Thetis’ ascension

the soul of water

is smoke as she rises to

heaven’s lobby door

Pic by mbrazfield (c) 2019

hey Mrs. Butterfly

hey Mrs. Butterfly

i want to just say

that in all of my years

i’ve known of you

and the fire flies

lady bugs bumble bees

june bugs dragon flies

and most of God’s

perfect creations

when not hyper vigilanting

over my folks or the predators

my mind would drift away with you

the colors and the hues

the mechanisms made of truth

your wings and curly tongues

and the symbols afforded to you

from people who came before me

and the Egyptians how they loved

the beetle called the scarab

something to do with Khepri

and the rising sun

i believe it

i always have

i know i’ve let your beauty

and your meaning

float from my hands

but i want to say

that i’m ashamed

that i don’t know how

to describe you

my thoughts and my words

cold hollow and crude

those that have been prescribed

to me during my days of rebellion

in my eyes and in my memories

i can only describe the violets

on the hill as like the colors

of the bruising in the midnights

or the red of carnations

as the blood from my lips

for refusing to give in

or the grace in the flutter

of you the butterfly

in complete and utter silence

but before you send well wishes

and praises

i want to tell you

i’ve been no angel

i deeply hurt and failed to protect

the one who i should’ve loved first

but look it here

daisies and trees cacti

and geese all of the colors

in the rainbow high

and the moon and the stars

and Venus and Mars

i dig you man

and i’ve haven’t lost sight

that universe and the life in it

has always been beautiful in my eyes

even if the magazines

don’t think so

i know that i’m right

Mrs. Butterfly

i hope you can find it

in your perfect heart

to forgive me

for not being able

to knit you the

words that are worthy

of praise to your merit

Nominated for Mystery Bloggers Award

thank you Kritika!  at undressedthoughts.com

da roolz

1. The award logo/image should be on your blog.
2. Rules should be listed
3. Be thankful to the one who nominated you and do add the link to their blog
4. Answer five questions asked by the person nominating you
5. Tell  your readers  three things about yourself
6. Notify the nominees on through comments on their blog
7. Ask five questions, of your choice, to your nominees. One of which should be funny or weird.
8. Share a link to your best post    

q an a for Kritika

1. Has your blog transformed your life?

i think that it has i get to share some thoughts with folks who might send me advice or who just get it i love to read work that speaks to me as well and know that i’m not alone even if it’s just cyber space

2. What are your hobbies? Is blogging one of them? 

i guess blogging is a hobbie but really its more therapeutic i like to read and just let my mind wander its difficult and exhausting some days

3. Are you attracted towards balloons still?

balloons scare me seriously i will hyper ventilate and pass out PTSD bad

4. Writing on blog, do you take it as an obligation?

not at all i love writing i need it in my life

5. Have you ever written a funny post on blog?

i have some funny pieces i think like the price of peanut butter and charm school drop out i’m really funny and witty in person if i have to write something down and think it through it doesn’t work for me i think

https://wordslessspoken781842219.blog/2019/09/16/horse-of-another-color

i love animals

i believe in a higher power

i’m beginning to like myself

q and a for nominees

  1. what is your favorite James Bond movie?
  2. what is your favorite historical time period?
  3. Whitman or Beckwith?
  4. what’s your favorite diet?
  5. invent a knock-knock joke…

words less spoken nominates

meltingneurons To Ink – a blog from Melting Neurons

Jen Goldie Jen Goldie – A little this, a little that, some real and some imaginings

Through Violet’s Lentz https://violetslentz.home.blog/

Len’s Daily https://lensdiary.blog/

Harley Unhinged https://lunatikenigma.wordpress.com/

happy Sunday every one xoxo

UNDRESSED THOUGHTS

Excited or Normal
I know not
nominated
by thevel
to whom
I am thankful for
your kindness
I am thankful for
your humbleness
considering me
for this mysterious award
this blogging fun
now seems to have started
to get intoform

©Kritika

Seriously a mystery for me with some rules to be followed. Frankly, I always mention others I am new to writing whichled to blogging.This year I have made a huge amount of changes in my life one of which includes this blog.The rules:

