Like The Day Is Long.

If I could bottle my own motivations,
And drop that bottle into the open void,
If I could paint a scene of my own salvation,
And have it hand delivered by the one decoyed;

If I could wrap my severed hands in an icebox,
Mail them across the seas to my partner in crime,
If I could say blessings over freckles and dreadlocks,
If I could throw you a party with silent mimes;

If I could will myself to feel your presence now,
If my strength held up even halfway to your own,
If I I could let you lick my wounds somehow,
If I could warm my soul at your hearthstone;

If I could articulate the growing hole in my heart,
If I could lift the fog from the inky moors of my mind,
If I could capitulate to the the cold and dark,
If I could sift the bog for my lost days’ worth of time;

If I could bake you an edible birthday cake,
If I could share your laughter on the windswept shore,
If I could be enlightened by the time it’d take,
If I could swear not to care anymore;

If I could write down all the ways I adore you,
If I could stay on pitch and sing you a song,
If I could bite down on any hand that’s hurt you,
If I could, I would; like the day is long.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM
(The Bear Trainer)

https://amalijaamalie.wordpress.com/


❤ From your ever-faithful sidekick.

African Tools of Death.

For Sam:

You are an enigma.

Enigmatic to my drab eye,

you spark against my darkened sky,

with you, comes the mental hum,

you loan me peace of mind,

no love letters or epic songs,

might ever rightfully define,

or accurately emphasize,

how you’re a stationary prize,

that hangs higher than all else,

higher than you likely realize,

I just can’t help myself,

from warming in your light,

resigning my heart, outright,

to the magic and the might,

you’ll never fully perceive,

the grip you maintain on me,

You are a beam of light.

Lightning bolts that strike,

cutting sharp as knives,

through life’s dark scenery,

You are full of surprises.

From the depths of such rebellion,

and what’s left of the little Hellion,

your character  arises,

to shine so singularly,

so winningly, impressively, eternally,

you’ve yet to fail the friend in me,

and so…respectfully and true,

thoughts especially of you,

that words might do

some kind of justice to.

Propinquity.

It is all born
of a unique fact
the long-gone act
of the way we tie
closely together
through space and time;
the closeness defined
stronger than steel
your back against mine;
knowledge of Life
given to us by;
the archaically blessed
and most ancient of divine;
passed along down
a dried-out bloodline;
the circumstance
concocted like potion
of happenstance;
that tickling, vague notion
rolling and bending
like the tides in the ocean;
but never broken
beneath such crushing mass
a written word –
not anything spoken;
the act of
being based upon;
a kindred spiritual root
that grows deep and ever-long;
they tried to bury
something so incredibly strong
a truth they’ve kept in secrecy
and in the midst
of their stupidity,
the feebleness makes them forget
a scary variant
the element
of our propinquity.

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I sweat and bled;
while they closed my wound
I  brooded on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came with my remaining four,
pounding on your secret door;
Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering of my murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and you said, “We’ll get it next time…

Min Ven.

night horse

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
cheers
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
skål
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
seën
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

day horse

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– Honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the bridges we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– Honnør.

 

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was the fate of that box that haunts me now, you see?…

the darkness we anchored to it by burying it so deeply;
– Honnør.

 

A marksman’s dot on both of our foreheads again…
one must offer the other a last shot at another salvation…
but in spite of everything, there’s not a second’s hesitation…

the thought of “better me it be than my spirit’s dearest friend”;
– Honnør.

The Unsecret (Childhood) Dialogue of S and J (3).

“I had no idea the child was epileptic…”

Ms. Melody’s hands trembled in her lap as she answered the string of questions put forth by Mr. Brown, the principal. As J sat across the small space in the waiting niche from the two adults, she couldn’t help but to sense a bit of irony circling overhead, even at age 5. She casually let her eyes wander over to the nurse’s station, where her best friend in the world lay “unconscious” after all of the commotion.

“Pssssst. Psssst.”

S skillfully turned her head slightly to the right and peeled open one eye with careful attention, winked the eye quickly at her friend to reassure her that she was, after all, just fine, and then rolled and began to groan loudly.

“She’s waking up!”

cried J as she popped up from her chair and rushed over to S’ side, kneeling down closely to make sure that they would have the few seconds of private dialogue they needed to get out of the day’s cluster-fuck, unscathed.

