Bearing Witness to a Swamp Siren
Swamp Siren!...Her arms are like shrub stems!...arching...sinuous...seeking life
Outside the undergrowth that never ceases to push up.
I stumbled upon her by mistake on a unlikely day of strolling. I was fishing for a place to flirt with my allusions of Death.
Swamp Siren!...Her flighty digits nervously stroke the bog, as an echo of frogs returns to find us in our contemplation.
With each ripple in her pool, I become aware of the quick dry cement fix of this wizened waif's particular fate. I felt reality set in.
She's a permanent inmate!...A squatter at the gate......Tenant of a death-like drama. She
warily darts in and out of the sauna of an endless, boiling day, but it's much too late. I've fixed upon her static form, briefly, before the shadows quickly devour her again.
Swamp Siren signals me with a passing wink, from her post, before she dissipates into a mystic steam...I think she lives inside a swollen dream that few can navigate or claim to see. I use to think that this was all my puckered pores could live for, was her wild heart. I have grown beyond these cat-tails, to my agonized chagrin. At least I dreamed I've grown.
Later in the night, rain will be most likely be furiously pelted down upon her exhausted frame. She is beauty incarnate. Her hangs down around her naked breasts, and legs. Raven black, and draped on all the different forms of life. She has spread her heart and soul, via psychic bundles, through a multitude of trade winds…She aims to leave her permanent inscription, but it seems for now that she remains a slave to routine. The flowers bow to her, and love her. They know her by a different name. Her environment of despair is consistent enough to bring her a small comfort. What seems beautiful, yet maddening to me, is far beyond any feeble attempts of understanding now. I need to succumb to her whims one final time, and consume the goblet of her pain so I may truly bear witness. My soul is still in disagreement.
I wish I could persuade her to dismount from where she's poised. It's her choice to be a sinking Captain on this fated Boat of Death. Below my breath I wish her a safe passage from our World to the Next. This flimsy action is not nearly enough to assuage my battered heart, however. I promise that I will return, at the heart of the dark, to the place where she remains tethered to her obsession with the Never Was. It's here that I will take deliberate stabs at discovering if there is anything I can do to guide her way to freedom. I know this is her habitat though, and she has grown to except the everyday extremes that are fatally unhealthy. She's starting to go grey around the gills, though she is still quite young. O, how I long to cease this stream of powerful black water, Mojo driven, and envisioned by her semi-poisoned dreams. However painful it did seem, I ultimately had to turn away, and swim outside her treacherous ring of islands. I saw a way to dream beyond the ring, and left before my spirit had the chance to fuse forever to the swamp.
For:Sitkah Sage
©
2017
Bunny Villaire
White Butterflies
life pops in and sits a while
sharing a cup of enchantment and woe
porch swings and cracked windows
open doors and unhinged wooden doors
antiquated locks and furrowed brows
life pops in and sits a while
pockets brimmed with why not’s
overflowing possibilities
roots struggling to reach soil
images dancing on eyelids
life pops in and sits a while
dawn’s light beamed on skin
thawed feelings of ice melting
clenched fists and open hearts
feast and famine – cupboard bare
life pops in and sits a while
rain gorged sadness leaving creases
metallic storms clanging to earth
black and white photos without images
splashed mud and fractured timbers
life pops in and sits a while
suitcases of chances open wide
prismatic sunshine on dappled paths
freckled clouds mirrored on sea
white butterflies lighting on souls.
ab-sense
She died without knowing that I loved her.
On that day
there was no mid-night…
For who could sense
the halfway point?
I cried,
as the stars shined dark.
The Moon was full,
but eclipsed by mourning.
The Sun,
laid cloaked
behind the clouds,
too embarrassed
to lift its head out...
burning
false hope.
That night
Silence
filled the absence
of Time…
as the hours
played hooky
from their positions
on the clock.
Copyright © 1986-2017
Alan Salé
All Rights Reserved
contact: AASalehi@gmail.com
PoetryByAlan.com
The Last Cup of Water
On any given night
in the middle of my sleep
should I have awakened, parched,
and asked for water,
you would always bring it for me.
You held it by my mouth,
took a drink yourself,
placed it on the bed stand,
and then set your head
upon my shoulder.