1. The award logo/image should be on your blog.
2. Rules should be listed
3. Be thankful to the one who nominated you and do add the link to their blog
4. Answerfive questions asked by the person nominating you
5.Tell your readers three things about yourself
6. Notify the nominees onthrough comments on their blog
7.Askfive questions, of your choice,to your nominees. One of…

View original post 396 more words

hand

i’ve never really placed much attention to my hands they just work write eat wipe bathe pick scrub love cup stroke pet grope sweat type hold i took them to a man and he injected ink in some places symbols only useful to me oh and i’ve never taken into consideration how much they’ve fought mostly against myself and with people bent on kicking my ass the fingers are aging too crooked they will inevitably be if i’m lucky to get to be that old a little scarred and a little cracked in some bones from falls punches and climbing up or down from walls maybe i was too wild for my hands although i’ve had some feminine moments with polish and rings among other things a woman’s hands are good for my nails are short and i chew them off when no one is around to comfort me the lines on my palms are the secret roadmap i think i have followed in my travels with tiny trenches diving deep and some just cutting off i might have a few knuckles bigger than the rest but that’s ok i want to keep them as a trophy to my life

violetear

they riot in the plumeria tree

the one with honey hearted blossoms

darting merrily in and out

electric buzz as their ruby throats

quenched by morning dew elixirs

blend with the sun

ma’ woman lef’ me too blues

My wife was fast, manipulative, expensive and mean, but when she was in my bed she had an addicting sweetness, filling the worm holes in my soul with the light of the stars under God’s feet. I simply believed then that I loved her more than anything, ever. The continents could fall below me, Satan himself could drag me into the molten pits of Hell by my guts; I didn’t care as long as she was there with me, on my arm or at least have her close enough where I could sniff her tarty scent.

An amber bronzed Persian princess, Schiva curled my toes with delight. Schiva licked and suckled universes in and out of my body and mind I never knew existed. Schiva’s almost vapory fingers massaged me, penetrated me in luscious blinding ecstasy, swirling my very breath in orgasmic space travel past the Nebulae that are yet to come.

The Schiva Nirvana ended one October. More or less a month prior I ran out of disposable income. Schiva did not understand that I was a working stiff with debts. “I do not give one damn about your problem Grady! You want me, you pay!”I thought I heard her say as I squirmed on a midnight blue suede couch. She left out my mind’s door and slammed it behind her.

I’d been crying all day. The madness that comes with convulsive laughter possessed me. The memory of a 30 year old, ex-orphan, trust funder named Jeff who introduced me to her at his King Edward Hotel suite came to mind. Jeff of rotund body and broken heart was the vehicle that would take me into what I perceived to be something better, anything was better than how I felt then.

Then Schiva whispered, Jeff whispered and the three of us shared penetration-less sweet love on his dirty blue sheets. Sheets stained with other sweats of other addicts who had too signed their life away to the Beautiful Golden Dragon.

Schiva and I started off by going out on dates with Jeff exclusively at least six or seven times a month. And as long as I had the money. The problem was that Schiva and I started dating at least twice a week behind Jeff’s back and he did not appreciate that. Jeff would become angry and jealous and would withhold her from me. He wanted to take Schiva first and leave me his sloppy seconds.

Being of a non-confrontational nature, I stopped hanging out with Jeff and Schiva off and on for about a year and a half. I had found other crutch mistresses to pass the time. At 17, things changed between Schiva and me; we got closer. I worked hard doing office work, recycling, driving trucks for my uncle all for my new bride Schiva. 

That October 10th I loathed myself, so I ran to Baker’s Beach in San Francisco for almost two days. I guess that about forty-four hours passed. I rolled around in the wet sand, vomited, cut my knuckles on the rocks, burned in fever, shook in the cold and cried; alone. Night turned to day back to night and then almost morning. The purge was good. The purge was the kindest thing I ever did for myself. I thought about dying to live, then all went blank.

But, in the midst of the spiritual hell of the very human junkie withdrawal, I had dark thoughts too. I would cut my arms in such a way that bleeding could not be stopped and before passing out, I would run into the water to make sure I drowned. But first, I would pan handle enough change to get a few bottles of Nyquil and vodka to make sure I was completely disabled in the cold bay water. I had all I needed, except the money. I giggled at the irony of being penniless now, when just a few measly weeks before I was burning through all the money I had to get high.

