DANGER ISLAND

Posted in flash fiction, musings, personal, relationships, writing with tags , , on December 2, 2017 by kimmy

danger island

I lived there once, among the snakes and venomous insects, blissfully unaware and deliberately so, keeping the beaches swept of leaves and the coconuts lined up in neat rows.  I slept under the stars in a hammock that swayed with trade winds and swam over coral reefs teeming with life.  The sun rose every day over cloudless blue skies and when the rains fell, they were soft and warm as a whisper.

But I didn’t listen to their warnings, did I?  Their words were unintelligible fluff, blowing around on the breezes and arranging themselves in illogical sequences that were easy to ignore.

So, I ignored them.

For years.

Until one day, I opened my eyes and the beauty was gone.  The coconut palms yielded no fruit and the fish abandoned the reef.  So I fashioned a raft and floated away from my island, back over the seas to the mainland where I grieved the loss of my tropical paradise.

For the skies over the mainland were cold and grey.  And though it was crowded with people, I felt more alone than I ever had on my island.  The winds no longer cradled me at night, but howled ceaselessly at the door and screamed in my ear.  Their words were not entreaties, but demands that were hard to ignore.

So, I tried to ignore them.

And failed.

For the cruel mainland wind changed its strategy and employed a human mouth to deliver its message, and my grief came to an abrupt end.

“How did you manage to survive on that island?” asked he who was sent by the wind.  “Didn’t you know it was a nuclear testing site and unfit for human habitation?”

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OWNING UP TO IT

Posted in love, musings, poetry, reminisce, writing on November 21, 2017 by kimmy

What would I say if I saw you again?
Could I even bear to look upon my actions
Without pleading with Time
For a chance to alter what I set in motion
So many years ago.
That Time might relent and open its arms,
Permitting me to change the dial
To point in an unfamiliar direction,
A route driven by desire
And not fear of an unknown fate.
Would He be so generous
As to allow me to shuffle what has passed
And deal myself another hand,
One that won’t leave me bankrupt,
But rich with the fulfillment of a wish
That I once nurtured like a seedling
Yet somehow neglected to water.
Or would He deny me that chance
Knowing full well that to return to the past
Requires amnesia of future events
And loss of its hard-won wisdom.
For I cannot go back and alter my words;
I can only meet you here and now
And speak them as they have always been:
Unvarnished and raw
But finally freed from the ligature
Of self-imposed doubt.
For it wasn’t you that I feared so long ago,
Only myself
And the yawning expanse of emotion
That I could neither face nor name.

GROUND FLOOR

Posted in writing with tags , , , , , , on January 8, 2017 by kimmy

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Although my imagination tends to embellish more than I care to admit, this time he appeared more handsome and seductive than in my most fevered dreams.

Was it the lazy way he lounged against the elevator wall as it slowly lowered us to the ground, or the gently possessive curl of his fingers around my wrist that made me sweat? I wasn’t sure. The only thing of which I was certain was that my desire would never be satisfied; that this was only another one of our endless erotic preambles that invariably concluded with nothing.

For many years, too many to count, he has prowled my dreams. Like a jaguar, sleek and dark, rousing both apprehension and desire so often that the two chase each other in a never-ending circle. Predator and prey always in motion, neither captured nor capturing. And for all these many years, I blamed myself for not yielding, for not allowing the cat to savage my body and satisfy his need.

But he is and always has been a cruel hunter, not availing himself of easy game, but reserving his attention for only the choicest morsels, those who embody closest his ideal of physical perfection. And I, alas, never conformed to those lofty standards and was, in both life and dream, judged to be wanting.

Yet despite my imperfection, he maintains his irregular orbit. Sometimes so distant that I wither and freeze; and at other times, as tonight, I burn.

And so this chase would continue unabated, as it has done for decades, if not for those fingers snaking around my wrist and his dark eyes prodding me to begin my flight. I suddenly halted the game. The elevator had finally reached the ground floor and it was, at long last, time to exit.

I stepped out and the doors closed behind me, carrying him away to places I neither know nor care. The goddess may be generous and willing to forgive the constant rejection of her bounty, but even She can become weary of the game.

THE JOY EATERS

Posted in writing with tags , , , , , , , , on July 2, 2014 by kimmy

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Here’s to you, sweet deluded Ones,
With your pseudo-friendliness and false smiles,
May all your journeys be as fruitful as the last,
Replete with self-praise and inflated opinion,
For your company is rarified
And few who attempt to aspire to its heights
Can manage the egocentrism necessary
To achieve the dizzying success that is mirrored
Solely in your beautiful eyes.

And how beautiful they are,
Reflecting all the colors and subtleties
Of the lifeless bones piled high and crunching
Beneath your dainty feet,
And the sparkle of self-fascination
That the only the delusional possess.

Now the time has come for you all to fly,
Higher than previously imagined,
To a plane where your dreams
Take precedence over all others,
And the joy that fills their hearts
Becomes food to fill your hungry veins.

For only when the last drop of blood is swallowed
And the last morsel of soul is devoured
Will your emptiness be filled and
Your sorrow begin.

