Saturday, July 20, 2013

sketchbook: why anna leigh does yoga

part i
Wake up every day, consciousness blunted in shadows of closed shades. Promising to be different, swing thighs over the edge of the bed while anchoring the weight of the torso rising. Imagine the creaking gristle around the heart rebellion against this daily sense of death curdling at the edges in the sentiment of the morning rise. You are not just an automaton, an organic crane, giving yourself pep talks to get up and do this thing again. Oh wait, first stare into the blank wall trying to remember the escape projected from the transmitting brain – dreamscapes meant to distract from the growing concept that you are lying to yourself daily hinted in the dead pan way you stare at said wall. Blink. Now inhale deep sweeping the cobwebs spun haphazard in the emptiness burrowed inside and blow those fuckers out. This is what we call depression. Getting up and out of bed is what we call the first response in treatment.

Friday, April 5, 2013

NaPoWriMo2013: day five

At Night
Sentinels watch,
Electric secrets hum
kept by transformer drums, we fear
Shadows.
a.r. morgan, cinquain kinda



Sometimes my day expects more from me than I would want it to, especially when I need time to write. This weekend, I will post day 3 & 4 in a collection.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

NaPoWriMo2013: day two



To lie to others
we guarantee successful
first you lie to self.
 a.r. morgan, haiku


Its not exactly today's prompt or is it? Perhaps a liar's paradox. Hmm. I can already tell weekends are when I will have more time for my thoughts to flesh out. As a side note, I really need to learn how to shell up so I can keep with a feeling and still be a worker bee. Buzz Buzz goes the energy~



Monday, April 1, 2013

NaPoWriMo2013: day one


A Commuter's Life
Slowly, silently, now the moon
Rides the breaking dawn.
Her steps pressing cement racing
blushing skies, stammers in
the cheating wind – a puckish ally
to a plastic bag catching flight 
crossing the intersection,
perpendicular to her gaze
morphing currents in the wind,
Until five stories up
she sees an air jellyfish liberated
to take on this day
and abscond into the sunrise
leaving moon buoyed to the sky,
as she makes it to the bus stop
on time – her consolation prize.
by a.r. morgan


I chose to use the prompt and included the first line of Walter de la Mare poem, Silver as the first line of my poem.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

giving it a go

http://www.napowrimo.net/

Thirty days. A poem a day. Prompts to help along the way.
My exhibitionist side is excited.
My introvert wants to shell up and keep doing it Emily Dickinson style, except with the sex and without the white dress.



Monday, December 31, 2012

Sketchbook: Status Update 2012



Dear 2012,

Thank you for your moments of sucking, so that other moments felt better. Thank you for the new job and pay increase. And the dental! I really needed the dental, so thank you. Thank you for beginning the year with Mom on Chemo and ending with Mom Not Cancer Filled. Thank you for the surface tension and bubbles (you know what I mean, 2012). Thank you for not blowing up. That was pretty nice of you. Thank you for the awesome astronomical phenomena from one sky sailor to another. Thank you for also being the Year of Dragon because, as you know, we dragons are awesome. 

Now, 2012, may you move on to memory and shed yourself like a theme transforming in a story. It’s time for a new chapter on the revolution around this sun of ours. For some reason, I imagine you, 2012, like a lover one kisses one last time and then walks away from. Its not you, it’s me, and I am ready for a new year.

Sincerely,
gg

Saturday, December 22, 2012

me trying to be nonsmoker: first the withdrawal



Saturday, December 22, 2012
Diary of a Nonsmoker: day one. my brain involuntarily flashing a cigarette in my hand lighting the end. Withdrawal feels like promises of happiness. Disphoria, body tingles all over like I’m bending. This pit of my stomach craving ingestion. Brain flutters ideas of what could fill me. I’m currently drinking mint tea to keep the vortex from focusing on starches and candies. Drinking a glass of cranberry juice for the sugar boost. It’s the images in my head and the body halls that I find the hardest. They promise me so much, If I just cave into the day dream. Even now, I want to end this sentence with a cigarette.

waves. I’m taking a nap.