“Here, here S – quick! Take this, hurry, give me your hand!”

Without a second’s hesitation, S shot her right hand out secretly, keeping it hidden between their tiny forms as she did. J slapped a key into her S’ palm, being careful to curl S’ small fingers up around the rough edges until S’ hand was closed tightly around it. The two savored a short moment of “the know” (the childhood title they used for their’ extraordinary ability to communicate almost telepathically), in which they shared a mental image of the overall escape plan.

“Hit the lights on your way out, would ya?”

S gave J’s request a quick nod of agreement as she began to sit herself up and ready for her mark.

And with that, the room became an explosion of activity all at once: papers flying everywhere, voices hollering, doors opening and slamming closed behind small, blurry blobs of pure motion. The fire alarm began to sound then, just as S made her way safely through the side exit and brushed her hand downward across the light switch. The building went dark; the fire-bell klaxon blaring with a Doppler affect overhead, the girls met up outside the office and slipped easily out through the rotten and retired drainage pipe that had eroded away enough to leave a child-sized passage. J being well-aware of S’ tendency to escalate situations without necessarily meaning to, she forced S to carry on ahead while she waited at the mouth of the passage exit to be certain that nobody had followed them through somehow.

It was another half hour before J made it to her house, where S had already made apple and peanut butter snacks for them.

“Your Dad says I can keep your house-key and he will just make you a new one…”

S said matter-of-factly as she crunched a piece of green apple.

              “He’s home?”

J suddenly sat up and wiped her face with her filthy hand, shocked and beginning to worry.

              “Does he know? You told him!?”

              S rolled her eyes, an expression that J endeared deeply in her best friend.

              “Um…I had to tell him, he drove past me at the crosswalk and pulled over to pick me up…I didn’t want him to take me back to school because he didn’t know better!!!…sorry, he’s not mad…”

J burned S with a look of sheer dubiousness.

              “He said we shoulda called him as soon as Ms. Melody gave me a seizure again, so that we coulda avoided all that time in the principal’s office…he thinks we spend too much time in there, anyway…”

The two girls crunched loudly on the snacks and caught their breath, collectively.

 

 

Adrift (For the Bear Trainer).

This is a piece written for my VERY BEST FRIEND ON THE PLANET (and beyond), The Bear Trainer.

…S, you are the entire village that it takes to raise the child – and I honor and cherish you more than you know. ❤

Letting-go21

It’s the incessant babbling,
Of a perpetually invisible stream,
This I do most certainly know,
There is no halting or stopping its flow;
Even when I can’t touch its noise,
It isn’t like I have any choice,
I feel its presence trickling,
I feel its coolness prickling;
A sense of a long, lost something,
A dense and heavy whispering,
I can count the nights and days easily,
To try to measure what I’m so missing;
I can carve notches like lines into trees,
But there’s no accounting your importance to me,
Have you any idea of the weight you carry?
an influence that trumps all, subconsciously?
Near or far – here you are…
to awaken these things that sleep,
I need your heart attached to mine,
if I’m to somehow believe;
the Heavens are darkened by the distance between,
the truth is the anchor that’s unwavering,
the tides wash off the filth of humanity,
when all’s said and done, I have only this one thing;
the notion that resides in the depths of my being,
the unspoken truths attached to our destinies,
when the Universe again – fails to reassure me,
yours is the comfort that mine will find eventually.

How I got Oprah to Admit That Her Hairstyle Doesn’t Fit Her Facial Structure.

For S: in response to I LOVE YOU MORE, DAMMIT!

0197ec897509ac1491bdaab26ddb833b

“I have heard this stupid “joke” from like twenty people since this morning, and it’s not funny, I don’t get what is so funny about it…”

S is frustrated and it’s apparent.

“Tell it to me….?”

J can’t stand to see her best friend in a state of unnecessary frustration. S retells the joke from behind gnashed teeth, accompanied by heavy sighs and rolling eyeballs. Before she finishes the punchline, J finishes it for her with a hearty laugh and a nod of her head, in obvious appreciation of the joke.