I would squeeze you tight,
and stroke your hair…
You always went that extra mile
to show your love to me.
In case I had forgotten
to tell you before,
‘Thank You.’
But now I look down
and see an empty pillow
where I used to be…
Watching you hold it tight
and cry yourself to sleep, alone;
‘Don’t be Sad.’
My dry scalp
which you used to dust off frantically
every morning…
still stains the pillow covers.
Traces of me,
beneath your tears,
you now hold onto
with a tiger’s grasp
tight,
as my properties are
forgotten by your senses…
little by little
every night.
You would wait for me to exit
the bathroom in the morning
overtly grumpy,
yet secretly happy
to get in a little extra snooze time,
on my account.
I would come out and gently wake you, reminding you that you were late
for work.
And now every room
is all yours,
all the time.
If I were to visit you in steam
after a bath
don’t be frightened.
Breath me in,
drink me up,
and refresh yourself.
Keep me alive.
For I do not wish to ever leave you,
I just can’t.
I am so attached to ‘us,’
that I simply cannot move on.
Perhaps one day we shall wake up together again,
and ‘the last cup of water,’
shall survive us,
as a hypothetical story.
I miss you my love
and somewhere out here
in the cold,
far from your touch…
I am alone
and I am thirsty –
for you.
Please stop crying
for someday soon I will hold you again
within my arms of light and protect you once more,
as we shall live together,
infinitely.
Nothing will ever replace your love
and your presence.
Watching over you,
Always and Forever…
Timeless
and now
Nameless.
Copyright © 1986-2017
Alan Salé
All Rights Reserved
contact: AASalehi@gmail.com
PoetryByAlan.com
The Battery of Perpetual Motion
The Ticking begins…
In my mind and in my thoughts, all that I can see are images of pseudo-humans. Take the schema of a human body and convert it to a faint semi-transparent model in your mind.
These were the type of figures that I viewed that eternal night
within my sleep.
They walked underground waiting for the subway to arrive.
Many with briefcases in hand, marched and paced around aimlessly. I sharply took notice to something that these characters all had in common.
Every one of these human-like characters, had wristwatches
upon their arms emanating faint ticking sounds.
My eyes shifted to the lights of the approaching subway.
Immediately I noticed some of these invisible tinted men lying flat
upon the tracks; yet these individuals wore watches where time had apparently ceased.
As the sounds of the friction between the tracks and the wheels of the Metro 'tick-tocked' its way into my subconscious, my train of thought also shifted.
I focused randomly upon a period within my youth when I would go to the park on a regular basis.
As I seemed to recall they were exceptional and irreplaceable moments.
Every day after school, I met up with my friends in the park to play basketball at four. On my way down to the courts, I noticed each day without failure, an old man in his late nineties sitting on a bench feeding the crows with his back to the ocean.
I would pass this man for weeks on end without sharing a word, until one day I stumbled accidentally, over his shoes.
I looked to him and expressed my most sincere apologies.
From that point on, a conversation began that would later shape the outcome my life.
He spoke of his being,
and his past experiences.
He explained to me things that he would have done differently if he were my age, and told me of the things he was happy that he had achieved.
Every day after that, I would stop and converse with this elderly gentleman for hours, learning ways to save time and make progress in life.
I never had seen my own grandfathers, and in some way,
this man took their place.
The Ticking continued…
In shifting once again,
I noticed in the tunnel, that at different times, without failure these faded men would fall. Suddenly it occurred to me, as if it were secretly yet purposefully whispered into my ear, that upon the birth of life for these men, the first day of their respective deaths,
was also established.
It then dawned on me that they ran about carrying with them a symbol to measure their own mortality, upon their wrists. These non-people were making appointments that would occupy yet another year, in the 100 that they might have had the option of living.
Each second bringing them one step closer to everything
and nothing all at once.
My attention seemed to wander as it would when a song is stuck in your head, yet this time the tune was that of the second hand to my own timepiece, which seemed to be ticking faster than usual.
My soul began to race as I instinctually prepared to defend myself against a force that had the aura of a thief with no body, who was sent to take me away. My neurosynapses fired as the next scene unfolded before my eyes.
