Yesterday, awakening to the world, I saw the sky turn upon itself utterly and wholly. I wanted to rise, but the disemboweled silence fell back upon me, its wings paralyzed. Without responsibility, straddling Nothingness and Infinity, I began to weep.

- Frantz Fanon

No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge. The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness. If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of his wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind.

-Kahlil Gibran

Unless sited in texts, all blog entries are original. COPYRIGHT © 1998- 2012 by K.Eltinaé. All rights reserved. Texts may be shared w/out permission as long as the author is cited with legal given name . Site may be linked as desired.

Fluffing and fisting pillows against the wind,

“We’ve been dreaming,“

They announce to huddled strangers at a bus stop.

Passing over them like bees, teenagers, airplanes.

The pillows were innocent bystanders,

Now they are ammunition, imaginary drums and tambourines.

Exchanging rhythms and handshakes of anarchy,

They have no commitment to religion or a family,

They are not missed or punished if found out of place,

All they have is a skin they never chose,

To live and pass time with.

We watch from inside our houses,

Debating Courage or Catastrophe?

Drinking Decaf, lifting weights,

As it snowed feathers and cotton around us,

Balance was lost and people forgot the rush,

Which had pursued them for years .

I am watching an image of a torn pillow on the television,

Vomiting and disappearing at the feet of strangers,

The violence of the scene made me edgy, heartbroken,

This was the freedom nobody believed in.

“You     can           write              me           letters.”

In raisins on the kitchen counter,

You are at work, making an honest living,

I’m washing down your gin and not recycling.

Dirty looks from the cashier at the bar,

Won’t get her far if she’s shopping for a smile,

Mine is out for awhile, ordering pizza with friends

Pretending to be a hairband at the park,

Some girls fall in love with, bend then break

A wishbone in the sandbox for a lucky dog or cat,

I guess that’s that.

So the face I wear isn’t fitted for an ironing table,

Or the spare guest room mattress,

You’re not exactly my choice for an actress,

You’ve got nothing to offer this stranger ,

No raisins left or drinks, go ahead offer him a story,

About the lovers you keep neatly on shelves,

Dust them off on occasion for company,

Heavy with resentment they prefer standing than your lap,

Show him your fingers, the cuts you have from the pages,

How sensitive he’ll find you and agree to spend the night,

You can be the perfect host, a gymnast

But you’ll miss me again, tomorrow

I’ll keep checking the post,

You can write me letters,

As you spread the breakfast  toast,

Working up an appetite.

I will bask in the butter you spread,

All over your imagination,

Change your clothes,

But my mind———————no chance.

The tears I shed splintered off

Your shoulders of Ice,

You patted my back like a stranger,

Handing me a newspaper to stand on,

As you hailed your taxi,

Splashing tears back, the color of my skin.

Your heart must have been manufactured

During the war, cocking itself with ease,

Eager to explore the blood or wine,

Served at your table that last supper.

You are sleeping sound in floral prints,

Heart tucked between an armpit and your neck,

I was the wreck that day,

You left smiling like a banshee.

On the beach you pretended to be the sea,

The sun your private property,

Always a cigarette short, but planning months ahead,

You met a man who fixed anything you said,

But grew bored and unamused,

When your ego started to get bruised.

Kicking, shoving making your point,

You move to areas clear of debris, friendships,

There you scan for floating hearts you can chat up,

We meet later on a boat, but your intentions wouldn’t float

You swallowed your drink down like poison, I watched.

Later at the bar you enjoy the music I could tell,

I admit, we all fell under its spell

Only snapshots in the dark remain,

Of your matted fur and murder.

Ahh… mud again,

Footsteps… reminders, tracks for the spies,

Spinning lies like chiffon for the brides,

Where are the grooms?

Who snap fingers and pose for careful cameras,

Not too happy, frowning if reminded.

Is there any room at your table?

Oh then I suppose the floor will do,

Look at the mess I’ve made!

You polished that floor with your tongue

This mess must make you sore,

I’ll make them disappear,

Where’d you leave your tongue

Is that it by the door?

