submitted by Linda Ravenswood, Los Angeles, CA
he sat there telling her some of the truth during the self congratulatory part of the constantly running, invisible documentary of his life presumably filmed by the angels and the ghost of ingmar bergman. the continuity was amazing except for those times when the machine was on the fritz. whole sections of the time he’d lived in idaho were missing, and most of his daughter’s pubescence — and there was that one section during his second marriage that had someone’s entire thumb in the lens. he absolutely never thought of those times though, so it was really a blessing in disguise. trouble was one day, one of the lost sections showed up on the front porch, when his girlfriend was home and dressed for company. she said, how the hell are you ? and showed the section around the house. the lost section said it was comfortable waiting for him in the living room, and, drinking tea out of the girlfriend’s china, told her all about the rape and the photos, about the big n slutty porn and something about tax evasion. the section was calm and pulled no punches. after a while though, he said he couldn’t wait any longer and stiffly stood and walked out of the house. when her boyfriend came home, all he said to the news of the return of the lost chapters was that if she’d really loved him, she wouldn’t have brought it up. later that night he shoved her awake in the lamplight and with it tight between his thumb and fore finger, snubbed his cigarette butt out on the pink area between her labia and the close canal. lucky for her, the constantly running, invisible documentary of her life had a finicky record button too. she would hurt for a few days, but pain never killed anyone, like he always said.
submitted by Jenni, San Francisco, CA
A lonely little girl, terrified, hugging knees to chest in a solitary corner:
Is he gone? Is she safe?
Each day holds new dangers as she tiptoes across the tightrope of her life,
Lacking the comfort of a safety net below.
One false step and she’ll be gone.
Constant fear has stolen her voice. He knows she’ll never tell.
Who would listen to the halting, hesitant speech of damaged goods?
From the comfort of his safety net, he eyes her tightrope walk
With eager anticipation.
The days and weeks of silence become months and years.
Soon she forgets the value of her voice,
And others, weary with the work of speaking for two
Excuse her silence for shyness at best, rudeness at worst.
Her tightrope, if not comfortable, is at least familiar:
She knows each twist and knot along the way.
By day, she steps with calloused tiptoes across her tightrope;
By night, she curls into a ball and cries the dark away.
One day as she approaches the ladder to her tightrope torture,
She scorns the worn rungs, envying those who, instead of walking a tightrope of terror, fly.
How she longs for the wings to soar.
One last glance at her tightrope tormentor and her decision is firm:
She will fly.
The first flappings of her wings terrify her;
How will she survive in the changeful wind and blinding sunlight of the azure sky?
She almost leaves the dizzying heights.
Others, seeing her plight, do not mock, do not scoff, do not flutter off
But come alongside and help her on her way through the unfamiliar freedom of the air.
As she finds her wings, so too she finds her voice:
“I’d like to tell you my story.”
jsf 11-21-09
submitted by Steven Adam ‘Joaquin’ Drake, Escondido, CA
Compelling To The Nights Shoring Up Wounds!
Through “Grapes of Wrath” villainy disdained!
-Marvel at magic’s alchemy-
For a silver thread up to Heaven’s Gate,
In poetic verse beyond restraints…
Tilling the soil in breadth of substantiation
In hearth of heartache’s relief.
Calling out of the distance echoed
Off walls of primordial affairs -stalled by
Compliance in depth of artist merits.
No longer mortified. But relied on… pictured
In breath of the air that we breathe sustained.
Flying through windows in safety’s eye of
The soul in sight of the spirit’s development.
Although, past those whom brutalize the
Innocence in birth of one’s own Rights
To live for sanctity’s beauty worn up
No body’s sleeve -transparently-
For causes of truth’s wisdom in thoughts
Mindful of who we are for Humanity’s Being.
Beyond ‘sly wits’ that manipulate laws -outside-
Of Peace of the sword… sworn by the word!
Double edged -slippery slope- in light of
Confessions discerned, forevermore, knocking
On hearts that beat the drums in cadence of art.
Compelling to the nights shoring up wounds in
Island dreams off the coast of continental divides.
Reaching out beyond despair, profound to those
Whom veritably care for the risk in bounty of
Enlightenment spared… for love beautified.
In nexus of test of countenance dared… for
No shadow of doubt for clarity realized here!
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