I saw that old man on the bench again.
Except this time I looked closer, and the morals I learned were no longer the focus of his existence.
For this time I focused in on his face, and saw to my deathly surprise, none other than my own image.
Tears began to flow from my eyes and intoxicated my new reality. My hands were wrinkled as they tossed seeds upon the ground to the vivacious and ravenous birds. In that state I began to think about my life and the ghosts in the subway terminal.
I reasoned that indeed one’s objective should be to enjoy life as a whole, and not to concentrate on any single stress
at hand.
We are much too often stuck in the Now rather than focused on the Becoming.
For Time heals all that has been marred with wounds, and in the end, generously removes the soul from your struggling body, like the ejection of an obsolete game cartridge from an old entertainment system.
I remembered a time when I was a child and I wanted answers to questions I had not thought of. In that state, I had not the strength or the mind to think of examining the mysterious stones that lay before me. I had not the muscles to push the rocks over to see what indeed lie underneath them as they rested upon the grass.
As I grew older the questions came to me more quickly, for my environment was strong, and my family gracious with support. I in turn, also became strong in mind and body. This strength allowed me to move the stones, and later the boulders, that would reveal the potential answers to my unspoken questions; only to find more questions to my own answers.
Soon the lights began to flash upon the process of attaining true comprehension.
Truly the more strength I gained the more I understood, and the more I realized that indeed I knew very little, of something much more.
I recalled a time at the park, where I stood at the free throw line attempting to match my opponent in our game of “horse.” Prior to letting go of the ball, I remember pausing to watch the Sunset, an event that even the old man would turn his head for.
That summer I watched about 100 sunsets, noting in full detail how each one made me feel.
Suddenly, I felt my hands cool, as the sky began to darken around me. I realized that the Sun was about to set once again.
The seeds all rushed out of my hands and the vultures began intensely poking at my lap and my flesh with their beaks to clean-up the unexpected failure in operation, as if I were an inviting park statue, enlaced in available tissue. I could see from the corner of my eye, adolescents staring into the dimming light of the sky, upon the soccer field to my right.
Suddenly I recognized that for some reason, soon to be mortally apparent, I would be unable to turn my head around to experience the event that I had witnessed for so many years on end.
No longer could I stand. No longer could I run into the ocean wearing nothing but my goose bumps. No longer could I get on a plane,
packing nothing but a smile.
No longer could I tell my family,
that I love them.
I did,
love them.
I saw that in this moment, it was indeed the last minute of my life; where all I had now, were the experiences that I had dared to venture to this moment.
There were to be no new occurrences, except for the inevitable coming of the end to all actualization of my own physical and mental potential.
I hypothesized that in my life I would be happy if I had made few enemies. That I had loved many and most; that I learned, taught, and gave to my surroundings; that I had brought up a good family; that I had raised brave resourceful children whom I knew would be able to successfully raise good children of their own; for I would soon live within their blood.
These children would be the only link likely to speak of my dreams and my philosophies, of my loves and my goals, of my experiences and my soul. For these thoughts, to my successors, would be alive in their minds. I imagined that indeed I had a tool case of knowledge and answers to questions that I rationalized from other questions.
I knew that from this point on, I would no longer have enough strength to enjoy the world that I was given the honor to live in.
Right then, I found that, strength, was perhaps not the meaning to life, but its inherent means of being; that all our actions were to be measured against our lives after our deaths. That indeed time had no meaning or effect after the tool for measuring it, had passed away.
I began to smile radiantly, while carving my potential post-future within a thick storm cloud inside of my consciousness. I felt the rains and the electricity invigorate me to the point where my body itself, went numb. I gasped with a ghastly horror that remains ineffable for it had no property of certain description.
I saw at that moment a vision of my own demise…
that from this cloud which gave the potential of the light to come,
a halt in action was to precipitate.
It reigned supreme with violent rains,
as it parted, while I seemed to be parting as well.
In praying to see the Sun again,
I was shocked to find the lights of the subway shine upon my face as it inflamed my spirit and made its way down to eventually pass through me, within its long-awaited tunnel.
And with its exit…
The Ticking ceased.
