no. 109

today i feel green

i take this pen and shoot sprouts from its tip

the roots travel up my arm and into my veins, finding their

way to my heart.  it is almost too much,

re-entry via pulmonary vein–especially when

the words don’t find the correct path to

come out again.  instead, they infiltrate my

organs wrapping themselves tightly–an impossible

knot, to which there is no end of beginning.

thus i am compelled to permit the roots’ growth

until, like tip of the pen, they sprout

flowers from my mouth

(written 27 november 2016)

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domestic(ated) bliss

i.

is domestic bliss just a state of

brain-spun confusion?

a mindset in which we’ve convinced ourselves

there is a paradigm of false perfection

we’ve domesticated our minds

roped them in to those everyday tasks

that the bliss is just a stupor

down to the cellular level

happiness is found in a tear storm

inducing mundanity

 

ii.

you infuriate me with your love of

the brilliant boredom of bliss

you sound so contented and i want you to be restless

i want you to be like me

to be messy on the inside

i want to share those secret disappointments with you

but you smile through your saccharine words

the one-liner that reveals nothing

the photo that is so preternaturally perfect that

i must send a twinning one of my own

the smile doesn’t reach my eyes

i imagine that yours is the same

 

iii.

never thought my domestic life would be

like an old hollywood musical

a lot less sparkle, a lot more dusty-dingy

not entirely devoid of self-made melodrama

i find myself strangely breaking into song

a fugue state in which i dance an 8-beat phrase

to the pop-hits of the day

to fill the space between loads of laundry

and emptying the dishwasher

reorganizing props for the millionth time

setting the stage for cereal box reality

 

 

(written 13 april/8 may 2018)

Book Review: Kindra M. Austin’s Twelve, by Mariah Voutilainen

here is my latest review on another amazing labor of love by Kindra M. Austin. if you haven’t read any of her work yet, you must!

Indie Blu(e) Publishing

Kindra Austin’s Twelve continues where Constant Muses left off, rich and intense.

By Mariah Voutilainen

After having read Constant Muses, I eagerly awaited the release of Kindra Austin’s Twelve.  I expected more of the imagery of Muses, with its cigarette smoke and endless cocktails.  While those common threads are there, Twelve favors the much more potent darkness of decay and memento mori.  In Twelve, Austin further exposes the connection between the corporeal and spiritual that she began to explore in Muses, through an emotional dissection of the year of grieving on her mother’s death.  And I felt it was a grieving ‘on’, not ‘over’:  she rests upon each painful moment of remembrance and exposes it to us fully, unapologetically.  It is that straightforward voice, plainly truthful, that compelled my own visceral response—and while I cannot fully describe in words how I felt, I do know that…

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no. 108

buried under the sun

the sun glinted off the pit of their souls

blinding them to their own horrific

imperfections

genuflections

they made to deities whose homes

were found in temples

made of skin and bones

they saw them in the mirrors

stroking plumped plumage

gilding their own lilies

edging away from

discovery

recovery

they saw themselves in mirrors

and were pleased with the reflections

content with their

insatiability

culpability

no insurrection

where is their rage?

at the bottom

buried under the sun

(written 26 november 2018)

Book Review: Eric Syrdal’s Pantheon, by Mariah Voutilainen

if you haven’t read Pantheon yet, it should be on your shortlist…

Indie Blu(e) Publishing

Eric Syrdal’s Pantheon takes readers on an epic journey through time, space and emotion

By Mariah Voutilainen

As a keen reader of sci-fi and fantasy novels, I was very impressed by Eric Syrdal’s Pantheon.  For me, the title alone recalled deities of myth, promised encounters with larger-than-life heroes, and set up an expectation of sweeping verse.  Syrdal, a self-proclaimed romantic and sci-fi and fantasy enthusiast, does not disappoint:  He deftly weaves a tale of adventure, his protagonists crossing paths with virtuous Goddesses, who coax them toward their destinies.

As I read the first section, I worried that Pantheon was a little too heavy on the usual themes of fantasy and fairy tale:  Warhorses champing at the bit, armored fighters, swords at the ready, the proverbial dragon looming over the embattled heroic Poet.  Despite this, I continued on and was glad I did, for Syrdal quickly demonstrates that his story…

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leaving the castle by the lake

Equating home with family had always made sense to her before she had lived anywhere but this boreal country.  She knew with certainty that she was out of place here:  From her brash American-ness to her multi-ethnic appearance, no one could mistake that she was not of this land and never would be.  Curly black hair wild under her attempt at a hand-knit beanie, children still stared at her in unabashed wonder of her origin.  She had come here for her own children, but even though they could sponsor her residency, they could not make her any more acceptable in this place.

Nevertheless, she found a strange sense of peace in her bubble of otherness.  She was largely left alone, only spoken to when absolutely necessary, able to bask in her own thoughts during the quiet school days and nights when the children were asleep.  She filled the silence with songs and soliloquies or the quiet tapping of her fingers on the keyboard.  Soul food was different here, but nevertheless filled her belly with its bland richness.  Taking up a national hobby, she brushed off her needles and knit with abandon as if her creations would inspire admiration from anyone but herself.  One morning, she realized that she had dreamed in a language not her own, and thought:  Am I finally one of them?

She imagined what it would be like to go back from whence they came.  Things had changed:  Her homeland was a foreign country, more foreign than this place.  Her house had been renovated while she was gone.  Old landmarks and routines were no longer familiar.  Her driver’s license had expired long ago.  She could hardly remember street names or locations even though she had lived there for twelve years.  Shocking what absence could do.  For some, homesickness made the imprint of memories stronger.  She had never been homesick–her brand of sentimentality never allowed it.  All she had done was waved goodbye, let go, faced forward, and jumped head-first into a singular adventure of her own making.

Now in the kitchen, she peered through the blinds.  Much of her time here had been spent looking, staring, observing with intention.  She searched the evergreens in the distance, eyes stopping only once they lit upon her favorite building in the town.  In the summertime it was not visible; the foliage of cottonwood trees lining the back fence of the parking lot obscured the view.  But now, during the winter, the bare bones of the trees framed the castle with their phalanges.  It was tiny at this distance, even though she could reach it in fifteen minutes on foot if she left the apartment right now.  Its cone roof, slate grey against the sky.  Although she could not see it, she knew the lake, its face undisturbed, provided the perfect backdrop.  At night it was obsidian, reflecting the lights of the town.  In the long summer days it was wreathed with her favorite lupines in purple, pink and white.  The flowers and the lake were etched into her arm by a tattoo artist named Sanni.  The short-lived pain of carrying this special spot with her seemed a small price to pay.

She would miss this place. She felt a sadness that enveloped her entire being.  It was so powerful that she had to hold her breath to push it down.  She no longer knew where she belonged; too removed from her previous life, not enough invested in this one to plant herself firmly in a land of strangers who welcomed her as a curiosity.  There was no place that felt like home.  She wondered if there ever would be, and who she would have to become to find it.

(written 12 january 2018)

no. 107

did you think that i had disappeared?

oh my dearest,

in the off-chance you wondered at my absence

i am still here

somewhere between up and down, right and left

suspended in thought, preoccupied in stillness

but happily here, nonetheless

as you see,

my feet have come to light upon the ground

finally

i will try not to depart too soon

for our mutual liking, hoping that

you are still here

maybe returned from your own journey?

were you not dallying in the clouds?

making friends with the moon and stars?

seeking audience with the sun?

no, you say,

you were just waiting patiently for

my return.

written 5 november 2018