I actually disagree. I felt like Debra on Everybody Loves Raymond in the episode where Ray tells her "Well, don't feel that way." Can't help it. I just do.

The third came from the only person who knows both me, personally, & this site. My friend from college, I'll call her Cojones (that was her sign on for the school email/system; first initial, second initial, last name; laughed my ass off when I found out about it, & had to explain it to her when I realized she never took Spanish), didn't like "Terrorists: Beware." Cojones (shit, that's just funny & suits her, too) doesn't think it's my best work & worries that other writers will think I'm a hack. (I have to say I completely agree on this one. I absolutely do not do well when I'm too close, timewise, to a precipitating event.) She wants me to hurry up & fix the fiction links so she can read some of the stuff I've written since then. (When I have more time, assuming I can figure it out, I'll set up the side to open a new page.) Cojones, hope you like them better than "Terrorists: Beware."

Note: In case anyone wants to know, the title is from Anne Sexton's "With Mercy for the Greedy." http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/annesexton/642

In order from when they were first written:

barely breathing

i came back here
to our sky-blue room
to kneel beside our bed,
encased with sheets crying out
for a wash and knowing
it’s not coming.

i walked there tonight
and saw the pale-faced moon
as he darted behind a sunken cloud
to get away from my scowl.
he had no right to be there.

covered by the shadows of the night,
i stood there for the longest time
and wondered why.

why i was staring down
at a grey marker, scratched
with oh, so endearing words.
why your ashes were buried
behind a layers and layers of stone,
when they could have been cast
into the wind to whisper forever
among the chorusing birds
and comforting willow trees,
telling them all of our secrets.
telling them of the time
when we lay in your parent’s bed
and you held me so tightly i could
barely breathe.

He Is
in response to Anne Sexton’s “With mercy for the Greedy”

dearest anne,
in your crumpled-up,
water-dryed letter
to me, your scribbled
scratches tell me
of you knowledge
of your sins.
and your needs.
and what you
are seeking
is belief,
and mercy.
and how your poems
are your refuge,
the vaseline
on your bloody
cuts and bruises.

my love,
don’t you know
that is Who and What
He IS.
He is the One
Who is Knowledge (the wise friend
whose eyes tell of listening with the heart
and speaking from the soul),
Need (the water that quenches our thirst
when we have just come back
from running the race
and walking the walk),
Belief (the faith, the faith that is bestowed
upon us with grace from above;
like the sun’s healing warmth
after a day of cold rain),
and Mercy (a blanket
for all of the greedy and homeless),
including you, love.
you, too.

you tell me of how you wore
my own cross, my dog bitten cross,
around your throat,
instead of around your heart.
perhaps that was the mistake.
perhaps you need your own cross,
your own worn and scratched cross.
so that you can hold onto it
around your heart,
where it was always meant to be.
if that is your need,
He will provide.
and I will be here,
a friend for when you need
me, and when you think
you don’t.
that is Him in me.


returning home
from your white
wonderland, i looked
at our picture on my
bookshelf. the sunlight
reflecting off of it
was glaring into my
eyes, denying me
my sight.

it reminded me
of the way your faces
glowed for each other
while you danced,
holding on so tightly
pressing two into one;
like they were filled
with an inner lamp
dazzling everyone
around you, saturating
the banquet hall
where we feasted
on your requited love.

and there was i,
waiting at the table
in the farthest corner
of the dance floor,
trying to see you.


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