“Hmmmm, okay, well let me explain it so that you aren’t pissed off anymore…”

S has a killer sense of humor, don’t get me wrong; and the instant the joke was told in a way that tickled that sense, she laughed just as loudly as I had at it – because it IS funny.

photo_13525_20070624TEN REASONS I LOVE S MORE THAN SHE LOVES ME:
1) She does things with her face that speak more loudly to me than her words ever could.
2) When she doesn’t “get” a joke, she gets mad.
3) She is afraid of the ocean.
4) She thinks mathematically.
5) She is the most divinely magical person I have ever met.
6) She protects me from bad things and bad people.
7) She trusts me.
8) She is a hardcore survivor.
9) She gives me hope when there would otherwise be none.
10) She thinks she actually loves me more than I love her.

Things of Importance.

There are things of importance in this world;
things that only come to us one time, at all –
things that we don’t see for what they are,
while we hold them in our sweaty palms,
we look past the beauty at the spaces beyond;
we don’t send them trinkets in the mail,
as we really, really should,
we don’t send them letters describing to them:
a worth that can’t be mirrored or matched,
it’s too easy to get caught in the nets of –
“tomorrow’s tasks” and “today’s necessities”,
we take for granted: what these things mean to us,
what these things are for us – the work that has been,
back-breakingly and unfailingly – out of loyalty;
A loyalty that doesn’t bend or give with pressure,
doesn’t burn under the heat of a torch’s flame,
these things of importance, take heed of them –
they are a gift from a God or Goddess to you,
sent to our lives for specific purposes and reasons,
we too often, become easily aware of their presence;
yet, we come to fool our human minds of the permanence,
of those who stand most staunchly at our sides in battle,
those who bleed with us in the trenches, who deliver us salvation,
we abuse them and deny them of their precious worth –
a worth measured thousands of times higher than the purest gold,
a resource more necessary than water to drink or food to eat,
these things of importance go unseen beneath our feet;
There is one thing of importance, that I have recently seen –
a bear and its trainer have thoroughly shown this to me,
the wondrous ties that bind, and connect some of us,
to a much bigger, much broader and profound destiny,
things of importance that were long ago, handed to me,
things that I’ve lived this long unable to see.

Min Ven.

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
cheers
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
skål
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
seën
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

The Unsecret Dialogue Chronicles: Grand Theft Auto: Part Four.

READ PART THREE HERE:

Dicky (Richard) Hatfield demonstrated perfectly: the epitome of “sayin’ something – doin’ nothing”.
With beady eyes and reptilian features, including obnoxiously yellowed-blonde hair that was reminiscent of a Bearded Dragon’s spiky scaled mane. His lower jaw was underbitten badly, and he had one, bright fluorescent blonde streak for an eyebrow that remained burrowed deeply in the center of his perpetually sunburned forehead. His voice was nasally and he always sounded to J as if he was begging not to be smashed in the face, no matter what he was actually saying. He was an idiot and a judgmental ass; a tattletale and a poor sport; a man nobody trusted or liked – only tolerated – because of who he was little brother to.
Dicky’s infuriating machismo and self-righteous attitude had found him the fat end of more than one Louisville in his time alive so far. Dicky Hatfield also happened to be what the guys (and J) from the shooting range referred to as a stereo-typical ‘BOB’, the acronym used among them in short for ‘Brother of Boss’. The brother that represented the son-of-a-bitch’s Lifetime Get out of Jail Free Card was the none other than the local face of the Law: Sheriff Mac Hatfield , a fair enough man…
J: Don’t act like you don’t recognize the name Hatfield, S!
S: Oh Ye! I do, I do! I…..do…..
J: Yes, Einstein! Now, it’s coming back to you isn’t it?…you fuckhead, shit!
Red the Undead turned slowly around to face the girls without the industrial strength flood lights from inside the shop blazing in his eyes, pulling a dirty rag saturated in grease and gear oil from his back pocket and wiping his brow before speaking in his drawling, matter-of-factly tone – one that bore so much bass that his final word of a sentence resonated between one’s eardrums for moments after he finished speaking; he said,

“Well, there’s only one thang we can do with this shiny little mo-chine now ain’t there?”

J: Red, we can’t take it back – don’t make us take it back, they’ll put us both away for eons and you know it!…
Red cut her off and held up his huge hand to silence her anxious plea, he whistled a sharp, shrill chirp loudly and his huge Malamute appeared behind him;
“We gotta get this Mini to the Chop Shop before sunrise, Ladies…” Red smacked a hand against his thigh and the dog snapped to attention when he addressed it, “Let’s go Bullet, get in the tow truck.”