Copyright © 1986-2017
Alan Salé
All Rights Reserved
contact: AASalehi@gmail.com
PoetryByAlan.com
Sleeping Lions
When using your lips
as a temperature gauge
to gauge the temperature
of your steaming coffee…
You may eventually
come to learn -
that more often than not,
you will be burned
on the path to uncovering
the ‘Truth.’
Copyright © 1986-2017
Alan Salé
All Rights Reserved
contact: AASalehi@gmail.com
PoetryByAlan.com
Nighttime is Right Time
Nighttime
Is right time
To express my love.
...I've opened your casing,
And cast off the
Strings...
...Just look at us now,
Girl...
Abstracting the plug
Is all
We need happen
To make our night
Sing...
One look,
And a laugh
That could
Bring back
To life
This boneyard
From
Warfare
That clouds up
Our sight...
Nighttime
Is right time, and
Midnight's so
Right!...
...To soak in
Your shade
When big shadows
Creep in...
You have dirt on
The System,
And chances are
Slim
That we'll always
be safe...
Tho we've
Already won.
©
2017
Bunny Villaire
Skin (Chapter 1)
Eyes locked on the girl, Josh struggled to balance the rifle on his shoulder as the slippery neuroskin under his sweatshirt pulled it off-center. I never should’ve sold the skin on my arms, he thought. The girl was propped up against a maple thirty yards out, guzzling a Coke and eating a Poptart, crumbs landing on the crest of her rounded stomach.
__
I see you Goldie, she thought, yawning. Damn boys are no different than monkeys in Thailand trained to rip wristwatches off tourists for their masters. Except his master wants my skin...
___
Through the scope, slowly blinking grey-green eyes and sunken cheeks splattered with large spots appeared close enough to touch. The zipper on her windbreaker had burst open revealing irregular shaped spots on her stomach and as he watched, golden leaves spun down onto her red curls. She’s been on the road as long as me, he thought.
___
I’m exhausted. If it wasn’t for you, my love, I’d let them skin me. Breeding programs like the one that impregnated her had created larger, darker, more leopard-like freckles in the MC1R carrier population, yet the demand was always outpacing the supply.
___
Josh trained the laser on her forearm. Already tagged. The Trac-B read her bounty at 100,000Q, but the burn rate on Spotties was so high that the baby was worth ten times that. Josh loaded a dart and was easing forward on the trigger when he felt a wire snake around his neck and squeeze.
______________
Sadie sprinted to where the boy was clawing at the slowly constricting garrote. When she tapped thumb to forefinger, the snare ceased tightening. She tossed his rifle then squatted over him.
He’s at the end of his run, she thought, taking inventory. Face crisscrossed with scars. Nose broken multiple times. She fished into his mouth, finding better quality teeth than expected and no wisdom teeth. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. He’d had some success as a tracker too. Nickel-sized bonus stamps crawled up both forearms covered with the revolting liquid plastic skin replacement.
“Look, Trackie,” she whispered, “I’ll be long gone by the time the signal wanes and this necklace…” she flicked the metal rope and his eyes popped an inch wider “drops off. You’ll be dead by then. Do you understand?”
His lips were turning blue, but he quit pulling at the snare and flashed a thumbs up sign.
“Or…I’ll give you 10,000 quid to take me over the Divide unseen.” She gestured to the zoomers above, just visible through the trees. “And my guess is you’ve run these hills before.” She looked at her watch. “You’ve got about thirty seconds left.”
He stared up at her, calculating his options, then nodded. She gave the split signal and the snare dropped off, snaked through the leaves and coiled around her ankle.
“What’s your name, Goldie?”
“Josh.” He sounded hoarse, but not angry.
“Sadie,” she responded. “Let me know when you’ve got your wind.”
He bent over one knee, coughing and lacing up his skimmers. A thick line of bruising cut across his neck and his right eye was blood red. He was twice her height, lanky and unintimidating. Though they were roughly the same age, he seemed younger.
After a few seconds, he circled his forefinger.
“Nope. Call your Wheat first. And make it good.”
“Yeah. Ok.” He coughed again then hit the comm on his Trac-B.
“Markin”
“Wha?”
“She’s gone,” Josh said, adding, “Wasn’t a Spottie anyway.”
