to do list

seeing as i neglected to make a new years resolution (again), i'll try and redeem myself by making this to do list almost two months too late. but i think jl had the right idea, time to organize and get it together. it seems like i've thrown together a million different beginnings but i haven't sat down to think a lot of them through. c'est tres tragic, i know. so lets see if i can finally do this,

though it's a tad ealry for spring cleaning.

1. finish Diane's, no ifs ands or buts. or at least finish some sort of first draft.
2. finish "The Wington Estate" and find a way to tie reality with fiction.
3. find something to do with all those leaves i've been saving. i swear i had a plan...
4. finish the door project
5. find a shape for all these pictures i've been cutting out.
6. finally figure out what a muse is!
7. buy a rhyming dictionary so i can end the headaches for once and for all.
8. figure out what i'm going to do with these letters i've starting writing to, "my dear mrs. downing."
9. buy diana krall cd.
10. eat more apples.
11. complete contest essays (is that the right plural)
12. buy driving shoes
13. now that i finally understand the era, finish the serpent and the moon.
14. this list is a lot longer than i expected.

heaven in manhattan

the devil was screaming for a duet partner.
and since my finger can play a sinner’s cord quite well
'twas i who crawled into the dirt
and came out on the other side upside down
and filled with a malicious rhythm.

if it were a seemingly normal tuesday
and you were walking the streets on manhattan
in that red dress,
in those black paten leather shoes,
with the mean city strut,
and a upper east side lean,

would you expect heaven in manhattan?

i saw with sane insanity
that this heaven was delivered when his piano,
fell into the middle of the street.
his fingers roamed those keys like
a lion would roam a womans body, the whole street froze.

a p.o.w among citizens i stole quietly in and out of the
masses and poured the daily libations on
each good man’s head
until they were sufficiently drenched and
inconceivable inaudible
all muttering furiously
panicked at the apparent lack of mobility.

six notes let them go and
like flies they scurried
past the piano and out of site,
he watched with heavy eyes,
flickering with vague amusement,
indeed i’ve believe i’ve struck a nerve in the devil himself.
leaving the gutter spirits
to lap the vodka from the cement,
he left the piano to try his luck with our courtship.

jenifer's song

jenifer's song

the metal on the bus seat
was cold and stiff;
she sat down,
submerged herself in chords,
and struck up a thought.

the afternoon blend of conversations and strings
was lulling her out of her rage,
in the meantime she watched the streets fly by
and the people that looked as if moving out of sync-

we’re two of a kind,
she said to me.
you and i,
i couldn’t fall asleep last night,
and neither could i.

but as the bus continued
to slide down the avenues,
the attack fell on her swiftly.
all charm and manners forgotten,
she put a ladies good qualities aside
and with all that said and done she dawned the general’s coat
and marched gallantly towards enemy lines.

and because she was not familiar
with the art of war
jenifer's song was interrupted
by excited hands that
drew thick lines through her heaven.
she waved her arms at them,
they waved their arms back,
and little by little people got off on their stops.

but the interruption was small,
didn’t make it that big a mess at all.
so she put her headphones back on and fumed.

you see jenifer’s song
is what’s driving us along this bus ride,
it’s the woman talking loudly in her seat,
unaware of what anyone thinks
about the steady flow of glass pieces
pouring from her mouth.

and jenifer herself
is sitting three seats down,
on the left.
playing with the buttons in her hand,
flipping them over and over,
while the flowers on the ceiling are starting to sprout.

all the while she writes me,
and i smile at the thought
that jenifer’s song,
keeps on,
keeps on.
a foot tapping
back of the bus sensation.

now hear this....

a reminder to myself that our next journey will be made with the sandman.

that's all,
Vi

2 am

last night at 2 am i had a revelation.
and now half submerged in water in invite you to share the secret.

the lies that i wove, stand.
but as the rain slaps the sidewalk my thoughts drift towards a romantic tomorrow.
and the eyes that once stood blank now bleed red.
the sky has turned an astonishing orange.
i couldn’t have predicted all of this from behind the glass.

the blank canvas i stared at only contributed to my confusion.
frida was there.
hissing advice from the canvas that she trapped herself upon.
all i can do is nod my head yes while i try and think of other things.

