Boys and Drugs

 They start young-- selling weed at school, wearing tie-dye shirts, long hair flowing and wavy, unbrushed. Consorting with philosophers on telegraph. Sucking on necks, both his and hers. Packing delicate joints. Painting their nails. 

They watch things that drown out the respect they might have had for their female friends, wacking off in the tool shed to idealistic scenes yet mysterious. Enticingly foreign and handy props, giving false justification to the camouflaged sadism. 

They drop acid, go shrooming. Smoke their American Spirits and space out to the Doors. Buy ‘40s of Mickey's, 20-packs of nitrus. High in their jerk-off circles. Wandering golf-courses. Starting in on the meth. Just for fun, cause no one loves them anyway. 

One death.

At least they don’t take a bunch of people with them as they’d so insinuated.

Beer and wine, tequila, mariachi. Sloppy longing for everyone else’s partner. The frenchman cleans his fingernails and waits for the skirted remnants. He says he can tell that the waitress enjoys having breasts. And he wants in on them.  

They line up their coke and share. Downsize to crack-- cheaper. More shrooms from unsourceable sources, blended with chocolate, taken with drink and snort. 

Another death.

Mixing cocktails, orgies of flavors, everything together, finishing everyone else’s line, toke, or drink. Weed smoke, dreadlocks, storytelling, fabric of history. Something clear and brittle. They try unnamed hallucinogenic fancies. Crepes and hazelnut. 

A third death.

They sit on the edge of the 3rd story ledge of the cheap motel—the kind geared toward hourly rates. Lurching forward, holding tight, fingers loosening. Discouraged. The next day, bread-delivery-man announces a death, a female, out the window. Someone else. 

They want to slit their wrists, pop handfuls of pills. They stand on a suburban rooftop and get shot in the head. 

Another death.

They smoke from hazy yellow pipes, hiding them behind their lover’s dressers. Spilling resin on the carpet. Tracks of powder on bathroom counters. Little baggies and corners of white thank-you liquor store bags that smell like the moldy ships they traveled in. Hiding things in their underwear, in their socks, behind their ears, in the freezer. They go shopping in the parking lot at night for an engine head. Bang a prostitute along the way.

They own homes and sell homes and buy homes and trip and trip their balls off. Drinking to the sense of pleasure that befalls anyone who forgets where they came from. Or stuck on the idea that they are worth more than everyone else.

They ogle specific parts of bodies, collect the pretty pictures, watch and watch the flayed innards as they fizzle. The inside-out dolls of soulless wonders, waiting to be raped again. They laugh and admire, scanning breadth and girth, dimple and shake. Juicy bottoms. They gape at women in front of other women. They can’t help it, they say, as their eyes trail movement like hunting day. 

They smoke and suck and try to fondle. Shave their butt-holes and wash them in the bathroom sink, hanging just short of the faucet, ass-crack breathing against the metal, steaming up their gradually shrinking world. They lose their drive and blame the women. Gamble for a few winnings to pet the ego of yesterday’s lust. If you’re hooked on drugs, it’s always someone else’s fault, or so they insinuate. They are manly, but helpless. Trying, trying, trying...gone.

Rushing

You still feel the rush of it all. You do not awaken beside the king squid, yet the energies of his tentacles encircle you. Tightening around you. Full of dread, you squirm. Then there is the relief that follows, when you recite reality. You will never have to awaken beside him again. You will never need to explain why it is important to use soap when you wash dishes. You will never again need to pretend that you’re okay with his pink suckers that pry your confidence loose and leech you dry. You won’t need to pacify him and explain why you were laughing or why you were not. 

You still feel the rush of it all. In the morning, you help your son get ready for school. You feel frantic, even though there is no emergency. No one is telling you that you’re not good enough, that you’re too slow with the laundry, that “following” the kids around is not really work, that you’re taking advantage of him and his empire, that you’re not putting in effort. 

There is a layer of past smeared across the present. The aftershocks of him. Your son doesn’t feel like putting on his clothing. Resistance. You try asking, bribing, convincing, complementing, insisting, presenting consequences. You hear your voice-- tight, and your words-- choppy with repetition. You echo disapproval. Are you mirroring the rants of the octopus? You place heat on the moments, willing them to hurry. Forgetting your mindfulness, you are rushing. You still feel the rush of it, even though life has slowed down to a more digestible meal. Even though your life is once again your own, your appetite has yet to return.

Dimensional Contortionist

Tonight there is quiet. Your mind takes a final yawn before slowing down into the melodic sway of sleep's compassionate rhythm. You are surrounded by love and respect. Though through the distance, yet do warm heart-waves float upon your shores, bringing mysterious gifts from far-off lands. Your dreams permit safe passage to your utmost desires, and you find that without the inhibitions and practical limits of time, you can fulfill all that you long for. You simply make a wish, and branches eagerly sprout fingers to point the way to your path of choice. And the many arteries of possibility interweave feathers of flight and fantasy into the fabric of your everyday existence. You are complete. You are worthy. You are capable. You will carry on and the sun will light your eyes with gleaming streaks of absolute delight. Love to you my dear one.
Things will get better.
You will have joy<3

Jennifer Burnside

Arches of Ice

    I was gliding upon a chunk of ice which slid across frozen expanses of still chill water. Natural arches of crystalline substance beckoned in a sinister fashion as I approached at high speed. The icy arches were pale blue and arctic white, blinding in their purity. But I knew that beneath the glossy exterior, filthy dirt festered beneath- a core of wormy goo. I attempted to maneuver my way across a landscape, dizzy with expectation and adrenaline ringing in my ears. And the air was thin with altitude and smelled suspiciously minty as if enhanced by a man-made chemical substance.