“Whaddyou mean gone? You lose her or drop her?”
“Markin, she was a Teaser! I dropped her, okay? On my way in.”
“Josh! You lazy piece of shit. Find me something or your old ass is on carving from now on!” Markin disconnected.
Josh looked down at Sadie, one eyebrow raised.
“How long before he comes looking?”
“Won’t probably. He’ll think I’ve been poached, not that you’re a…uh...” Josh trailed off.
“Spottie. You can say it.”
He had the good manners to look down.
She sighed. “Alright, you’re in the lead. Let’s go.”
He kicked off headed north, his long strides quickly outpacing hers. Without his cough, she would never have heard him -- he knew just where to place his feet.
____
Josh slowed to a trot.
“Sadie, we’ve got a drop coming up.”
Oh, thank God, she thought. She dropped her head, pulling in lungfuls of cool air.
“You’re as loud as a boar,” Josh complained.
“Shut it, Goldie! I’m not paying you to talk.” She gasped between each word, which took the venom out of it.
The break in the forest revealed what used to be an overpass and was now a maw of rusting street cars. Josh straddled a metal girder, legs dangling. Sadie flipped up her hood.
“Where are we?”
He took a swig of water, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Pretty sure we’re just east of Advance. Should be signage below.”
Josh suddenly reached over her head, grabbing for the rifle.
Shit!
She rolled away, reaching under her arm and scrambling to her feet, a curved knife thrust towards his chest.
The rifle raised between his hands, he shouted, “Woah, Sadie, relax! I just need the scope, okay?
Sadie held her ground as he stripped it off, dropping the rifle at her feet with a roll of his eyes. He climbed down as far as he could, then tucked and dropped onto the hood of a wrecked BMW. Scanning under the collapsed bridge, the signage was gone. Must have been attached to the overpass.
A billboard for Harry Winston still stood. A blonde in her thirties, elbows balanced on a white tablecloth, flashed a broad smile. She wore emerald earrings and matching twisted skin bangles. Each an inch wide, the skin was a striped mix of mocha, Spottie and pale. The uneven surface of the bracelets were the only indication that underneath the skin was not wood or plastic, but bone.
___
“Anything?”
“No. But we can’t be that far from Buck Creek and the Sierras are just on the other side.”
He paused to pull long strips of rubber out of his shirt, “Let’s try for the creek by nightfall. You good?”
She nodded and smiled, stifling a sharp pain in her side.
___
“Where’d you learn how to make these?” she asked.
He sat in the dirt, straddling her bare foot, muttering under his breath.
“What?”
“Your feet are swollen,” he said, dark eyes squinting up at her.
“So….?”
“If the swelling gets worse...”
“Listen, I didn’t…”
He cut her off. “Yeah, I know. But you’re scaring the game away. I can’t make you quality skimmers, but these will help.”
“Fine.” she said, reddening. “Make it quick.”
“Of course, your highness.” He responded, the corners of his lips curling up.
She didn’t appreciate the gesture until she ran again. He’d jammed cross-sections of rubber into cuts in the soles. It not only made the boots quiet, but also wider and therefore infinitely more comfortable.
They made it to the valley well before mid-day and for once, she didn’t immediately kick her boots off, but walked along the ridge scouting for a smooth rock. He was laying back among the late-blooming wildflowers eating jerky and squinting up at the sun when she plopped down beside him.
“You’re going to choke and go blind,” she said.
He laughed, nearly choking, and re-crossed his long legs at the ankles, snapping off another bite.
She leaned forward as far as she could, coming up shy of her toes. Hello there, my love, she thought. Then she pulled up the back of her shirt and circled the clean side of the rock on her lower back, grunting with pleasure.
_____
“Sadie?”
“Unh?” she responded, eyes closed.
“Do you know how it happened?”
“What?”
“The… you know… the skin trade.” He turned towards her, shaggy hair falling over his eyes and tucked his knees into his chest.
Hmm… makes sense I guess, she thought. Wheat take kids as payment for Rock-addicted parents. Goldens are raised like dogs – given food and shelter, taught to track, but not much more.
“Yeah.” She answered finally. “I know some.”