BUBBLE BOY

Posted in writing with tags , , , , , , on March 7, 2014 by kimmy

 

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Sweet little Bubble Boy, trapped in a Plexiglas world of his own.  He watches from a safe distance and whiles way his time by recounting victories of time past and reliving them within his cocoon.  One, two, three, four, five years roll by and yet he hasn’t changed a bit… at least on the inside, where the real party is.  If only he could share his secret adventures with the rest of us, what an event that would be!  Let’s stay up all night!  Paper streamers and noise makers for everyone!

Can you feel the exhilaration, the sheer joy of fearlessness?  He can, and what a difference!  Who knew leading a parallel life could be so thrilling?  Is it the naughtiness or the temporary escape from ennui that gives it punch?  Aw, who cares when the emotional high is so satisfying with so little risk.  He’s on top of the world and didn’t even take a step!

Now he’s flying to Paris.  Watch him go!  He doesn’t even need a plane!  See him stroll along the Seine.  See him dine in cafes.  See him triumph on the stage.  The applause is thunderous, the groupies numerous, the critics never-ending in their praise.  Awards shoot like darts into his worthy arms and the paparazzi  follow him from one exotic location to the next.

Why, now he’s in Los Angeles, canoodling with blonde starlets and signing autographs!  Is there nothing he can’t do?  He’s like the Most Interesting Man in the World, without having actually done anything!  What an achiever!

Well now, here’s a sudden detour to New York.  Time to hobnob with the East Coast elite.  See how their harsh opinions are softened by the appearance of our Boy.  See them flock to his side, clamoring for attention.  Why, certainly he’d be delighted to spearhead their fundraisers.  A run for public office?  Why not!  His soundbytes are unforgettable!  Haven’t you heard his podcasts?

Hunger, war, disease are things of the past.  He’s solved them all.  Intra-dimensional travel?  Been there.  Super-conscious transcendence?  Done that.

Now there’s nothing left to do, sweet little Bubble Boy, but to return to the confines of your mind and spend the rest of your life looking out the window.

COME OUT AND PLAY

Posted in writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2013 by kimmy

Are you sleeping or just waiting
For a certain someone to glide
Down from above and
Escort you into the vale
Where anything is possible
And no one in your waking world
Is the wiser?

If so, take my hand and rise up
Because where night has fallen,
Dawn quickly follows
And under her creeping light
We’ll be discovered
Conspiring in the shadows.

That must never happen
If the fragile web that binds
Material structure to you
Like a shield remains intact;
For without its familiar restraint,
You’ll slip into the void
And be lost to primal impulse.

But that lure holds just enough
Temptation that when it beckons,
We answer and fly to those
Secret places that still remain
Beyond the reach of conscience
And open to those who fully
Surrender to love.

BLONDE BOMBSHELL

Posted in writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 15, 2013 by kimmy

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What is it about the willowy blonde that makes all heads turn?  No matter how shopworn or decrepit, they seem to possess a certain magnetism which pre-empts common sense.

I was standing at my gate in Atlanta airport the other day, watching a particularly handsome older gentleman jabber into his cellphone.  He was well-dressed and waiting in the priority aisle, apparently conducting business while waiting to board.  Being the invisible observer all my life, I was able to watch him without detection.

He neither blinked nor paid the slightest attention to the growing crowd of restless travelers around him until a tall woman with long blonde hair crossed the room.  Suddenly his mouth stopped moving and his eyes tracked her movement.

I glanced away with a smile.  It was a classic reaction, given most men that I’ve known.  However, as she passed me, I could clearly see that she was on the far side of fifty and a little worse for the wear.  I couldn’t help but wonder if, having been the belle of the ball during her youth, she was willing to let go of that template and gracefully accept the inevitable changes of age.  Judging from her lank hair and teenybopper clothing, my guess was no.

I didn’t have long to wonder as I caught a later glimpse of her in the ladies room in Miami.  She must have been on my flight and the brief trip had taken a toll.  She was brushing her hair obsessively, watching long golden strands fall into the sink and arranging the few that remained attached over a bald spot.  She poked a lax cheek with a disapproving finger before applying a thick coat of makeup and striking a weary pose before the mirror.  It reminded me of those duck-lipped self portraits posted on Twitter.  No doubt she’d worked that look before.

I gave it no more thought during my stay in Florida.  There are countless faded blondes in South Beach, each one more tanned, more collagen-injected, more bikini-ready than the next.  After a few days they didn’t seem novel, attracting less attention than the pasty-white arrivals from the North.

My Cubana girlfriends in Hialeah laughed at me.  “We don’t care what Cosmospolitan says, mija.  Only dogs gnaw on hueso.”

A couple of days in the company of their good humor and lavish hips, I almost believed them if not for the scarcity of blonde hueso in Cuban society.  And when they did occasionally appear, they were uniformly hissed.

“Mamí, did you see that blonde puta shoving her tits in my man’s face?  La voy a kick her skinny culo!”

I didn’t stay to watch the outcome, but she probably made good on that promise as a warning to other flaxen-haired trespassers.

On the flight home, I reflected on my experience.  I was no closer to discovering the secret to blonde allure than when I started.  The only thing I knew with certainty is that they all become grey in the end.