    I felt terrified, angry, and yet somehow increasingly determined as I skimmed the frosty crests and snowy depths. At once, I attempted to escape an entity and yet pursue something so beautiful that its goodness outweighed the ugliness of my fears.

    My grandfather had arranged for me to stay with him as a guest on a very large skyscraper-boat. Very tall and wavering with the uneasy shifting of water’s liquid body, the building pulled at its anchor, trying to float away. On the other hand, the mighty architecture’s regal presence as portrayed through the jaws of its elaborate entry doors boasted an aura far from flighty.

    The mullet-man approached me, beady dark eyes sucking energy out of the surrounding atmosphere. I exhaled over and over again in hopes of avoiding his dark stench. He gaped wide and foreboding like an ancient cave, while his garments proved misleading…so sporty and modern. My grandfather had retired to his penthouse for the evening with a couple of buddies, which left me alone in a faceless heartless crowd with Mr. Mullet. He sat down on the floor beside which I rocked back and forth upon my heels, planning my escape. His two silent parents, visiting from a distant land, took their seats in blue plastic chairs rimmed with silver studs.

    Meanwhile, “he” had begun his presentation regarding underwater plant-life. Describing how various saltwater vegetation digested its food and reproduced, he spoke with arrogance and obstinate certainty. But he was sharing untruths merely to appear educated. I picked up what seemed to be a paperweight or clear bubble-like cage of sorts, but Mr. Mullet quickly snatched the piece out of my grasp. I began to wonder at the life inside as I saw movement and leaned toward the silly man so as to get a second look. The small red creature had coarse crocheted skin and very much resembled a sea anemone. And it was twitching and writhing in short electric spurts as if tormented or even deranged. I believed the exhibit to be a life-form while Mr. Mullet argued with me before an ever-increasing audience that the fabric exterior was nothing more than yarn; that beneath the rough weave danced a tiny fish who used the costume as a full-body mask.

    I was dismayed, though even with the man’s insistent and superior attitude, I did not fully believe him. To prove his point, he presented other examples of underwater stitchery within which the small fish was prone to hide. He exclaimed with delight when the fish darted out of the clear bubble and into a long shallow aquarium, in order to travel from one crocheted galaxy to another. I looked on in horror and disbelief. Suddenly, I felt the irresistible urge to leave the building which had over the course of time become as dark as a basement.

    I ran across a field so green and freckled with wildflowers it felt as if I were dreaming (interesting-

the sensation of dreaming within a dream). A sense of liberation washed over me as I savored the

cool breeze which whipped about my long tangled hair. The sky was blue, the atmosphere clear, and

in my rush I forgot my worries…for a mere instant in time. Out of seemingly nowhere appeared the

man with the mullet. He was running beside me. I turned to look at him as we ran and he was

smiling. So I returned his smile, feeling warm and happy. But then he began to pass me up; I

increased my speed and passed him, then he returned the gesture. Pretty soon the world felt mangled

and raw. I awoke angry.


Jennifer Burnside

Dream of Destruction

    She was running down a dingy hallway and encountered a dark green apartment door. She was looking for somewhere to hide and didn’t know where the baby was. Bursting into a barely lit room, she doubled over, breathing heavily. She felt a presence in the room and looked up with a start. Two men sat cross-legged on the floor in the midst of chaos. Rumpled piles of soiled clothes and dirty dishes lay in mounds all around them as if their empire. They gawked at her in a hypnotized stupor, glassy eyes shining like the glint of a wild animal’s gaze from the shadows of the forest. They giggled together in slow motion, though their voices were high like pre-pubescent boys. With long scraggly hair shifting across their faces, she could not tell where their eyes kept wandering, until she realized that they were watching small rats scuttle across the floor and through the trash that surrounded them. She was stunned when she looked at the hands of the two men, which were stained red and brown from dirt and dried blood. For they were catching the rats in their bare hands and grasping them with such specified force that the rodents slid right out of their own skin and fur, to land on the heap of rubble, pink and naked. As she watched a few rounds of this gruesome activity, she suddenly felt free to leave the room and walk away from the ugliness. As she turned, the men began whispering to each other in slithery little tones, mentioning what a shame it was that she was leaving them; that they would have no one for whom to present their violent talents. But as soon as they expressed their disappointment, their faces contorted into moldy clay masks, and slid off to glide down their lean bodies. She exited the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

   

Jennifer Burnside

Funneling

    Entering the chamber that boasted no access, a wall of wailing creatures barred the way but did not deter the lava from taking its victims by the throat and sucking out all of their life juice.

    The volcano emitted the most putrid of grimaces, seizing the land with arrogant derision, and what was once lush and green lay flattened and ashy gray in the aftermath.

    A war was fought at the base of the mountain, in circles the fighters beat at their own chests and mutilated their own faces until the vultures flew in to serve as masks and to fawn sadistically over the loss of the others.

    Like a twisted carousel of dead ponies and princesses, the sinister upheaval that was your glance fell upon the happy dandelions, quickly putting out their weak flames which they had borrowed from the sun at the moment the solstice turned her head away from the road to catch a glimpse of yesterday’s apologetic smile.

    Dismantling the notion of time itself, premonition makes its way into the straw, lights a match, and sets her free.