48 left to breath.
the pavement is so impersonal; must i lie here?
trying to stick my hand through the gate seemed pointless.
so i picked up my cup and walked away.
dragging the stick along the fence as it screams for release.

once they took me to a place that i rather not explore.
but i could feel every inch of your body love.
every bone, every secret, every nightmare.
eyes closed i tried to steal them away.
feeling out their path and drawing them out.
your body trembled as i eased the thoughts from your body,
wisps of nightmares vanishing into the air,
my own body shuddering with the pleasure of your pain.
your grip on my back weakens as i whisper to you the warmth these terrors,
your heartbeat pounds into my chest.
quickening with every whisper.
oh i was devastated when it ended love,
devastated.

you know the ice is thinning and sooner or later you’re going to fall in.
then i won’t be able to enjoy my walks anymore.
there was a time when dancing down the street in a sombrero seemed eccentric.
now it’s essential.
who would have known?

i wear a watch that doesn’t work.
for now, time shall slip by me unnoticed.

still raining

and it's suiting me just fine. i keep trying to take a picture of my shadow in the puddle yet it is never as amazing as the concept was. same hold true for cake, most of the time presentation is so much better than eating the damn thing.

same goes for life, and all things divine.
for now i'll just sit,
vi.

boxcars

this is a different type of story.
neither a beginning nor an end it’s the story of you and me,
how we left life to wander among the boxcars.
silent but graceful, with matured faces
but the body of children grown too
soon and rushed into something
we do not care for.
we are boy and girl sitting on the boxcar:
engaged in our first movement.
“there’s nothing in me too love, you can’t do it.”
“i can.”
“i think your confused.”
“no, i think you are.”

this is a different type of story.
better explained through words because
voices cannot keep it,
will not say it.
so we run up and down the train
tracks chasing our chaotic dreams- screaming higher and higher and higher
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide,
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within it’s fire.
“when we grow up we’ll fight it together you and me, we’ll be all right once we have each other.”
“i’m not sure i can wait that long.
i don’t think i can wait.”
“NO NO NO NO NO WAIT GODDAMN IT! YOU CAN’T QUIT!”

a different type of story.
sunsets from the boxcars were bittersweet.
a melody playing from the carnival across a dead field
of scarecrows,
speared onto their hollow poles,
waving while the wind weaves between their ears,
cursing all that real, all that is now,
lamenting for the tragedies sitting on the boxcars:
hopelessly wishing to wail away the scars.
“maybe she chose the smart way out in quitting on me.
just like everyone, everyone else.”
“shut up.
this isn’t even funny.”
“who’s laughing.”

who tells this tale?
the angels on duty perch upon
the crossing signs.
take away bits a pieces of the story and drop them
into each. different. boxcar.
sleeping in all their rusted glory,
motionless on the tracks.
the piter pater piter pater of our
footfalls the rhythm, the
lyrics the accusations, frustrations, accusations, frustrations,
exit plans.
“you said you would never leave.”
“so did my father.”
“so what, are you going to leave?
how could you. there is never,
a way out.”
“sure there is.”

there is a man who comes to clean the ruins,
a man who cares for the boxcars.
gently sweeping each one with a broom,
swirling the dust about his head and
laughing all the while. in car
seven he was surprised to find
it strewn with glass and
smelling of promise,
the walls thick with a soft pink paint. the
word broken crudely written in rough
strokes, the whole thing the the shape of
three fourth of a heart.
“what road are you going to take.
what train, for this station is emptier than
heaven.”
“colder than hell.”
“what train do you think is heading southbound.”
“well lets see, oxycotin, meth, cyanide, no.22, no.45-”
“this is why i do not touch people. cause this sh*t, this sh*t is always waiting at paradise’s door.”
“have you ever though i could be saved in three words?”
“eighteen letter i ought not think.”
“three syllables i’ve searched for in ever boxcar-”
“well child here it now.
i love you.”