Can you fill the stage with your presence?

Or just marbles you run after for dramatic effect

My name is not Ted, I have heard what you said

And went straight to bed drowning in snot and drool.

Your spool is stuck in that tiger’s paw,

You think he’s trained  but I can’t really say,

You set up rings set them aflame,

Pretending, again that this is fame.

If I could pretend the way you do,

I’d build myself an igloo, slaughter animals for fur

Make a carpet, a flag, a cape to trail at your parade.

This tongue of yours does wonders is it a sponge?

It’s like I never left a mark!

Ahh mud why won’t you stay at the park?

You were afraid for your skin,
Must be expensive, wherever its been
You may be a giraffe with the better view,
A man or a woman, a lighthouse, a pole
You claim to have things under control
But your nails know different,
There is no still place.

In the stories, you are clever
But the pictures don’t correspond,
Preaching Sobriety to the toads in the pond,
They croak at your nonsense, your reflection,
Lion of Oz, why bother sharpening your claws,
Pop-culture jargon, empty elevator,
Sassy Attitude, Cheap Diva Imitator
Still there is no place
Continue living as you are,
While I build fences with the toads.

Excerpts from the debut novel by K.Eltinaé

Stinking of fear and hate for one another.

The first is a coward, guarding herself with placenta,

Stubborn as baby who is convinced she is invisible.

She goes kicking and screaming,

Collapsing on lips, the ground

Her blanket useless, an apology.

The second has a sense of humor,

He makes jokes and watches for reactions,

Laughing at his own absurdity,

Making more room for himself.

He is tickled by death, or perhaps it is gravity,

A satisfied tourist, departing with smiles.

The third plays back memories of the sea,

Committing to a different espace,  reality

Paralyzed by order and fate,

She arrives in the after-life, regal, a queen

Her worldly attachments dignified,

The richest in flavour.

The last inhales waiting, an angry balloon

He is fooled by interruptions, excited for his life

Luck he discovers cannot save him,

From the kitchen flies who punish and expose his pretenses.

One of your lips got caught in the door,

It shuts smoothly now, not like before.

Begging to be noticed, pleading to be heard,

I am sick of the night’s excuses,

But I savor her last words,

Watching as they descend, isolating speech and thought,

If I had known, your exit line faltered and got caught,

I would have saved it, somehow.

It is a spacious house,

With curves like a woman,

Balconies and secrets,

Not so easy to come by.

I make a living, you wait

Rolling carpet after carpet,

Resting your numbed feet.

You have left out the cheese,

For the mice, or my ego,

In the dark the cubes align,

Like bricks for a wall,

I do not stall or have second thoughts,

I keep them safe from you.

I greet your wild eyes,

Tracing the arcs in your ruined face

Remembering our history,

Before the selfish tourists,

Who wanted only flashes ,

Of who we were .

My father does not listen,

He passes and passes,

Swearing places look familiar,

I cannot throw him keys from the balcony,

His circles are useless they make me dizzy,

I would send him pigeons, a telegram

I have arrived it would read.

But his doubts always hang,

Prey in the jaws of a lion.

My mother does not cry,

There is a river in her heart, four faucets

Each at it’s own pace pouring and pouring

She has patience for them all

But no space, slowly her ankles disappear

She is drowning because she opened gates.

In her house, there is a light that invites,

Jealousy from the Mediterranean,

Silenced they watch her kindness,

Unable to apologize.

My sister does not sleep,

She worries and worries,

About the children with no shoes,

The neighbor’s car and newly painted walls,

She keeps lists and markers in her purse,

She knows better than to curse, or follow fires

Her sole desire is to fall into a crevice

Forgiving as her childhood, but with fewer flowers.

Le Mouton Noir grazes in the shade,

The grass he prefers is really tobacco,

Numbing his limbs and knotting his fleece,

He wanders and wanders,

Not belonging to a Sheppard or flock,

Onlookers believe him to be lost,

Mad with independence,

He passes over the pasture

A blemished cloud absent of logic,

But never forgotten.