    And she is none the weaker…only brighter and more steadfast, as necessity deems fit.

    The smoke is invisible to her and not even the scalding of such partially-penitent souls will move her as she enjoys life and looks to the future, claiming all that is genuine as her own manifesto.

 

Jennifer Burnside

The Truck

    The white delivery truck had been parked outside the tidy little convenience store for more than half an hour. Fine dust yet churned in the wake of the truck’s sudden halt, where it had scraped up against a crumbled curb. And the vehicle’s flurried driver, lacking in either time or consideration, hadn’t made the effort to straighten out her crooked parking job. It was very unusual for the time, that a woman would operate such a large vehicle, without the presence and aid of a man. And even more extraordinary was it to see a woman lugging heavy merchandise over her shoulders and under her arms- without the least sign of effort. I always marveled at this sight which I had the pleasure to behold every Monday morning at 6 a.m. sharp. And I now wondered about the woman as she remained inside the store- much longer than was usual. While I kept watch from a mere dozen paces away, across a one-lane dirt road, I perched on the sagging porch which overlooked my Uncle’s meager gas pump. Chewing listlessly on the crushed tip of a striped straw, I felt the huge distance of the short space which divided “us” from “them”, and closed my eyes to avoid reality- as if escape were that easy.

    The sweet little girl with the cherub face peers inquisitively out the rear window of the delivery truck. One day a week she savors the bumpy ride down country lanes with her adventurous mother at the wheel, as they make the rounds to those merchants in town who purchase their dairy goods. According to the girl, Monday is the one day worth living for. She gets to enjoy the passing view without lifting a finger, and recently at one of their stops, has taken a special interest in a particular ramshackle abode, a dwelling so tiny she imagines that elves live inside. The girl stands on her tiptoes in the back of the truck to look out the smudged rectangular window. She is mesmerized by a shimmery veil which wisps like smoke in the soft breeze, partially masking the interior of the one-room shack. Oddly enough, a decrepit and stained porch broaches two sides of the structure in front of which stands a dingy gas pump. And along the railing, miniature sculptures, potted plants and brass trinkets sparkle in the sunlight. From the lean branches of a hovering tree hang coins and glass eyes which spin around from their threads of twine. How the girl would love to venture out and investigate…but her mother has forbidden her to leave the safety of the truck.

    With my two stringy braids swinging in my face, and floral head-scarf flopping over my shoulder, I stood up with mock determination as if I had something important to do, as if I had somewhere to go (rather than stagnate there on my uncle’s greasy grimy porch, awaiting customers who never appeared). I knew that I was being watched, which was a familiar sensation for me, being a stranger in a strange land. Lacking proper attire, and unable to communicate in the native language of the region, I spent all my time observing and contemplating. I was certainly accustomed to being noticed, as one might notice a stray mutt. Not only was I being noticed, but I was being observed with actual interest, by a peer. Uncomfortable, I wandered over to the gas pump, and feigning concentration, began to inspect it as if it were a rare fossil. In the meantime, I contemplated the porch and its infamous reputation. The fact that I felt pure envy toward a place rather than a person (since I spent more time alone on the porch than in the company of any person), clearly illustrated the depths of my solitude. My loneliness thrived in the quicksand of sticky guilt and recollection. I remembered absorbing the constant thrash of fighting and destruction throughout my first few years of life. I was the child of a sailor- always on the move- riding waves of sadness out at sea, in to port, on the town, and so forth. My father had left me here in this place so he could follow his desires, while I continued to miss him each night, my dreams increasingly laced with resentment. Adults had never made sense to me; they bated me with their lies, used me as a pawn to manipulate each other, and then abandoned me with frustration after they were exhausted from the seemingly endless responsibility of caring for me. The voices in my head would not calm themselves; like so many wild birds, riding the breeze only to crash repeatedly through the windows of my mind. It was as if I sifted through other people’s chaos; a recycled form of chaos which rarely had anything to do with me, but which somehow paved the painful path of my second-hand life.

    She tries to deduce what her mother must be doing at present- she has far over-stayed her normal delivery time. Usually, the hearty woman with bobbed hair and an unusually carefree demeanor, throws a couple of goats over her shoulder and heads into the immaculate shop by way of the delivery entrance. She makes several trips back and forth, carrying baskets of eggs, metal kegs of milk, and glass bottles of cream. She usually returns to the truck in 10 minutes at the most, with a wad of cash stuffed into the pocket of her horribly stained apron, and a grin on her face. The girl knows the inside of the shop intimately, even though she has entered on only three occasions when the shop-owner had invited the “poor little munchkin” to come in for an early morning ice cream cone (made with the milk from her very own farm). Though quite young, she recalls details with surprising accuracy. She sees the back entrance of the shop- its spotless white-washed metal door and fresh-scrubbed rubber matting. The floor of the reception area is black and white checked tile which proudly glimmers in the early-morning light. Display cases protect the purity of frozen delicacies and artfully placed cold-cuts. Atop the counters sit pale wicker baskets brimming with eggs and wedges of cheese. And behind the counters uniformed ladies bustle in their frilly blouses and pressed aprons, each of them with elegant hair swept up to overflowing in arrogant little ringlets. They appear to be setting things in order, sweeping away invisible dust, arranging and rearranging the order of displays, and obsessively plumping the pretty clusters of daisies and baby’s breath which drink from wells of fine crystal. Never before has a place felt so foreign to the girl who remains hatless in her simple frayed shift and bare feet. On the farm, she plays a part in the process of everything around her. In the truck she is her mother’s proud daughter. In the local chapel, she is the adorable wildflower who sings like an angel. But inside the convenience store, she is like a ghost; transparent for the most part, but if encountered, viewed by the “others” with something akin to distress. The girl hops from one foot to the other, causing the truck to shimmy back and forth. She worries about her mother who must be haggling over prices at this rate, and remembers how even with her confident beauty, firm handshake, and a strong sense of business, the kind woman was on one occasion inexcusably belittled and harassed by the pudgy, pink-cheeked shop-owner. Short and egotistical, the man had claimed to “catch a whiff of the latest fragrance- manure musk” in the hair of his supplier as he had peered down his nose at her “filthy little piglet”. The girl is whisked back to the present when a sudden movement flashes in the corner of her eye. Fixing her gaze upon the small shack across the lane, with the hope of glimpsing an elf, she is surprised to witness large dark eyes staring back at her with unabashed wonder.