a story that cannot be told completely.
it must be told in lies,
so that you cannot see the truth blazing
in her cold eyes,
in her cold hands,
she keeps shoved in her pocket while they wait.
for a train to pull into the station, for the
boxcars to pick themselves up
and move.
for the man to clean the paint before it dries,
and stains the rusty wall for years
until they finally collapse,
in a loud, old, heap.
it’s said that talk is cheap.
“listen, you live for me and i’ll live you for you.”
“since i’ve lost all faith in myself, i’ll do it. i guess.”
“you guess?”
“i guess, i never know.”

locomotive number 9 has pulled into the station.
“how indecisive.”
fallen out of heaven,
“that’s my train.”
dear god was that kind.
“goodbye.”
but this was not what the boy and girl asked for,
“bye.”
and now they are out of time.
“no, wait. hey!
come and dance in our boxcar once more.”
----------------------------------------------

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Aflred Tennyson (1809-1892)

theatre junkies for life

theatre junkies for life
Originally uploaded by violet[child].

before you say, you say, that you want me- i want you to think (think) what your family would say. think (think) what your throwing away. now think what the future would be with a poor boy like meeeee.....

the creator

the creator
Originally uploaded by violet[child].

it's funny, i don't even like the beach that much...

raining

well i do believe it's raining today. i don't know about up north but we're just dealing with a light hazy rainfall. minorly relaxing, though i'm more partial to pouring rain myself. these days I find myself writing more and more sonnets, even though i think the primative ryhme scheme of the things tres mal. maybe it's the idea of trying to bend the lines so they all fit together while still chocking on the fact i'm trying to rhyme words that are such a cliche like time, and lie, and well i'll post that one at 3 or so. it's called "love sonnet 13"

love sonnet 13.
perhaps, just perhaps, this poets falling hard.

or maybe it's just my february walk,
it is after all a week till valentine's day.

vi.

fools rush in

in the days of marie,
paris was just a little girl
and versailles, versailles was a woman-
a divine mistress, now aged.
the modern world has torn beauty to shreads
replacing the simple with complex
ovetures with beats.
yet some things remain simplistic-
some women remain versailles.
fools rush into love
fall over passion
hungry for lusts oatmeal cookies
and loves semi-sweet burn.
it’s an affair that’s long run it’s course.

but love’s more than just a fools dream,
some says it’s the path untouched,
pure in emotions,
lost in the hearts delicious fever.
one of soaring heights,
and even more impressive byiast.

the lady and the moon [dame kate]

her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.

a sunday rain drenched her to the bone,
lovesick she waited outside his home,
he never came.
still, it rained.
our dame studied the pistol lying in her devils hand,
raised it to her temple and-

her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.

he found her lying flat, moonlight in her hair.
and with much too little care,
he dragged her around the back-
burying her there.
mother moon watched,
though she turned gray at the sight.
such a black soul,
was enough to chill that night.

the world shivered.

he shoveled in that last bit of dirt,
kate wailed his name from her grave,
he quickly hissed, behave.
following the threat with two blows to the mound.
the spade struck bluntly
not making a sound.
the moon put her hands upon her eyes,
so the stars would not feel the silver tears raining down-

her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon.
such is the short tragedy,
of the lady and the moon.

alas,
la lune lowered herself from her hazy home,
peering through the muddy earth,
whatever shall be done must be done is haste.
there is, no time to waste.

calling all angels,
quickly you rouge knaves!
eat away this dirt,
save a lady from a grave.
the bullet missed her heart just barely,
i’ll talk to her gently, as long as she still hears me.
hurry, before her face becomes food for the roses,
tonight we’ll practice salvation,
be sure everybody knows this.

thus took place kate’s resurrection.

once the light hit her squarely
she blinked in pitiful fear,
he had left her stark,
worry not, said la lune,
i am here.