“Tell me?” His earnest face reminded her of Noah. It had been weeks since she thought about her brother. His chubby fists tied down, screaming her name. The skin peeling off his tiny fingertips. And all the blood...
“Um…first there were piercings, where needles would pass through.” Sadie revealed her popped bellybutton and mimed piercing it. “And towards the end, the holes got bigger. My uncle Rami showed me vid of a man in India passing an entire snake through a hole in his ear.”
Josh rolled an earlobe between his fingers, bewildered.
“Then tattooing,” she continued. “No area was sacred. People inked their eyelids and inside their ears. They…”
“Have you seen Malenas?” Josh interrupted, sitting up.
“No?”
“They run Skittle across the border. Malenas have a tattoo…” Josh pointed to the center of his tongue, “…of a purple eye. I’ve seen the farms...”
“Does anyone still buy farmed skin?”
“Some, yeah. For orange Skittle, they force-feed the kids pumpkin puree. For green, they strap copper plates on. And for XP, they’re kept in the dark for years.”
Sadie shivered. At least I can run…
She continued, “When 3-D tattooing began, my mom was little. They built a pyramid on my grandfather’s back between his shoulder blades. When he fell asleep on the couch watching television, she curled up in its shade. The needle injected ink and GDF5, a cartilage-producing protein. People made horns, tails and of course, parts of their anatomy bigger too.”
Josh laughed. For all the trauma to his face, was good-looking in a goofy, coltish way.
“Some of the old-timers still have them. I once saw a man with an octopus on his head. The blue and grey tentacles climbing down the sides of his face formed aquatic sideburns. The irises were made of jade, sewn into eyes eight inches above his own.”
“3-D removal creates a bloody mess. Grafted skin was the solution…”
“Why not just use the pink?” Josh pointed to the slick arm propping up his head. The shiny plastic resembled the underside of a frisbee.
“Josh, you know why. Neuroskin is nasty. You’ve seen a Pigpen, right?”
People who sold all of their skin -- Pinkies -- were universally hooked on K-rock. Cops called their hangouts “pigpens” from the look of their tangled pink limbs on filthy mattresses, eyes rolled back, telltale white haze hanging in the air.
He changed the subject. “Do you need to cross the Divide?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Kaweah Gap is steep. It’s the lowest point in the range, but...”
She winced and nodded.
“What if we go southwest into Three Rivers?”
“How am I walking into town?”
He tugged on her hood. “Your uh…” He struggled for the right word. Freckles. They’re called freckles… “freckles will be tougher, but a clay paste...”
She stood up. “Clay paste? For these?” She pulled her curls back so he got a good look.
“Okay, okay.” He put his palms up. “I’ll skim into Three Rivers, hit an R-X and grab proper coverup and dye.”
“You don’t think I've thought of that?” She struggled to speak calmly. “They scan you, Trackie. You probably have a freeze or two on your tag, right? And they scan you on the way in, so you can’t lift it either.”
“Fine. I’ll claim your tag and walk you in. Put the snare on.”
“Josh! You know what I’m worth, which is nothing compared to the baby. The Wheat will have me on a carving board in under an hour. We’re wasting time. I’m paying you to get me over that.”
She stabbed her finger at the snow-cap behind him marking the Divide, her arm shaking on the way down.
“And you know damn well you can’t make the climb,” he said softly.
I’ll make it, she thought, rubbing her belly, but will you, my love?
____
The Great Depression
Since I can't
Find your neck,
And my time is
On the wall...
...In a room
That is suspect...
Hard to steady
From the fall...
...Tho, I'm due
For a bruise,
If we estimate life.
...It's a sentence,
A gift,
And a pretense
So slight,
That we try to
Redouble,
And jack
Up the
Price.
...Until the Great
Depression,
And then life
Becomes
As cheap as a
Birdsong,
As we screw down
Our thumbs,
And plug up
Our pockets
So no wind
Gets in...
Since I can't
Find my faith,
Smarmy air
Reeks of Gin,
And the clouds,
Gorged on wine
Know the state
That I speak...
...Bleeding out
Through both eyes...
Longing under
Veiled skies,
For the wonder,
And pride
That that woman
Bequeathed.
©
2017
Bunny Villaire