    Tearing my attention back to the porch, I relived the humorous episode which earned the porch its celebrity status. I saw the multitude of cats in the eye of my mind. They were everywhere, climbing the walls, feeding from fine saucers of antique china, mating, hunting, and running the household like a band of gypsies. My aunt was the culprit who dragged me into this hole-in-the-wall she called a palace for the gods. Our inadequate home had, quite literally, a “hole” in its wall, as the single room was only held up by three walls. And a luminescent paisley fabric veiled in parts the gaping face of where a fourth wall must have at one time existed. Here I had resided for a good six months, struggling to accept my fate among the feral feline nation, which my aunt so obviously worshipped. I had never developed a liking for the independent and rather narcissistic nature of cats, simply because, despising water as they did, the lithe creatures seldom lived on sailing boats or in my father’s damp transitional hovels. At any rate, the daylight was in full bloom, the sun was pale like my heart, and my aunt had just arrived from town lugging a metal bucket. Coagulated blood jiggled in the bucket and over its sides with gelatinous glee. In her white lace dress and white canvas boots (stained crimson in an abstract fashion), she looked like a gory ghost, torn from the pages of a murder mystery. She approached me with murder in her eyes, exclaiming that our local greasy-spoon diner wouldn’t spare the best of their leftovers for “her family”, so she had been forced to gather what she could from their dumpster out back. I was horrified by the sight of my eccentric aunt, and her foul words stunk more than the stink of gizzards, livers, and other edibles which had grown rancid with the heat of the day. My first inclination was to call my uncle and tell him that my aunt must have lost her mind somewhere along her trek home- that the heat must have gotten to her. But suddenly, I realized that my once-pretty aunt with her almond eyes and long tangled hair remained nothing more than a vessel, full of empty dreams and endless regrets. Her feline “family” had been feeding off of her adrenaline and angst for some time now. She was in every way their human puppet, their clown, and their only source of sustenance. Something inside me lurched with fear and disgust, and I screamed. In a flash, my aunt began tearing at her clothes, at her eyes, and threw the bucket along with its hideous contents directly at me. Fortunately, I ducked before the heavy object could collide with my head, but the faded chipped porch wasn’t so lucky. The porch railing was instantaneously doused in a warm goo of carcass leftovers. Without so much as a word, my aunt stepped out of her ruined attire and marched away from our abode, feral cats in tow. And while the memory of a slim woman in bloomers and camisole, leading a pack of cats down the lane was etched in my mind forever, no one ever saw or heard from her again. The story became somewhat of a legend in town, although for some reason, I was completely left out of the picture. It was as if I had been invisible, or even worse, non-existent. After the incident had blown over and the stains on the porch had faded to a lovely mauve hue, I continued to linger in the shadows as I was prone to do. I learned to serve as the eyes and ears for our little corner of the universe (since my uncle was usually down the street in the town pub, and if he did happen to be home, which was seldom, he was too blurry-eyed from drink to comprehend anything he thought he saw). I kept my ever-expanding knowledge private, and busied myself with maintaining the gas pump and preparing simple meals for my uncle. In my spare time I collected trinkets from the roadside, which had most likely fallen from the harried merchant vehicles I occasionally witnessed fleeing from town in the middle of the night. It was the big old truck from the dairy farm which brought me the only delivery I would ever receive during my era at the gas pump shack; the only delivery which would actually deliver me from my woes.

    As she stares at the dirty creature, dressed in the most exquisitely colorful rags she has ever beheld, something familiar lurches within. She feels at once a connection with the other little girl, knowing that they have something in common. But she also knows that the “other” is weighed down by sadness and loneliness- eyes uneasily darting about, fingers fiddling with the handle of the gas pump, thin shoulders hunched in a sense of defeat. The girl in the delivery truck strains on tiptoes, willing the other child to notice her through the hazy window. Her heels and calves become hot with the effort, and she finally eases down into a squat to rest briefly among her farm’s fresh products and supplies. She unscrews the metal cap of a cold bottle of milk, her hand smearing the moist sweat of condensation that has formed on the outside of the glass. Guzzling the creamy liquid, she refreshes herself, taking comfort in the simple pleasure of quenching her thirst. She gets up and heads back over to the small window to continue her curious observation. She gazes upon the porch across the lane with its blushing stains, sees a small group of crows cavorting on the roof of the shack, and then realizes that the gypsy child she had noticed is nowhere in sight. For a moment the little girl panics, skimming the area for any movement. Suddenly, something collides with the door of the delivery truck. The little girl feels the vehicle heave with added weight, and soon after, a colorful scarf appears in the truck’s rear window. Next appear loose strands of wavy brown hair, large startled eyes, smiling mouth, and the two young children quickly find themselves face to face through the glass. The humidity of their happy breathing fogs the thick panel, and this triggers a round of giggling. They begin making silly faces and from either side of the thick door, they instantly realize that they have found in one another a friend.

