The Pink Ticket

A playground of many muses.

The Pink Ticket - A playground of many muses.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 316

Disconnect from desire
free the night’s passion;
would anybody want it
if they knew? Heard
the quiet minstrel
as he shifts the knight
three paces, black to white?
Hopeful the king won’t
notice before the game
is over, the pieces
collected… gold, silver
treasures. Every-
thing else a deceptive
guise; this is all
it was ever about.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 314

Feeling vibrations of the road
under the spinning tires;
tread of my shoes is thin.
Keeping on the journey
even with nothing left,
with no places to go–
no one I need to see.
Taking in that deep breath
you just cannot–
will not–
simply don’t know how to–
exhale from tensed lungs,
arms, stomach.
Another day and more
of the same to see,
but only from the direction
of it passing by;
too travel weary
to stand still.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 313

Hay and autumn energy
filled the air turning cold
as the grey clouds rolling
over the burnt orange sun;
the last cutting always smells
spicier than in May when
the sweetness of longer days
permeates and life is again
renewed. Oh but for today–
embracing the chill and
excitement of little kids
anxious for Halloween,
enamored with with squash
as big as them as they line
up next to corn stalks
to ride out into the farmlands
on stacks of tractor-propelled
hay… off to find the great pumpkin.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 312

The socks are the first observation;
they are the deciding factor
if, and what, the second look will get.
Not often seen, so they say scads
about the wearer–a corner
piece of the puzzle hinting,
anchoring the game, games
we play the items, things
we buy, we wear, symbols,
emblems of ourselves.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 311

This isn’t my first visit; the offices are all ,
unremarkably the same with the just
comfortable enough chair or possibly
two and the desk which appears falsely
fastidious–as if I am to believe anyone
is really so organized and aligned.
Really, the only difference is the face;
not the expressions…no, those are
the same, preened from a textbook of
emotional appropriate looks for whatever
ailment your client, your patience who
has been coerced, in some form or fashion
to be sitting across from the person about
to ask the Why’s and the What do you thinks
while jotting notes in an effort to stay
awake. I swore the last time that I would
never come back and frolick through the
endless questions and innuendos that if
I only just focused; just talked enough
that the magical moment of my childhood
would unlock the door to my adult
dysfunction. Perhaps, they are all right
but if they knew I’d been a Super
Hero since such an early age that it might
come off as intimidating and quite possibly
pretentious. It’s a difficult burden and
challenge to carry; one in which I’ve no doubt
this therapist would ever come to understand,
no, not with his tan pants and perfectly
tucked Polo.  No, he would slow sit back
and stew on some dumb fucking metaphor;
chewing on the end of his pen, just one
of his subtle tells of the fear overcoming
his perfectly arranged case notes made
by tears and angry–victimology of the psyche.
It’s obvious he can be broken by the recanting
of a pair of power laden Underoos and a space
robot sidekick. That was so long ago, still so close,
sitting on an too uncomfortable chair fully
dressed in Super Hero garb.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 310

Local news
cheery lady
through the story
of another woman
being threatened
with murder;
severe bodily harm
for being
for being
in tech.
It hits home.
He said,
feminists ruined
his life,
but the happy
didn’t have time
said it right
out loud
as if perfectly
not about
the story–
rage with
with words
and actions
almost giving
credence or excuse
misogynistic accord.

Project 365: A Year in Words, Day 307

It sits just to the long end
of the path; always shaded,
indeed bears a certain chill
laced with permanent dampness.
This place, I’m sure, sits on
the pages of a Gaiman novel
except real, and if you should
slow your escape pace, listen
closely, you’d find those who
became trees once, long ago,
still whisper and speak their
tongues ricocheting off
bulbous rocks–stone
magic and cursed standing
guard to the arches, just
before the trees line the way.
Walk briskly and don’t look down.