Saturn’s Return

~ admin

3.14.24

SATURN’S RETURN

Brick house and Oak porch they may be, but they’re no stationary objects. No. The House of Forgiveness is always on the move. You are just as likely to find it treading with oil-pipe oars in Louisiana swamps, as to watch it soar: cloud-bound and fresh off aircraft crash remains. Often times, after a forest fire, the house has said to be the only un-ashed thing for miles.

The only dry place after a Tsunami.

A structure so large, it houses every immigrant of every country (come on in), so small it fits in the barrel of any gun, in the needle of every addict.

So you see, The House of Forgiveness can at times, be difficult to find.

Unless it shows up, as it has for all of us at some time or another, at your doorstep.

~ admin

6.1.23

SATURN’S RETURN
I can’t really tell what it is exactly we hold on to.

Fear of some type, I’m sure.

Must be something to do with forgiveness. How people say it makes us better. Our quality weighed in part by how well we tolerate cruelty. I’m tempted to call that a happy make-believe-load-of-bullshit.
But I’m too self-serving not to give my forehead the chance to unfurl.

To baptize in Forgiveness’ waters—first find the tricksy bitch of a cunt:
Her home is timber and brick. Her cabinets; aged cedar.
Willow chairs rock atop Oak porch planks.
There, you’ll find every kind of wind-chime, plant-pot, and occasional soda can: some aluminum corpses of bullet-wounds-yesterday. Others repurposed dolls, crinkled, shiny and irreverent to the looming rust.
A less prudent person might akin her aesthetic; clutter. Most know she’s just eclectic.
She’s got chandeliers fashioned from old shower-heads and Frisbees. She makes stacking shelves from pinched airless balls. All types—the grass-deflated soccer and the sun-withered beach.
Forgiveness saves every fortune from every cookie, and she’s never thrown out the wrapper.
In fact she’s never thrown out any wrapper.
She’s fashioned cabinet knobs from chocolate foils, she insulates her windows with the cellophane of post dinner mints, and has a collection of earrings made entirely out of condom wrappers.

She keeps them all. The wrappers, the Happy Meal toys, the knick-knacks, the small trinkets, that one tiny pebble your first love used to knock on your window at night, and, on a different night, when love became heartbreak and window; broken-glass, Forgiveness picked every single shard off the carpet and fashioned herself a birdbath.

~ admin

8.10.22

SATURN’S RETURN / JANUS
last night the freezer thawed
and I meant it when I said it had nothing to do with you

it happens sometimes.
Takes a lot to run this powerhouse, this chariot, this vessel
too little power here, or too much push there
and the flip switches

it used to be worse—one could compost forests from the ashes of burnt bridges

I’m better now
but this isn’t the type of monster you get to walk away from

don’t get me wrong—I don’t shake at fireworks anymore, loud noises are less loud, no shocks to the body draining the life off my face
At least not anymore.

so when I say it’s not something I like to talk about

it’s not because I haven’t told these stories before
I just know what it’s like to tell them to someone who’s never been on the wrong side of
your daddy’s hunting riffle.
camo works on more than deer, you know, imagine being that doe
what if I told you; even deer can’t run as fast the women in my family,
when we hear a loud BANG

you can’t imagine how our windows would rattle
how we never stepped on cracks because
landmines break more than just backs—we’ve all seen enough evidence of that
it’s not a memory you can salt over your shoulder

But none of that matters.
not if the freeze in me doesn’t thaw in time to keep the force of your body from smothering mine.
Not if the fawn in me wont scream fire when you place my hand on your coals.

So yeah, I guess these monsters never fully leave you.

For some I’m sure the bristle in the memory drags orchestras of protests.

Then there’s people like me:
For whom the doe eye is more tremble than innocence
Us, who played opossum to survive
have a hard time knowing when to smile
and when to bear fang

I don’t talk about it now,
because I didn’t know how to talk about it then—
because I don’t jump at fireworks—I learned to know their schedule
because I don’t panic when you walk behind me,
but only because I’ve counted all the exits in the room

because the apology letter to my body (she was just a kid)
left out the promise
that it wouldn’t happen again
don’t believe me? there’s nothing war love more than a blindfold
so I dare you
pick up a map,

and point a finger





~ admin

8.1.22

SATURN’S RETURN
yeah, thunderstorm orgasms are cool
but have you tried honey raindrops?

I mean the silk-gold type
the ones that hug and hold your skin
soft with saltwater and kinship
they synchronize our laughter and delight

there’s nothing carnal here –
no sneak-peak glances, no undercurrent conversations

we traded those in for warm puddles on our feet
for comfortable eye contact
the type that holds no expectations
the type that sees you as you are, right then
the type of eye contact where one heart says to another
“I see you, I love you, you’re safe”

so…. yeah.
salaciousness certainly has a place
and lewdness is cool,

but friendship is better.

one-hundred times over,
I’d trade all the lovers in the world
for these magical friends of mine.

~ admin

SATURN’S RETURN

5.24.21
The same day I pulled the velcro from my lips my phone hung up on itself.

That night we shuffled likes for a garden full of archetypes showing off their canines.
No one snarled. Not here, not anymore.
These madcaps turned enough cycles to know their plugins fit no outlet. They’ve seasoned in their brine, ripened the hardness from the growl.

Save that bite for tomorrow, fates know we’ll need it.

There’s a Cheshire cat cackling half facts from the hammock. She says the flocks inside our mind orbit the gravity of our pulse, that’s why their hours seem longer than ours.
She tells me if we wait long enough, one of them will be Mercury, one will be Venus, one will be Earth, one will be Mars.

Even then, I could tell her astronomy was clumsy and domestic, a way of keeping track of social graces and goldfish etiquette. A way to make sure an elastic band could hug the wrist.

We’re flexible, so I believed her when she said “There are breadwinners, and there are birdfeeders. Manu, we are birdfeeders.”

Typical Gemini.

We starve distractions to feed nourishment, and yes, we know this doesn’t always mean heartache skips meals. Even here we know this type of “fly” is the gift of taking things lightly.

I’ve spent months collecting memories. I know I’ll never get those words back. I slept on myself for a while.

There’s symbolism there.

Can you blame me? There are burn scars on my neck, from when train-wrecks crashed their own party.

I learned (eventually) that it’s less about building walls, but knowing when to close the window. Knowing there’s too much whiteness in their eye. It’s lifeless and stodgy. It atrophies my history into their version of “hard,” amputates my past, discredits my present.
But I won’t allow it to choke-hold my future.

I can let those words rest in their grave. I find life in my family’s shades of caramel and brown, pasts rich with empathy, hearts so light with the weight of rejected history they know how to find celebration.