    She looked like a perfect little doll. With her blond ringlets and sky-blue eyes, I thought she was a miniature replica of “them”. I thought she belonged in the starched and arrogant world of the convenience store across the way. Her rosy cheeks and innocent smiling mouth boasted the comforts that only love and nourishment can provide. But when her mother returned to the truck, started the engine, and dashed around to open the back door of the delivery truck, I saw that both the woman and the child had callused working hands which were rough and soiled. There was dirt under their fingernails. Just like me, the little girl went barefoot, her frock was torn and her apron quite stained. I felt right at home. The girl beckoned wordlessly for me to sit down with her on a crate in the corner. She grabbed a cold bottle of milk, opened it, and nestled it between my empty hands. I thanked her in my language, my voice bursting out like a song; so this was how happiness was supposed to feel! The little girl’s mother stood outside, with one booted foot wedged against the bottom step of the back of the truck. She was looking over at my trinkets, at the gas pump, meager clothes on the line, the slouching porch. The engine of the delivery truck was still running, humming with contentment. With a start, she clapped her hands against her hips as if wiping something clean. The woman darted like a fawn over to my sacred tree and from it pulled the glass eyes and a few coins. Wrapping these things in my old red shawl which she tore from the line, she ran to the truck and tossed the “gift” in back with us. She looked at me shrewdly and I knew that she awaited some kind of response. I smiled, nodded, and hugged the gift to my chest along with the bottle of cold milk. Our mother grinned with joy, blew a kiss to each of us girls, and slammed the door firmly shut on my former life.

 

Jennifer Burnside

Wiser with Time

This is not a time where being nice has its advantages. Being curtly polite is the only thing that we can offer to such despicable cowards who fester in the slimiest of puke-holes, repelling other such loathsome life-forms. Known to only the most remote species that evolved from stagnant feces so ancient, it had a life and body of its own, the dwellers drip with deceit. Vapors light their path, preceding them with a proud stench, as they traverse hideous fields of rotten rubble and refuse. With our strides so light and agile, our footsteps erase their own remains in hasty wake.

    We do not heed their morbidly obese warnings as they wobble with self-contradiction, their falsehoods becoming confusingly entangled with every pathetic maneuver as they writhe in the stupidity that is their fruitless dimension. They are not worthy of a glance, nor even a nod. We will not listen to their breaths as they exhale excuses and sharply breathe in the cynicism that blinds them from their own contemptible reflections. There is no way to make up for the fact that their very existences drive stink-bugs to the grave with one mere whiff riding the traumatized breeze. Like sticky fingers lumpy with the debris of past, present, and future abuse, they massage one-other where it matters the most: precisely at the center of the top of the head where a soft spot is ever growing, where the skull never actually closed as there was not enough bone matter or brain substance to form complete structural spheres. Attempting to make up for their wrong-doings, only because they wish with all their acid hearts to commit even more fraud and destruction the next time around, they sit on their hands, defecating upon themselves in ignorant fashion. Monstrous visions of demonic throats clench and release the bile that foams from their deformed mouths, and as their lips deteriorate with quick-release chemical action, we needn’t fathom the discomfort in which they find themselves. And we will not sit in wait- the time is upon us where those who have illustrated all that is delightfully evil will publish their suffering beneath the mighty weight of humiliation.

    We will not give in; we have nothing left to give. We scorn them as we crush leaves with our toes and grind the memory of their sour faces into a sheer powder which will scatter itself across the ocean at the gaseous center of a vengeful earth. Despicable dedications are in order, and tension hangs heavy in the air, right before their smutty noses. We wash our hands of all that once consisted of their dirty little secrets. And as the sweet oil of love’s pure hope courses through our hair like the wind through the trees on a picnic-day, we await their doom with giddy abandon. The parade will pass, and good riddance, but oh what a show they will put on for us in the imaginations of our once-injured, twice-wiser hearts.