The Unsecret Dialogue Chronicles: Grand Theft Auto: Part Two.

READ PART ONE HERE:

J sighed as she watched the pinkish-red brake lights come to life through the motion amidst the busy parking lot; she eased out onto the road slowly, following every traffic rule she could think of at the moment, including the use of her blinker as she slowed again and pulled off to the shoulder to wait for S to snail-crawl the ancient Mini from its inconspicuous spot towards the rear of the lot.

Inconspicuous to everyone besides S…

J thought to herself, chuckling.
After several anxious moments of an unintentional, however – record-breakingly uncanny – imitation of a bobble head in the driver’s seat on the side of road waiting for her fairy-like partner in crime, the Mini at last appeared in the lineup of cars waiting its turn to pull out onto the highway. Before long, the two friends were in tight caravan formation and heading home, or so J thought.
The fog was sinking down onto the road with the setting sun, and J wasn’t sure but she thought she saw the Mini driving itself during several stretches of straight two-lane highway. Additionally, J mentally noted at least five separate cigarette butts flying out the driver’s side window in the deepening darkness of night: something she had to make certain to give S a good chastising for when they got home. Just then her phone rang from the passenger side door panel, where she has stashed it prior to indulging in her earlier catnap; the vibration rattled it down deeper in the door’s built in pocket as J imagined herself as Gumby or Inspector Gadget and tried in vain to lean far enough over to reach it.
Another red cherry butt of a cigarette exploded against the windshield.

Fuck this!

J thought to herself, and tore to the right with her grip on the steering wheel with a few quick flashes of her high beams at the Mini in front of her. Oddly, her best friend is pulled over and out the Mini before J can even put the vehicle she is driving in NEUTRAL.
S: What’s the problem? Let’s just pull off up there at the next exit if your toes are cramped up, eh?
J: My toes are not cramped up, S…did you just try to call me right now?
S: Oh, ye…I did…I was going to suggest that we stop over at Red’s and let him take a look at it, see what he thinks, you know?
J: Now? Seriously? It’s white-hot, S…I think we need to cover it with canvas for a while in the junk pile out back or something; not flaunt it all over to our friends in a pissing contest…
S: So you’ll follow me over there, to Red’s?
J lets out the frustrated sigh that S has come to know and love the way a child associates a special blanket to comfort;
J: Yeah…S…yeah but let’s go! And stay off your phone no smoking while you drive!
S: Okay! Follow me!
S hops back to the archaic Mini and starts the engine with a fierce and victorious howl from her doll-sized lungs before pulling out into the traffic. J pulls out right behind her and matches her speed as they make their way to see Red the Undead – the best mechanic around.

shmokay

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and even cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I, myself – bled;
they seared closed the wound
I was fixed on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came pounding with a bloody paw,
on your secret passage door;
“Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering made by a murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and said, “We’ll get it next time…”

Tangibly Imaginary.

sandj2015She has a tangible, imaginary friend
who comes to shine when the light grows dim,
who calls off the demons that crawl under the skin,
who forces her upright when her knees keep giving in.

An unimagined force that flows between the minds
inside of two hard-heads,
a whisper that breathes the hope of life back into a dream, long dead,
a tickling in the inner-ear, recalling words
that were heard and said,

She is a tangible, imaginary friend
who hears a clone of her own crying across the sea,
who speaks to the spirits and commands them to be,
who remembers each lifetime and treasures such memories.

not a single loose string hanging from the thickened vine
of life-line towed between the two,
a shadow to the naked eye, a real-life confidant, tried and true,
a beckoning that guides the sight of the eyes
a coconut flavored truth.

Mushy.

I’ve sat down so many times –

to write to you, to your heart –

to get through,

to tourniquet the bloody parts…

A curse of mine that you’ve come to

so well-define – in the dark,

a partner in crime

painted in timeless hue

fucked-from-the-start

in every lifetime…

But, I’m still blessed –

through a curse, every time

by my bond to you;

So when I try

to sit down and describe –

with any words

or piece of alter-ego art,

exactly what it is,

that’s happening inside of the wound

from which I pulled your dart…

The words do not come

in accordance to

any drawing or poem

or hardcore theme song –

and I’m always brought back

to the sentimental fact,

that you couldn’t have known,

but you’ve always known

everything, all along.