22 May 2013

Philosophy of Writing - 2013

            This past year has been hell, in most things, to get through, but I did it.  And you know what?  As I went through each situation, I found that my writing was the only thing holding me together, the only thing keeping me tied to the post of life.  It has challenged me in ways I never imagined, but it’s also caused me to grow into the poet I am today and, for that reason, I’m grateful to all that’s been thrown my way. 
            My philosophy of writing is constantly changing.  It changes as I find new methods to try my hand at, new authors and their ideas and/or habits – it will never cease to change for if it does, I will be dead. 
            Each writer has her (or his) own thoughts on their work of focus and that’s what makes us all so unique.  If we all followed each other like sheep follow the shepherd, the world of poetry, the world of writing, would soon cease to exist.  Then where would we be?  We would be useless creatures. 
Without individually having a philosophy to improve and nurture, we are nothing more than the average bear.  With it, we are invincible.  We are unstoppable.
            Think about these questions.  How many times have you felt like you were drowning in the weight of your own life?  How often have you considered giving up and forgetting about all your dreams and goals because it was “just too hard to fulfill them”?  It is seen, from my eyes at least, that all too often do writers struggle with these very questions and too often does the fire and passion fizzle out because of the pressure. 
BUT, to those of us who persevere, bravo.
We are the fighters.  We will win. 
I will fight for my passion and for my writing until the day I pass from this world to the next.  You cannot stop me – I will be as a Kansas tornado; everything that stands in my way will be ripped from its roots and tossed aside.  Sometimes fighting for this is the hardest thing ever, sometimes I get little to zero support from my family, but I know that this is what I was meant to do and, hard as it may be, I WILL continue to pursue this.  This is my love, my life – it’s my everything.
            Though my life is ever-changing, sometimes for the worst, writing is what I cling to to keep me strong.  My philosophy is this: If you find your strength is also where your heart is, nurture that fire, let it fester and grow.  And burn anyone who looks to dim your fire or, God-forbid, put it out.

16 May 2013

The Woman Who Drinks Hearts


She hunts down her meals, intoxicates them with the vanilla bean scent of her Aveeno covered skin.  The invitation overwhelms their senses; they can’t keep away.  She moves sensually through a hidden, red-silk laced corridor with small lights setting the mood along the way.  Following her every move, they round a corner and fall head-on into several barred metal contraptions.  She glides around each one, breathing in the scent they emit.  From the air, it seems, she produces a small strip of cowhide and cracks it once – the noise resonates throughout the open concrete room.  In the far corner, there’s a round bed drenched in velvet blood and white satin feather downs.  Each man, in turn, gets a teaser before the darkest of them is released.  He’s led over to the dimly lit bed and she begins. 

She touches his smooth, mocha skin, caresses his muscled chest and slowly drags the gentle brown cowhide down his body – from his chin to the top of his precious cargo.  Crawling back up, she sets her body down, passionately presses her lips to his and seductively allows her tongue to dance with his.  His cargo soon pressed against her leg. 

It’s time.

Taking his face in her hands, she leans in and whispers against his lips, “You’ve been so compliant tonight.  I thank you.” 

            Her poisoned kisses have left him paralyzed beneath her.  She smiles as his face sinks into itself, stretching the skin to look like thin creeping vines across a building’s side.  She reaches for his chest and, swift as a hummingbird, plunges her hand inside and grabs his heart.  Pulling it out for him to see, she sets her lips to the left ventricle and sucks his soul through it.  Her own heart swells with pleasure as his eyes slide into his brain.  For good.

01 May 2013

Finding Love in Arms


They met at Wong Chi’s, the local bar down on 49th street near the old, abandoned outhouse.
She was clearly distraught.  Her auburn-copper hair fell in twists, catching the light reflected off of the cherry-red floor.  On her hip he noticed the bulge –
                            a gun.

“What kind of woman carries a gun?”
She smiled.
“One on the run,” she said.
“Whiskey,” she nodded to the bartender.
Whiskey?  What a woman….*sigh,* he thought.

They sat on stools dressed in red and white checkers and talked long into the night.  He asked her why.  She broke a deal.  Some men want her dead.  His daughter drowned two years before Ming, his wife, got cancer.  Ming died last year in the tulip garden.  He wiped a tear.  She bled out her story of the twisted web she was in.  Without warning, she lost her hardened exterior.

A woman crying.  With a beer.  And a gun.
He wasn’t sure what to say.  He fumbled for words.  “I love you,” he said. 
His face turned crimson.  He started to leave, but her touch stopped him cold.
She moved to face him, brought her smooth, vanilla skin to his warm cheek and whispered against his lips, “I love you, too.”