Jennifer Burnside

Water

    Water rushes throughout your entire being like anguish up against itself. Your mind reels, wondering about your reactions, wondering why you are so eager to please and so prone to tears. How painful it is to say goodbye; you would almost rather not say hello at all because you cannot fathom how you were looked up after so much time in the first place. What is the meaning of your existence in the eyes of one too many someone elses, and why does it matter anyways what others think about you? They’re generally wrong, and such criticisms are a toxic fertilizer deceiving your heart into breathing deeply only to cough out the heart-ache a few miles down the boulevard. And you don’t know what is worse, the deception, the attempt to recover from the blow, or the tangle of emotions that tear you apart from the inside out. You wonder what it is inside of you that spills so easily and how shall you clean up the mess, each and every time? Is it a horrible mistake to allow a stranger to view your depths and what does it mean when someone known becomes a mere stranger? Ghosts take over the lives of those you resist loving and haunt you like the residue of carelessly applied glue. Some will eat glue in early school years; a sticky attempt to remain faithful to the self. Others manage to spill the glue all over so as to secure lingering deadweights and the guarantee of stagnancy galore. Lack of movement is the cluster of hallucinations that come into effect when view is limited to one wall lacking shape, lacking color. No memory or desire can beat the feeling of importance, of knowing that one fits and is rooted. Landslides crash down the hillside with you as the target, adding fuel to the fire of hypocrisy when what you say is what you veer clear away from doing. There is nothing more harmful than feasting upon self and forgetting the rest of the world. But what is there to do besides worry about the rest of the world, its tastes and reactions, and the complexity of each individual? Each and every one of us creates reactions by way of choice and then we in turn stand back to admire the results that may either implode or expire. The best of times are when absence blossoms and a silent moment grows slick with idea. Time alone burrows away from the dry and greedy sun, requesting two waters instead of one. And even while one voice so close and full of insistent claim drops monotonic through a floorless floor, closer echoes bear witness to appreciation, clasping honor head-on. Number one on any list is trust, for a series of taut backs are oft to be seen fading into a grey horizon that is neither dawn nor dusk. Lies are the juicy middle of endless dream worlds; without beginning or end. Arching into submission, a beam of light twists around to face the enemy of its nonexistent head; the false curl of its sadly unborn tail. No introduction or familiarity is necessary when all that you mean is goodness; rounded like a song in mid-air stretching across an expanse of liquid so dense it makes earth look drinkable. A smile stretched across the pupils consoles the soul by way of closure. Yet, trying too hard is sheer method for transparency, the kind that does not lead to intimacy, but strips away thick bark to reveal deadly mites with needle-point teeth etching away your life story across the back of a towering and yet strangely timid tree. You cease to fight because you come to fear joy itself, sidling over to the companionship of book ends, hollow at center but still standing. To exist as the substance for the support of a structure long since dismissed reminds you of how the familiar becomes so vague in the blind eyes of the weary. A good ways down the road you will encounter a lady on her porch rocking to the rhythm of life itself and rolling with the punches. Resistance feeds the black and blue like how the fight within yourself over yes or no seems to rip out your throat and feed it to the masses. Far better it is to meander apart from the others and trace shadows with your mind’s fingertips. Better to feel nothing at all; to save it all for later when more is safe. Sometimes the enemy has not the right to know or the ability to understand that the pieces of a heart while shattered will always remain close at hand to ride the waves of sweet and delectable pain each time they, together or unescorted, cross one kind of threshold or another. 

    Senses or not, it is kind to be aware. Slowly tasting the heat of a day, you savor and ponder experience before releasing it into the space of pure absence. It is good to keep in mind that most things make no sense whatsoever, especially concerning themes of love (which are all of what makes anything worth-while, either savored for the flicker or the flight). Sentences blend in this night of clashing and clanging and no one beat can agree to link or unlink, to defile or decorate where ground grows soft and water hard on the hair in the green of a day after plenty of words unsaid create stories in your head molding form into fiction and loss into delight...Yesterday you lost something that for someone else was a blessing and the only disguise worn was the cold lack of dismay. Still, two sweets tickled a fancy so in tune with reluctance the warm air bore down and you couldn’t make up your mind, so you merely sat and stared at them as if you were one of them churning with the wind against traffic and shortly prior to the click of a hang-up call. Certain people feel as if they are the hang-up call; that they have been put out like a match in a damp cave. Conversation continues on in your head and that is the most dangerous thing of all. Imagination chases away adoration with a cleaver and mocks all forms of amusement like reading backwards and upside-down in order to open a drawer in the subconscious mind that long ago stuck shut and rusted over. As of yet there exist no handles, and while bare in appearance and completely lacking any apparent function, the wooden contraption has lasted beyond the harsh words and farewells. Your latest lesson in life, whatever it may be, is something to practice frequently and with utter sincerity, as you plough forth into the land of ever-evolving enchantment.

Jennifer Burnside

Insomnia

    Sometimes the songs of birds sound mechanical, like a buzzer or some kind of alarm whining to itself in solitary desperation. At central depth of night, our surroundings ring like ancient neon lights, crying with mournful triple-strength at the brink of death. Random people, invisible behind the evergreens, associate coquettishly, blind under the impression that minus the sun, they are together alone. Triumphant carriages launch into departure, with full orchestras resounding from their famished bellies and bottomless urges. And despite the low gurgle of bass and bulbous tuba, the music shines classy under the witnessing stars. The blue gloss of daytime falsehood lies as a sheer coating, smudged but transparent still. And the devious undertakings of one too many hours ago point their minute hands at the fateful hour. Thus, night’s chalky skeleton can be seen through the thin skin of the day.

    There is a cricket who resides directly outside our bedroom window. He loves to fiddle away throughout the darkest hours until the break of dawn. When light begins to creep woozily over the rumps of the hills, he puts away his coarse instrument and falls into a pleasant slumber. What a royal life the cricket lives. He is our closest neighbor and alternates between serenading us into a state of utter bliss, and driving us slowly insane. It is a day in the night of Insomnia!


Jennifer Burnside

Clarity

    The morning is clear and crisp and blue. The planets hide safely behind thick atmosphere of light, but I can sense their presence lingering with concern. The trees stand still in awe as beauty saunters by. And shadows paint perfect contrast across the surface of visible day. Looking for illusions today, seeing past sight and hearing genuine sound is choice meal on the menu. Don’t believe that the energy with which the birds use to sing and soar can drain the bones right out of your feet in milkshake fashion. Just breathe and smile, listen and learn, for truth is a camouflage. It is the texture of the forest through which pure waters flow with the shimmering iridescence of moonstone. All will be well, the waters whisper.