I hated myself. I judged myself to be selfish, weak, inconsiderate, cowardly and worthless. I tried convincing myself that no one could help my loneliness, my need of love and acceptance. I felt dirty because I had been repeatedly used and violated. I did not know how to express anything other than being good at being a fuck up. I did not know how to ask for help; I did not give anyone an opportunity to help. I wanted to run and disappear; I wanted something beyond mere death.

my way…

my wife was fast manipulative expensive and mean but when she was in my bed she had an addicting sweetness filling the worm holes in my soul with the light of the stars under God’s feet i simply believed then that i loved her more than anything ever the continents could fall below me Satan himself could drag me into the molten pits of Hell by my guts i didn’t care as long as she was there with me on my arm or at least have her close enough where i could sniff her tarty scent

an amber bronzed Persian princess Schiva curled my toes with delight Schiva licked and suckled universes in and out of my body and mind i never knew existed Schiva’s almost vapory fingers massaged me penetrated me in luscious blinding ecstasy swirling my very breath in orgasmic space travel past the Nebulae that are yet to come

the Schiva Nirvana ended one October more or less a month prior i ran out of disposable income Schiva did not understand that i was a working stiff with debts i do not give one damn about your problem Grady you want me you pay i thought i heard her say as i squirmed on a midnight blue suede couch she left out my mind’s door and slammed it behind her

i’d been crying all day the madness that comes with convulsive laughter possessed me the memory of a 30 year old ex orphan trust funder named Jeff who introduced me to her at his King Edward Hotel suite came to mind Jeff of rotund body and broken heart was the vehicle that would take me into what i perceived to be something better anything was better than how i felt then

then Schiva whispered Jeff whispered and the three of us shared penetration less sweet love on his dirty blue sheets sheets stained with other sweats of other addicts who had too signed their life away to the Beautiful Golden Dragon

Schiva and i started off by going out on dates with Jeff exclusively at least six or seven times a month and as long as i had the money the problem was that Schiva and i started dating at least twice a week behind Jeff’s back and he did not appreciate that Jeff would become angry and jealous and would withhold her from me he wanted to take Schiva first and leave me his sloppy seconds

being of a non confrontational nature i stopped hanging out with Jeff and Schiva off and on for about a year and a half i had found other crutch mistresses to pass the time at 17 things changed between Schiva and me we got closer i worked hard doing office work recycling driving trucks for my uncle all for my new bride Schiva

that October 10th i loathed myself so i ran to Baker’s Beach in San Francisco for almost two days i guess that about forty four hours passed i rolled around in the wet sand vomited cut my knuckles on the rocks burned in fever shook in the cold and cried alone night turned to day back to night and then almost morning the purge was good the purge was the kindest thing i ever did for myself i thought about dying to live then all went blank

but in the midst of the spiritual hell of the very human junkie withdrawal i had dark thoughts too i would cut my arms in such a way that bleeding could not be stopped and before passing out i would run into the water to make sure i drowned but first i would pan handle enough change to get a few bottles of Nyquil and vodka to make sure i was completely disabled in the cold bay water i had all i needed except the money i giggled at the irony of being penniless now when just a few measly weeks before i was burning through all the money i had to get high

i hated myself i judged myself to be selfish weak inconsiderate cowardly and worthless i tried convincing myself that no one could help my loneliness my need of love and acceptance i felt dirty because i had been repeatedly used and violated i did not know how to express anything other than being good at being a fuck up i did not know how to ask for help i did not give anyone an opportunity to help i wanted to run and disappear i wanted something beyond mere death

