Meaning Well Isn’t Good Enough

“Warning, my love,” he says, his tone a soothing dance between dark humor and unease, “They’ve given me fresh corpses.”

I reach for the bouquet, sighing when the plastic shroud crackles against my open palm. “They mean well,” I say, kissing his mouth, looking into eyes that mirror my own in thinking, Meaning well isn’t good enough.

To the sacrifice, I whisper, “Wilt gently, darlings, I will preserve your bones.”

I wonder, wonder…
if cut flowers ever think
of dying for love

 

 

the wee notes…
– I don’t cut flowers I’m not going to eat or use for some sort of remedy. Since my Piano Man knows this, he tries to let people know so that they won’t present them as gifts after shows. When all fails, and people insist in showing their love for music with a bit of death, I dry the flowers, keep them for a while… before giving them back to the dirt.
– linked to Poets United.

 

We Must Dare

I’m starting to think that Loki, the Norse god of mischief, has reincarnated in the shape of political news. Either that, or the air in my local pharmacy brings the raging crazy out of people. No fistfight, this time around, but only because the security guard on duty put an end to the lively discussion before the words of the pusher of buttons, the oozer of crappy-gold-plated rot, the orangey spite really got under every skin and caused a massive burst. I still can’t understand why they don’t change the channel to something less inflammable, like… The Short but Explosive Romance of Matchstick Girl and Dynamite Boy. Anyhoo, my pencil and I crafted the following blackout while waiting for my remedies:

All his illusions spread, plunder, dishearten… all.

 

The next blackout bit birthed rather interesting conversations. The ones that stuck with me (because I found them bemusing), were views that suggested that friendliness isn’t all that difficult if people really mean it. Nope, I’ve no idea what that means. Maybe the eyes of your brilliance are open wider than my own, and you’ll be able to tell me. I really wish to know how one can be friendly to all, without limitation, without thought, without knowing…

Unconditional friendliness is an art.

 

When I shared the bit below, I received a whole lot of agreement. This made me glad. I know, my Wicked Luvs, without clarification my gladness might seem a tad callous. But my delight was born out of knowing that every person who said “me too” to this blackout has loved. And we all know how the old saying goes, “It’s better to have loved and have been disappointed than to go around wondering why so many risk heart and sanity to get some.” Yes, I’m quite sure that’s how the saying goes. Really. Stop arguing already!

I know love…
and disappointment.

 

My last offering, for the day, is an invitation: now that horror is ordinary, and hope is turning into a mythical beast only seen by the innocent and the daring, we must dare to see, we must dare to think, we must dare to learn, we must…

Dare to hope.

We must, my Wicked Luvs.