Jennifer Montemayor

Colliding into Death

    We visited the site of the accident yesterday. Pulling over onto the road’s soft shoulder, other vehicles flashed by with threatening gushes of hot air. The car’s hazard lights pumped our hearts into a frenzy of drumbeats. We found the path, the toppled branches snapped and raw, the trunks of strong trees missing chunks like a juicy apple that’s been bitten in to by a hungry mouth. The atmosphere hummed with emotion. Rusty blood marks shared clues of a story without a beginning or a definite end. We crouched to sort through the rubble, handling broken remnants with pensive caution. The tragedy is air-borne; it is contagious and stains the soul with sorrow. We are helpless and this feels horrible. Living through vague snatches of a nightmare, we faced sharp reality: the rearview mirror around which loops an ancient wooden rosary missing its cross-beam, a shattered window, shards of reflection, shiny discs of music speckled with life’s elixir spilled, pieces of a life lost, objects that once accompanied a young man through his daily life….We left a slice of our hearts by the side of the road at the scene of a loss.

Jennifer Burnside

Clutching Survival

    Somehow we exploded to a halt; lurching in agony and disappointment, our shiny sage dolphin gasped his final breath for the evening. A long sturdy whale saved the day in all his foul odor and glory, while the hot gusty winds heaved with aggression. Outside passed the waters and hairy hills, itching to shed their skin without shame. And we plowed forward with a vengeance.

Jennifer Burnside

Wolf's Cousins

    Naughty little creatures associate with one another in a fashion more complex than what meets the eye. Sauntering, circling, pawing at the other’s face with unrestrained envy, the tightly muscled canine believes she has willed her foe to retreat. She is hungry, greedy, and rules the roost. But he cares little for her superiority complex and high demeanor. Without a care, the licorice hound wanders off in search of more amusing diversions.

Jennifer Montemayor

The Game

    The air holds its breath in expectation. And a stern icy exhalation from distant coastal mountains cleanses life of its noon-time sweat. Excitement escalates and voices in chorus bustle like fast-talking sea-gulls. Everywhere there is movement and yet one moment in time seems frozen like the small turtle in a stagnant pond of a water-color painting. Frame by frame, the day passes in flickers like a cartoon court-jester playing hide-and-seek with his own shadow. And then, quite suddenly, the game is over and a multitude of neatly lined-up players clap hands with jolly satisfaction.

Jennifer Burnside

Passion Aroused

    Rippling down the drain, shards of old broken dreams collide in to one-another, causing a new form of music to transpire. Crystalline harmonies charm into existence the faintest and most obscure buds of new hope, who in turn, blossom into unexpected desires. Not all dreams can be retained in the thick scheme of things. Even as perception writhes and molds itself into fresh forms, the subconscious mind gazes keenly at itself in the mirror, pantomiming recognition. Expectations make a U-turn and soon become lost amidst a tangle of arteries and half-truths. Wandering lost between countless pools of softly drowned yesterdays, one comes to realize how soggy is life without the sun. How dull are windows without the light. How dismal grows the day that lacks a song. And so we cartwheel across the field, swim across the river, and claim the only heart we were ever truly meant to love—one mate of the soul, pure and constant, deliciously divine, yours and mine.

Jennifer Burnside

The Hideous Cow

    There was a hideous cow in all her glory, shrieking at the top of her despicable lungs. She painted a pretty picture, all red in the face on a pleasant afternoon. Like an uncapped fire hydrant she gushed forth curses galore as if they were loose turds being flung at an innocent wall. Imagine that such a wall could step to the side just in the nick of time to miss a splattering of filthy humiliation…but walls don’t swerve- they stand strong- until it’s time to amble away and reinvent the meaning of boundaries...With udders swinging haphazardly beneath a clashing blur of cheap tie-dye, the bloated cow bellowed miserably for all to hear, unaware of how ugly she appeared swathed in sheer anger. She chewed and spit her slimy cud with an undeniable vengeance that ate away deep holes in the paved sidewalk as only the most caustic of acids can. Her filthy attitude polluted the air with a sinister smog that grew so thick she could no longer see. After the exit door scooted closed with firm confidence, the hideous bovine made her way back to the toxic swamp from whence she came. And although she was quite fortunately never heard from again, we still catch a whiff of her stench on the breeze.

Jennifer Burnside

Looking Back Fondly- Living Now Strongly

    With “The Cure” lighting the morning’s path, I remembered our life in the woods, the mysterious world that was our future gaping at us with possibility…everything glowed with enchantment even when sorrow rained upon our souls. I still have the blue bottle of 1 dram Frankincense from “The Perfumed Dragon” of The Renaissance Faire. Smelling that sweet earthen scent, I am transported to dusty paths and beaming faces of actors full of energy and humor. We spoke in poetry and felt art and music with our sixth senses. Now we keep those memories closed up tight within intricate treasure boxes. Time passes and we forget what is contained inside these precious faded parcels. So much has happened, changed, and grown, and we have flown off to our own mountains. We gaze at the sea; in the eyes of our minds the tides charm with moon’s sacred rhythm. Looking back fondly- living now strongly…

    Here the birds sing as if in harmony. They represent an array of colors and moods, yet beckon the sunrise each morning in their own unique way. We went to the maze on Sunday and discovered a Hawaiian carving that appears to be a totem. It guards over our dreams with focused clarity…

    Or perhaps it draws the subconscious mind out of its clam-shell to reveal pearls of well-ripened wisdom…

    I hear cars rushing like a waterfall, somewhere gliding along softly in the distance. These metallic dolphins gleefully race one another in the night. They create waves with their movement.

