MLMM, Poetry

switch.hitter

i so wanted to be right i could taste it. existentially the hours passed, the right released it’s last grasp and the left became my lane. tools with blades the worse… backwards. turns out it’s a backwards world. how, when and why did this happen? some days the world would actually turn itself upside down. was it always going to be this way? blades any kind of blade sent me into a spin. how to make it work without using it backwards and turning it upside down. and what’s with all the elbows in my face at a table? i was in my late 20’s before i used left-handed scissors. i tried, really tried but it became a nightmare i couldn’t bear. sending me back to some childhood trauma of trying to figure it out even back then. southpaw, that’s what i learned as a waitress. looking back, had no idea i was training to be a switch hitter. in school playing softball i’d switch from side to side in the batter’s box depending on who was pitching to get a better hit on the ball…. now, it’s all so sweet realizing the left is a unique place to be…. adaptability…. Bloody Well Left is Right Where i Wanna Be

funny how being right is not always the best path…
MLMM thursday music challenge Bloody Well Right

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3WW, Big Tent Poetry, Poetry

not like yesterday

big tent poetry: write something opposite of your usual style. something that feels a little awkward, kind of like writing with your “other” hand; three word wednesday: drink, feeble, predict; photo: Style Splash, Drippy2009, flickr

the look of long drinkable sentences taste foreign and bitter. already i am distracted by the talkative slithering length. the challenge is an attempt to write in other than my ordinary way. stretching backward through pervious poems a cacophony of voices in the 1st, 2nd and 3rd person hound me fast intent with purpose. i am soon apprehended and together we shriek and snort at the existential existence of letters mimicking sounds similar to mad rushing waters propelled downward in huge splashes racing to nowhere.

not a note of metaphor nor anything to do with abstract. i now have this entertaining expectation of a solid concrete touch. A LITTLE LATER. this cool creepy feeble feeling of attempt surfaces, bobbing about caught in the undertoe disappears and then reappears entangled in crazy currents. a distraction of sorts. notice the 2 am offbeat blinking of a rusty neon sign screaming no vacancy move on!

i’ve captured the erasable and wrote it down. it is nothing not predictable. like an early morning mist moving along the low hidden gullys soon to disappear

… i finally gave up and wrote outside the zone of usual lines that are never there anyway, but i will keep this lesson in mind while writing left handed in a right handed world.

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3WW

huis clos

three word wednesday: drain, epic, nibble
photo: Jason Webber, flickr

35 strokes is all it takes to hit the concrete wall and roll over. two feet firmly planted, push off and begin all over again. a small splash of chorinated water seeps in telling me it’s almost tuesday. cannot help but to nibble at the thought of a perfect workout. in the motion of movement there is an epic passion let loose secreting tiny drops of liquid knowledge one has in exploring the tiny caves of rumination. the drain of desire, the intrusion of attachment, there’s none here only the constancy of connection, water evolution. kicking in a concentrated rhythmic power pattern…i can hear the voice of my coach from 20 years ago…two arms react in a smooth arc of motion…now i’m getting somewhere. the unbearable lightness of being tells me so.

reference….thanks squires

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Poetry

the nature of being

irrational and witty he charmed the pants off me with his simple statements of existentialism or was it the red wine and french music playing along the river seine. sitting outside the cafe dunotpleaz he mentioned the world spinning without reason and how he loved to eat raw hamburger with catsup when no one else was looking. hot with mistrust he confessed his hatred for the bourgeois haute cuisine and longed for a loaf of peasant bread and cheese. though i knew his words were dripping with sugar coated clouds the carrousel affect came to mind and i decided to sit and discover what made this man so delightful with his blue eyes shining.

the tête-à-tête along the river seine was moving freely as the afternoon sun came over the horizon the heat stretching out over our heads as we progressed to slowly sipping expresso and cognac. wanting to practice my french we then shifted our ideas and the discussion started leaning toward the petit-bourgeoisie and within seconds my mind started to drift, listening to edith piaf, already the newness wearing thin from his constant referral to why not….

how intriguing to hear the words of sartre/simone whispered again in beautifully structured american slang single sentences. he then mentioned his book and how his mind was calculating the next line, but truthfully, i was only interested in the accordian music playing and wished he ask me to dance the tango because what else is there to experience in paris along the walkway but a french tango and red lipstick. jacque soon read the words taking shape and how quickly his response to nothingness and being reflected back on the joy of living in paris along the river seine. he then paused smiled leaned forward taking my hand…
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photo: Swamibu, flickr

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