JC and the milk crate dancer

i’m so tired of being an addict i hate having to travel on Temple Street but all the signs are good Our Lady of Angels Greg Laurie Harvest Stickers car plates chock full of hearts and tiny hands instead of numbers letters they’re all messages from high up i’m cool i can handle this there’s the Déjà Vu Club who cares i don’t worry about chasing my fixations into there

what am i saying do i really feel safe walking down this damn street full of crazy assholes trying to get to the nearest bar why don’t i lay on one of these benches and just stay still damn it and what’s all this taking bumper stickers and 158 year old buildings as a sign that anything or anyone for that matter is cool

it’s comforting to me ok i know how anal i can get about that stuff not that anyone cares better yet not that anyone would ever suspect that a loser like me even thinks about her soul so why worry about it i can’t control my thoughts my fleeting humming bird mind

hmmm on the other hand lemme be a devil’s advocate do i ever feel like texting my people and telling them if i ever have to drop everything and everyone and give my life and soul and everything else and die in the name of and for Jesus would i do it

my heart says yes i guess you can’t be lukewarm its yes or no yes yes i would i don’t have anything in the world to lose but man yes yes i would

sounds a lot like i’m trying to convince myself that would mean leaving everyone and everything i love behind leaving the world I know for the unknown i’m crystal clear on that right

yes i am it’s the only thing that i am sure of look i don’t have anything to offer that’s original or universe shattering i can choose to be nice humble sacrifice all whatever etc but that my fucked up little mind is merely revolutionary NOT UNIVERSE SHATTERING right but the outcome is unknown regardless now why do i think that because the recipients of my choices and deeds are people and people are human and humans aren’t perfect so by that rational it doesn’t matter a flying rats ass what  do or don’t or believe or don’t my heart says do it jump off the cliff step off the boat God will be there my puny runty tiny black worthless heart tells me that not brains or conscience uh no hard feelings ok my little fragile mind but that’s what i believe i was born with this belief i can’t shake it shoot it out cut it off chemo it beat it it’s in me whether i want it or not i can’t even ignore it

besides a human would push me off the cliff and throw me off the boat in an episode of hysteria it’s just survival instinct who can blame them so i’d rather do it myself jump step off you know take hold of my own destiny captain of my soul whatever

then again it sounds like i’ve been watching too many Prophecy flicks so the church is sharing real estate with the strip joints do i think that’s funny do i think that juxtaposition by the freeway was there for me does it make me think deeply does it make me question morality hmmm

no not really i’m not special like that but if i look at it business wise being that this is Downtown Los Angeles the church gets its souls and tithes and the strip joint gets its saps and tips win win it’s all supply and demand my good woman

wow Adam Smith ‘Wealth of Nations’ who knew anyone could ever make a triangular connection between church titty bars and world economics freakin’ smart

well i do my worst thinking on the freeway ramps sorry but my decision stands firm can i turn off now my stream of consciousness is a big ass blinding light of a reminder in my eyeballs

what do i remind me of i’m just a stream of irrepressible and unimportant thought that no one can control remember

you remind me of where i am and i don’t want to be reminded at all let’s step off the milk crate now the sheriffs will be finding us soon enough

Rooster

In 1993 I learned two things about Chinese culture. First that it was the Year of the Rooster and second, that “he who strikes the first blow admits he’s lost the argument.”

 In 2003 I sat in the Cecil’s lobby, putrid and rancid with depressive thoughts, but hoping to score; human companionship. No one was there anymore and I was an adult now. My mind meandered.

Rooster was my father. In his youth he was Billy-from-Easy-Rider handsome, cocky, and a womanizer. Rooster would never back down from a fight, ever. He drank enough booze to fly a plane, snorted mountainous amounts of cocaine, cursed, worked hard and partied even harder. I heard that in the autumn of his life Rooster wore scars and tattoos like medals, sped on motorcycles, and had no connection with the children he spawned in and out of wedlock.

Two blond women with big jugs stomped into the lobby and yelled at the janitor demanding that he produce a Roy Mingus. I’ve never forgotten that name on account that is sounds really cool. I imagined Roy looking like Hugh Hefner but broke. The ladies left into the back of the hotel and gassy breeze sneaked in; I thought about Los Feliz and me squeezing lighter fluid into the barbecue pit when I was five.

During the years of my short lived young life, my mother survived through ten years of battle and then my parents divorced. When sober, Rooster was verbally abusive and when high and drunk ultra-violent if anyone crossed him. Other than that, he had been a devout Sunday morning Catholic, chest pounder, and rosary wielding. Tithe giving included.

