Violently

The innocuous voices of birds penetrate this space. Sitting on my familiar chair, wheels so comfortable with my weight they seem to roll as almost an extension of my mind. I hug my knees, I release them, I fidget with the loose papers scattered across my closet desk. I ignore the mirror and my face therein.

Contemplation surges, the waves of an uneasy sea rising upon one another. White caps swallow white caps and threaten the rare buoy. The ocean is not aware of itself, except maybe passively. The edges all touch sand or rock or the toes of passionate lovers, and this the ocean knows. But the lovers stand, they walk away, and the ocean forgets. In the vast waters good and bad lose their meaning. There is only sea.

The innocuous voices of birds remind me of my small form. How can the entire sea fit inside my heart? Violently.

Question #1

How come we never learn about the many uses of the female body exclusive of 'sexiness' and 'out of sight/out of mind'? The only discourse on the uses of the human body comes in one ubiquitous package (that could be a dirty joke): the male body. Sure, us ladies already know we're quietly included (in that men represent humans all together), but there's got to be a better way.

So I ask it again: Where's the discourse on wonderful things to do with our bodies?

LCD

You sit in your chair, still wet from the shower, and you wish it would happen; you watch the light and peer through the slats of the blinds; you pray that an angel will sweep down to the rooftop and peer back in at you; you push your hands into your hair and shudder at the grime; you know this is all you amount to, a long series of sweaty days and cramping calves; they call it a Charlie-horse but you feel it differently; and that’s what pushes you down, your mistaken eyes granted the light from a slat in the ceiling; you cry; you beg; you’re dying in this small space, the darkness is rotting around your feel and it feels like shit; you’re not a fool, though, and you keep searching; optimism takes its toll; you sit in your chair, still wet from the shower, and you wish it would happen; but you start to lose track of what it even is; you scrape your fingers across the wooden surface, across the LCD monitor; you cry in the rhythm of a popular song:

‘you

don’t

need to

….

emerge

from nothing…’

inhale...

There's this pressure that goes
unnoticed.
There's this calling that comes
from nowhere.
Its the inhalation;
a once craved smoke.
Its the late assignment uncared for.
Its teeth against skin.

Glancing

Look up,

And there it is,

Lightning from cheekbones starts,

And down,

To core, gut, base.

It wasn't there before.

I wish it would go away.