Tallon Fassi

Slowly.

Slowly.

Slowly.

Opening my eyes in rhythmic sway.

The decomposing skeleton of summer’s canopy

curves its ribs to protect my beating autumnal heart.

Ribbons of pretzeled smoke halo.

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Coffee dark, aroma black.

I’m learning slowly to give back.

T.N.H. said to forgive so did

Jesus.  The state of the nation leaves

much illusion between us.

Your ashes will burn in the fire of the stars

Whether or not you believe in “life” on Mars.

Static tensions;

27 dimensions if you

Sting the theories together

Anger spreads;

Rwanda is the profit of dread.

Knitting words; conjunctive verb?

Shopping for debt in the safe suburbs.

Geographic locations = stratifications.

I’m still playing off student loans with little vocation.  

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A Butterfly Love Note:

She told me I broke her heart

I prayed to heal it.

Can she tell mine aches for hers?

Could she eat her pain and dissolve it?

I’ve thought so hard and still can’t solve it!

Can she tell I love her?

Loyal and Loving and True.

Mary had told me what to do.

So with wet eyes, I apologized.

It tingles down my throat

And its of note

I doubt a red stripe could heal it.

Broken in disrepair.

A thunder ripple across ocean air

The sun in total chaos

I would share clothes but pain would conflict

Lines are crossed and weaved thick

In a tapestry of elusive connection

Pebbles on the beach bequeath me

Does the sea beseech thee?

And I can’t even speak about.

painting by Elizabeth  Brandt

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The dirty faces… the dirty little face

of the tiny hand races of children

standing in the burnt out rubble

paint over the dark children’s trouble

and sip on that latte and read your Emile Bronte

and complain about the price of gas.

CNN paints what we see.

 Have you ever stared in the green eyes of a baby Iraqi?

Picked the shrapnel from the nursery and thought

what is the difference between that of your child’s dying screams

and as for me I can’t get clean?

I’m filthy with guilt equal to the blood split so

watch that Sweet Sixteen, buy right into the scene.

No one wants to watch pot belly children scream.

So ignore it, how historic, and let the government decide how to score it.

And if you don’t feel, and if you don’t care

take a look and the dirt and remember soon you’ll be there.

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Have I changed so rapidly or is it the world?

Trying to keep my eye on the goal while riding the Tiltawhirl.

Caught up in gender identites; not standing in line can have the side affect of enemies.

I’m trying to be the type of women that doesn’t bow down

to the mass of asses in Prada glasses that scuff from their crystal tower

until the final hour when the flames engulf freedom. 

YOU! Listen to the television, then you’ll know what to feed’em.

First its that Coco Crisp then its a Camel smoked brisk,

Don’t you dare take a risk, live through others, hide under your covers

and smother the voice of opposition.

Launch a inquisition, make it your mission to understand every condition because

now YOU are always right, there aren’t any omissions to your knowledge!

No Dear God! You went to college which makes you a Star Bellied Sneetch;

So sorry to preach but these height won’t be reached

while laying down letting your nertons clot.

Smell the stench and the rot from the top.

The Revolution won’t be televised if so we could devise merchendises. 

Come roll the dice and buy a toddler popping land mine

and there will be quiet the fine if

YOU don’t panic for the oil we believe in.

 But what I’m trying to say is you can’t get ahead

while your getting even.

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The delightful falling down

I’ve never known a knowledge like this

Impromptu tryst or just a kiss?

All seem better verisons of bliss.

Remember I’ll always be true.

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I held my hand strategically across my face in a sprawled starfish formation.  I wedged my shoulder on the flat spot against the wall.  My knees tangled together in a braid.  Moving his full lips with the words as he read them, my thoughts distilled into droplets of anxiety.  I crumpled my eyes shut.  I never heard my ink take a voice form.  Certainly, never that of a man’s voice.  He paused a few times to reappraise my grammatical missteps and spelling errors.  I was in the possession of the knowledge that my left foot was completely in a state of sleep.  Yet, all the coaxing wouldn’t straighten it.  I munched on my bottom lip in a slow grinded. 

            By the second page I had opened one eye and let it periscope about the room.  Night had snuffed out all the natural light.  The lamp cast out a net which caught his face in pleasant hues.  His voice was producing my words with gossamer currents; it curled into the air and twined into a fluid crown before dissipating.  The room ebbed and flowed with his tempo.   I let my second eye open and wiggled my toes.  His chestnut and Mahoney paneled eyes lifted off the page for the first time, and he presented me with a full smile. This was surely the sign of good intentions, I usually received only half.

            At that moment it honestly didn’t matter if became a “writer”.  His face had lent me all the success I ever wanted.  As he spoke he held on to my worn green notebook.  Success is so objective.  The measuring stick constantly changing, happiness in the form of cars, money, degrees, homes, public acknowledgements unicorns of our time.  Someone who my heart respected had read my words and found something with in them to produce joy.  Where ever the currents of life take me, I will sail there on the ship called memory, shaped in the crescent of his smile. 

(With this story I close the chapter.  I have taken all a can from this subject, onwards!)

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