Slept all day, now sick to my stomach.

Feeling surreal when nothing surreal is going on, I decide to go grocery shopping. Jim takes over driving the cart, he keeps calling my attention back, “hey zombie”. My motor skills stuttering he opens the bottles while we sample smells of body wash – impromptu aromatherapy. It’s not until the dish soap aisle when I discover inhaling lemon scratches the spot in my head popping hallucinations of breath catch then hold the wafting carcinogens eating a nice little buzz on the back of my brain before exhaling. Yeah, lemon scratches that.

My friend is patient with my ambivalence in making decisions. I’m out of it like a hippie. I feel drunk without alcohol. Withdraw is not so bad, except the pictures rolling around in my head. Little earthquakes of radar, bouncing off my skin and shocking the muscles. I am cautious. Cuidado. I can see myself zoning out to the point where I manifest the cigarette in my hand welcoming the hallucination into reality. Fuck, I do love to inhale.

Jim keeping me company, I do not slip away. Instead I chew a straw, sniff the lemon soap until day one is done and its time to go to bed.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

sketchbook: cockled tongue coyly excavating



Lightening cracks the air, a mad scientist affair streaking across the night sky. Humid synergy paints the skin with perspired energy clinging against the shirt. We ignore the signs of the impending storm and head up the road to the Neighbor Wives.

“Where are the houses?” He asks.

We come across two houses where no grass dares to disgrace the front yards, exchanging 1950s constipated order of homogenous turf for a wilder affair of Brown Eye Susan’s kissing Basil while Tiger Lilies hug the invisible boarder between earth and side walk. I brush excited fingertips over Goldenrod and smile a “We’re here.”

Greeted by a wife, a fairy flowing among the flowers, ready with hugs she blesses our passage to the backyard as we are welcomed among the vegetable gardens and fire pit.  Urban living transformed into the womb of mother earth, we seat ourselves under the pine tree to listen to the sizzling tease of Cunt Poetry. Wife, the neighbor, interweaves her wisdom between poets gracing the porch that has become our stage. To not love the woman, the pussy, is blasphemy under this night sky tonight.

The night progresses with cockle'd tongues coyly excavating the grace of being woman, being male, being a lover of all life that started with exploration of a thousand ways we can express our sexuality. There is no shame, no transgression into fear.  The Neighbor Wives offer us a safe haven in their garden to share our golden voyages into loving the body of woman.

At intermission, the sky decides to open with her blessing, baptizing the heated air with refreshing rain. We find ourselves dry under the alms of the pine tree while the down pour turns into a flood. Then without notice the rains stop and we can begin again on our journey into loving ourselves. 

(Summer Spice)

Monday, July 2, 2012

sketchbook: heat induced insomnia under independent sky


Train whistle blows, stinging this humid air with movement. Rain stamps the sidewalk in a stiletto tease, evaporating into sizzling memory before the Weather pages can keep their promises of storms. Fireworks crack the air with surrogate lighting. My sticky skin begs for shower induced remedy. Hot, late, can’t sleep. I figure I’d complain with imagery better than this heat encroaching me.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

sketchbook: groggy brain muffled in thistle

Groggy brain muffled in the thistle of the common cold. This year’s theme fogs up the wires, staves off the snot for the crash and burn course of laryngitis. I’m not there yet. It’s the weather report from folks around me. In the game of tag you’re it, I’ve been dodging this thing for weeks, watching my comrades go down one by one. My heads in a vice so I think I got tapped. I stagger back and forth in the day, consciously wondered if I should be in the public scene; today’s theme was thrift store shopping with a friend. Irony, I feel so zapped all the clutter fell away and I found 5 sweaters that really work for me. This would not have happened if I felt well. In my home now, the day settled into night moments ago, and I find my head went to bed before the rest of me did, except for this little piece of me that wants to spread the word about my groggity.

to be continued…