Midnight Sun

I poured the sun
out of your squared bottle,
and drank it in circles.

I freed the sun
from your monochromes,
washed it in rainbows,
ran its rays down my spine,
bathed my hips and thighs in heat…

I loved the sun at the witching hour.
It was hot,
hot and summer-sweet on my tongue.

 

This was an accidental photo. I’ve no idea what it might be. But the moment I saw it, I knew it was meant for my Summer Solstice post.

Linked to Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and the Imaginary Garden.

 

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.

 

Eat My Tanaga, You Bastard!

When I hurt, I write. Friends who haven’t been seduced by writing (yet) often ask, “How can you write anything while you are in pain?” And just as often, I respond, “How can you keep yourself from writing your defiance into agony’s bullying face?” Fine! So, I don’t really say that to them, but I think it. Because it’s true. When I hurt, I shove my words into pain’s throat. Then, I laugh like a maniac. And while pain is baffled by the uncanniness of my behavior, I shriek, “Eat my Tanaga, you bastard!” All right already, this is my first Tanaga battle cry. But all the rest is true. When I hurt, pain eats my words. No compromise.

 

Say hello to my little Tanaga:

Hot hurts my words won’t whither,
reigned pain can make ink sweeter—
stories kiss torture better
and poems dull the bitter.

 

via

the wee notes…
Tanaga: Filipino poem (7-7-7-7 syllabic verse, with an aaaa rhyme scheme).
– yes, the title made me giggle. Giggles, too, make good weapons in the battle against pain. It has been scientifically proven (by my flesh and bones and me).
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.