raised from her plot
and lowered from her terror
she tentatively began counting stars,
bucking violently before the mirror.
two angels held it fast to the grass,
again she’ll see her beauty.
the pieces of her broken heart
running through her hair and flowing forth from her eyes,
the moon finally exhaled for she had done her duty,

and god was satisfied.

what was his name?
the boy i’ll not mention,
his crimes to great.
but pray, pay attention
to this story of dame kate.

in the game of hearts,
she folded too soon.
now her tales forever scribbled in the stars,
as the lady and the moon.

i’ll mail this letter,
when morning rides in the mouth of the sun.
in the sunrise i’ll pen the final details of
dame kate's murder and resurrection-
those this riddles not told in total perfection.
head this-
remember my letter when your more dramtic emotion
dips you in a glittering luster,
don’t ever forget.
caution is all i beg of you so
please continue to love,

as we all must do.

now when the moon is full and round
trace the pattern of the light she’s casting down,
follow the zig zag to the markings in the street,
where dame kate once stood foolish,
were she and death were to meet.

her heart, it’s said,
she lost too soon-
such is the short tragedy,

of the lady and the moon-


bon chance,
Vi.

wanderings

Lucy and I strolled around the campus this afternoon. I find sunday to be oddly calming, unless of course it is raining. Then they are marvelous. Lucy is my dog, a stuffed terrier. Right now I should be finishing an essay on Macbeth; I've decided to contrast Macbeth and Macduff are two different views of Scotland. Should be able to turn this one out in an hour or so with or without focus. Dearest Macbeth died from the sword of a man who was "untimely ripped" from his mother at birth.

how crude.
cheers anyhow,
Vi.

the muse[model]

the muse[model]

jealousy is the rhythm of this tale, to this minuet.
the story of the muse.
a hundred black keys lay hidden at her breast;
they are the children, the answers, the pages, the keys open the pages.
and doors,
keys open doors n'est pas?
tis true a muse must inspire, yet her hands are violently red.
she inspired a conductor and drove him down
in a dark red mercedes.
down the winding path to the Wington Estate,
a house of glass and glories past.

her temper is fast,
her mouth dripping with hurt,
hers is the only key she doesn't own,
is it irony?

other keys she hides, their lives she takes
and one by one she drowns them,
one by one she becomes their muse.
through sheets, whispers, ink, and blind faith.
laying lives on the glass table two hours before supper!
Wington's silence ruined her game, so she fumed,
and lit a cigarette.
she says there is no fun in a prayer, no truth in the truth,
time holds no meaning,
she would rather count cards.
this is her world.
with her sharp finger she throws the aces into the holes in the ceiling
and makes the moon spin round-
faster than she or I can take, and so the sky did shake
until the moon fell loose and sunk deep into the lake,
Wington has lost it's light.

This is her chessboard,
the sordid game -I never did care for it- they say she was a grandmaster.
how did i end up here on an ivory square,
raising my skirts for the knight and running my scepter through the queen of hearts,
her hand running through my hair in a stiff stroke.

why does the philanthropist love this flashy harlot?
why does the philanthropist drink brandy from the mouth of his demise?
why does the philanthropist want the muse?

each question can be answered in time.
the muse is wise mon cher,
so consider this a red letter, that Wington is heaven no longer.

she drinks madness as bright as her eyes,
like candy canes she eats the skies.
her beauty is her poison, keys shift and clatter in her dress
while she dances through the gardens stuffing roses in her lay away box.
like death she is the maker, though many a man would take her
twice as much as they would eat.

venus

they’ll move in time.
empty circles in the fields.
crop circles she cried.
crop circles.
venus was only miles away,
clouds covering her sweet cheek.
turning notes, 17, 8:45,
arrowhead blues.
dreams.
pencils swaying softy to the trumpets smooth sound.
venus.............
elle est tres belle.
la lune et la vent danse dans la nuit.
clouds break so i can count my twinkling stars.
the constalations are without numbers.
this music will pass,
my mind will slowly wander as venus retreats into the unknown.
we’ll fade into the field looking at our constalations.
wails full of woe as mother e swallows us whole.
while the man on the moon sings those arrowhead blues.