Rooster came to the brink of death a few times at the hands of his own brother, Gjeo and their motor cycling brothers when they got wind that he’d beat up some broad. It wasn’t in their intricate code of ethics to strike women or kids. The running joke amongst them was that Rooster was like Lazarus for having the longest record of recovery after having his ass and several other organs handed to him over the years. In some ways, I admired the resiliency in him. In other ways, I had always felt profound sorrow and tenderness for the old man.

I curled up and nodded off into the ozone of the lobby. It was around one in the morning that old Pike straggled in and woke me. He startled me and I swung, narrowly missing his crotch. After cussing and gasping he sat across from me in the greasy old easy chair. We started talking about lawn mower motors. He chattered away, but my mind was ten years back.

That 1993 spring mid-morning was fragrant as the moisture in the air teased out the green hopeful smell of ferns and pepper trees surrounding my uncle’s garage. I needed my uncle to explain catalytic converters to me. My mechanic wasn’t able to fix my Jeep and maybe Aces, as my uncle was called, could.

my way…

in 1993 i learned two things about Chinese culture first that it was the Year of the Rooster and second that he who strikes the first blow admits he’s lost the argument

in 2003 i sat in the Cecil’s lobby putrid and rancid with depressive thoughts but hoping to score human companionship no one was there anymore and i was an adult now my mind meandered

Rooster was my father in his youth he was Billy from Easy Rider handsome cocky and a womanizer rooster would never back down from a fight ever he drank enough booze to fly a plane snorted mountainous amounts of cocaine cursed worked hard and partied even harder i heard that in the autumn of his life rooster wore scars and tattoos like medals sped on motorcycles and had no connection with the children he spawned in and out of wedlock

two blond women with big jugs stomped into the lobby and yelled at the janitor demanding that he produce a Roy Mingus i’ve never forgotten that name on account that is sounds really cool i imagined Roy looking like Hugh Hefner but broke the ladies left into the back of the hotel and gassy breeze sneaked in i thought about Los Feliz and me squeezing lighter fluid into the barbecue pit when i was five

during the years of my short lived young life my mother survived through ten years of battle and then my parents divorced when sober Rooster was verbally abusive and when high and drunk ultra violent if anyone crossed him other than that he had been a devout Sunday morning Catholic chest pounder and rosary wielding tithe giving included

Rooster came to the brink of death a few times at the hands of his own brother Gjeo and their motor cycling brothers when they got wind that he’d beat up some broad it wasn’t in their intricate code of ethics to strike women or kids the running joke among them was that Rooster was like Lazarus for having the longest record of recovery after having his ass and several other organs handed to him over the years in some ways i admired the resiliency in him in other ways i had always felt profound sorrow and tenderness for the old man

i curled up and nodded off into the ozone of the lobby it was around one in the morning that old Pike straggled in and woke me he startled me and i swung narrowly missing his crotch after cussing and gasping he sat across from me in the greasy old easy chair we started talking about lawn mower motors he chattered away but my mind was ten years back

that 1993 spring mid morning was fragrant as the moisture in the air teased out the green hopeful smell of ferns and pepper trees surrounding my uncle’s garage i needed my uncle to explain catalytic converters to me my mechanic wasn’t able to fix my Jeep and maybe Aces as my uncle was called could

heart of the matter

i love going to the hills

atop Silver Lake

where i can see Hollywood

my home my western shore

my dusty concrete paths

winding with a promise

to all that we are alive

in the City of Illusions

and that life is no illusion after all

paradox is my goddess

and Los Angeles my church

my habit was my pope

and my grit was my curse

perhaps we all strive

to go back home to reconcile

the hemorrhaging broken vein

and that’s all we want

gaza

with a fissured heart

and tired hands

aching legs and broken words

i grasp loosely to

figure

out

what is happening to us

i created the west of my spirit

and was gifted the east of my soul

not a child of import

but yes a child of a pompous war

not of one tribal affiliation

but stuck in the carnal politics

of the complications in people

if you could touch me now

my coat of lesser colors

you could set me free

You and i crossing water

to mourn my tiny innocence

she hangs in the corner closet

pretty robin’s egg blue coat

with every year

that has crawled by

she fades away from me