    An energy paces through my system and I can hear new path-ways being formed. Perhaps I am bursting with sheer delight for there is a small creature, assembled by pure passion that bats at invisible flies inside of my belly. We saw the truth with our very own eyes and like for a cartoon in black and white, the soundtrack must be spicy…for the blessed star is jitterbugging away!

Jennifer Burnside

Dream's Many Voices

    I was deceived, but the deception faded into oblivion. And thus from the murky gloom sprouted understanding. Dreaming awake, such a horror spread like spilled ink across the page of my day and cast an ominous shape that to my mind’s eye equaled ruination. Despair; what to do with feelings that sting like a pepper-mouthed snake covered in quills. And how to roll with the rhythm as if somehow the suns’ lies were only a matter of deciphering shadows from light… It’s not that simple, really, when blame wrings her small jaws tight like damp cloth. The soil is nurturing and a cool brook soothes as she flows over raw cheekbones, rough with heat. Fault is a matter of back-and-forth, like an old-fashioned game of tennis in the lawn at dawn. Players’ mouths stretch tight against disapproving faces hiding truths and re-inventing circumstances. And vows pertaining to truth mean little when spoken between two adversaries, whose minds are each incased in a balm of waxy perception, and beneath all the layers remain far too slippery to grasp. Riding the hurricane, words work to destroy every last ounce of sanity, tipping the chairs and shattering dishware within the haphazard structure of the sinister moment-to-be. Sick, so very sick is the train of thought which chugs down the tracks of doubt, happy as a star-thistle. The smoke is thick, concealing the sky and the ground all at once. A spiky flower is the heart, cold and sharp when it all comes crashing down. We will wheedle the arrows out of the flesh with reckless abandon, to avoid the torture that unabashed pondering brings.

    In the dream there was a girl draped in a sunset gown, trapped within a block of ice and floating in the sea. The water was briny as ocean water is, and I swam out to her with my condolences strapped across my shoulders like a satchel. She was sad and from another world and we spoke briefly until a pair of sharks approached. It was important to note that the sharks were crossing each-other, which meant that their fins were facing opposite directions making an x. I knew they would dance forth to devour me ankle-first, so bade the sunset farewell and swam desperately to shore. There was a tall building on the main-land and I entered through the front door. Gaieties were in order; party people and somber folk mixed together as if they in combination were the absolute norm. I sifted through the blend and crossed the theatre stage, passed classroom doorways, and even entered the never-ending attic which has existed in countless dreams past. This old cavernous storage space boasts canned goods, clothing, boxes and so forth, but with each step, the objects within appear ever more colorful and fascinating. And as you delve deeper into its dark bowels, the attic seems to tip, and you slide in further without exerting any force whatsoever. In the attic, you move forward without taking a step, and spiders weave their webs behind you at a shockingly rapid pace. Once out of the attic (somehow), wonderful things began to take place incorporating tones of lush greens and royal purples, but my conscious mind cannot register or recollect such beauty at this time.

    Back to the present, consider the voice- how it curves and trembles magically- or so it seems. Can the voice be drawn back as if it were on a yo-yo string? Can it retract like a tape-measure after hitting the wrong pitch or transmitting the wrong words? While it moves across space and even sometimes across time, the voice carries so many meanings in its delicate net. Draping sound across the temporal abyss that is the melody between each heart-beat, the voice brings truth and illusion to the table. And there are no chairs, few reservations, and never is a guest for want of breath.

January 30, 2012

Jennifer Montemayor

By the Lagoon

    Do you remember how to tell a scary story? Yesterday deep in the night, a young man recalled his youthful nightmares which have transformed into sentimental thrills of an old boy’s waking moments.

    Once long ago in the very high mountains, an elf-child clambered up mighty rocks, in pursuit of intrigue. Up ahead, laden with numerous satchels, the leanly muscled healer embraced his envious pursuers despite the dry heat. In the distance, an abandoned mine yawned with its first breaths of awakening, as strange organic chemicals leaked with a vengeance out of his gaggle-toothed chasm. The adventurers approached as dusk set in, and an icy metal tank encased their weary bodies as they with rest renewed themselves for the unpredictable excitement that lay ahead. For a span of days, they strove to discover magic and wealth. They worked as a team, sweating and swearing for success’ sake. But rewards were few, and the grand treasure proved a fair illusion, far more transparent than the silk of a skillful moth. There was a curse on the head of the temptress, who chanted her melodies of shiny gold and diamonds. Her voice was a double-edged sword, and her promises of fine winnings led more than a few fervent travelers into the quickest of sand. Fortunate for the child and his loving guides, the fresh waters of a sweet-flowing river shone brighter in the morning than all the stars in the skies of their wildest dreams. Thus, a refreshing swim pelted all senses to a pulp of utter contentment, and the grateful men of the white lagoon lingered until mid-day together in the lap of nature. So, while spirits still swim through the water-ways under the floor-boards and murmurs divide sane minds in two jagged halves night after urban night, all is well in the mountains. The clouds rest assured of this uncanny peace and link arms with chubby hearts brimming over and over again with grandfatherly love.

January 21. 2012

Jennifer Montemayor