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Living with Goldilocks

Say what you will,
We are mere biological tubes
In one end and out the other
Goes the dead things we eat daily
While we profess in the midst of this
An intimacy blessed by the sky god’s one
Good son, our lineage is the truly divine one

Even as our sciences’ queries
Rend the sacred curtain to social cause ribbons
Revealing the wizard-less inwardness as koan

Say what you will,
We merely imagine ourselves
As remarkable beings
In this sensate world, tactile
Abodes for ghostly souls
Binary beings just as day has its brightness,
Thinking has its dreaming

I say what I will,
We are the carbon based bumpkin
Sweet spot residents of a Goldilocks zone
Helplessly spinning and orbiting
A floating ball of gas on fire
In a milky dense galactic way
Of being universally present.

We are billion year old carbon
With genius dreams that lifted us
From African trees to lush savannahs,
Flights to the moon with tickets to Mars
Spacious private estates to high rise tenements
Bows and arrows to satellite operated drones
We fabricate a world of meaning.

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Enchant me with your siren song,

lace me in with ink-black lies and throw my heart

into open water.

 

The melting crystals in your eyes fooled me,

because all I could hear was the steady drum beat

your ocean heart

 

Forget about the shiny silver band-aid I stuck on your broken happiness,

and take mine instead.

(warning: fragile)


I saw you throw yourself off the very bridge where

you held me close that warm winter day

told me you'd never fall.

 

you

took my hope with you, locked in a pretty gold box,

into the dark nothings.


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Heaven

They said I could be forgiven,
They said I could be saved
‘Saved from what?’
They said, ‘Evil.’

They said, ‘The iniquitous’

 

I sat there and listened

I sat there on the algid oak pew

‘Repent. Be pure. Obey the word’

‘Sin’ ‘Corruption’ ‘Damnable’ ‘Wicked’

I sat there and listened

I sat there and began to think

 

But all I could think was that

The way you hold my hand could not be a sin
All I could think was that
               Your body against mine doesn't resemble corruption
All I could think was that
               Your whispered words have never  been damnable
All I could think was that
               The gaze of your eyes is not ever wicked

But still I sat there
I sat there and listened

I listened until
They said

I would be locked out
Locked out of those pearly gates
‘You won't go to heaven’

They said
I sat there and listened

But all I could think was that

Your lips are the only heaven I need

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Growing up here felt like
being thrown in the ocean
without a lifesaver and
with the expectation of
swimming to shore with
no guidance or any idea
of the dangers that lurked
in the deep water

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These flickering stars

are burnt scars in your velvet

skin of space and black.

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Master of Night (For Cats, Large and Small)

I.

Wild fevered summer cat

crouched in night forest

leaf-rustle, ear-swivel

golden eye-gleam, nostril flare

smell trail, chase drumming

hot blood of jugular pulse on tongue

 

II.

Barest winter, bones spare

as naked trees knock

hungry ghost at door

I crouch, invite you in ("I am not yours")

eyes warn, my sofa, my fire

recline like buddha, one golden orb

fixed on me

 

III.

Cat-mind drifts back

ten thousand years

desert goes for days

sun-blaze on fur, sandpaper tongue

drink from Tigris, cool forgiving

 

Mate with five heated slit-eyed beauties

consider symbiosis, my ancestors

pile grain into a barn too slow to catch mice

while naked two-legged kittens

play with your children.

 

Humans will worship yet bury you alive--

our dead won't be lonely

The mice in the barn will find

Master of Night

that no death nor game is too cruel for you

 

IV.

Now, fates joined

after your hunt, before mine

yawn and blink at the sun

bury my face in electric fur

you drape a lazy velvet paw

over me purrs reverberate

 

All is right in this universal chase

sun-selves,  shadow-selves

predator and prey

for life love

and death

**************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Copyright 2012 by Ann Marcaida

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Healing

I grew up in a house

with a band-aid covering the wounds.

My earliest memories are of an

apartment, with my mother.

But the house, with my father. I remember a

pink room, with a sloping ceiling, and

glittery lotion I keep in a drawer.

I don’t remember when or why but one day

We were all in the house again. 

I do remember lipstick tubes and diamond

earrings, scattered in the bathroom.

Powdered skin, perfumed neck, leaning in to smear

a mauve smudge on my own baby cheeks.

I do remember a day at a day-care and a hill and

a plastic car and a knee gritty with pebbles and blood.

And months later my mother, cigarette in mouth,

refusing to put a new band-aid on it. 

“It’s not an open wound.”

But it’s festering. I remember expensive hotels and heavy

dressy coats in New York City. 

The wound had stopped bleeding, the ache had dulled.

But it’s festering

I couldn’t stop the thundering trains in my head. I couldn’t

stop the scar from staring me in the face.

I blotted out the middle school years with black pen ink in 

different journals, slid under my sagging mattress.

I scratched out the summer before I began high school.

Cry it out. There is something more inside of me. There

was something more inside of me, before.

I remember boys and whispered fights across the kitchen table

just because it’s quiet doesn’t mean it is okay

and I can still smell the way the first boy smelled next to me on the

couch. And I can still remember flinching, just a little, when

he wrapped his arms around me, but melting in the end.

I remember losing the guest room to my father and writing in a thin

black notebook I think I might be going insane

And I don’t remember all of it but I know I kissed the wrong 

boys at the wrong times in the wrong places, and I began to

wonder if there was ever a right time or a right boy or a right place.

Now I have been the heartbroken and the heartbreaker but I didn’t think

before that I could be both. 

I know I will remember it like it was yesterday, not one thing but everything.

I know it will be true. Band-aids don’t do anything for healing.

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Palm Sunday

As hard as I try,
I can't find a single indication
that today is a sunday (nevermind
a holiday) solely by perusing the troughs
of my pink, dry palms.

Then I wonder
how intelligent this mewling
chair must think me to be, what with
my being a smart-ass and all. 

© 

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You can die from breathing too much disapointment

Stow pain under the bow
Of every ship sailing
Dead trees still have roots
Bury past loves, and fake hugs
Under rotting wood, as if you could
Peer pressure pain into rotting
Monkey see, monkey do
But, monkey can’t see through
Deceitful eyes, cloudy skies
Dying needs, heartless pleads
Don’t implore me to hide
Behind your good intentions
That stay intentions

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expressing welcome

Rusty metal bridge and an angry running stream show life beginning to thaw
The cold bitterness is breaking to saturate the pores of the land and give way to a movement seemingly going forward …. All the while a single ponder
In which the search for influence , a mental stimulant , a convincing factor 
stating that it is okay to be here and to move forward as well.